Chapter 12
RAFE
Ihate every fucking thing about this.
"Hold still," Nikki orders, her tone light, playful, but with an underlying current of absolute authority.
Her phone is raised like a weapon, aimed directly at me. We are on a villa's grand balcony, overlooking the sprawling landscape of Rome.
"Not like you're about to kill someone, Rafe. Although, you totally could, I'm sure. No, act like you own the view. Like this entire city is just your backyard."
"I do own it," I mutter irritably. It's not a boast, simply a fact. She should respect this, respect me.
She snorts, a small, dismissive sound that grates on my nerves. She finds amusement in my irritation.
"Then try looking less annoyed about it or your face is going to break the internet for being too angry. We're going for 'effortlessly cool Italian billionaire boyfriend,' not 'man who just realized he lost millions in the stock market.'"
I don't respond. I simply adjust my posture, forcing my features into a mask of casual indifference. My hand lingers a second too long on her waist. Not for the camera. For me.
She snaps the shot, a quick click, and my world shifts again, pulled further into the swirling vortex of her digital empire.
She peeks at her camera. "Wow, the Italian light is fabulous. Nice! I think we got it. I'm off to edit."
Ten minutes later, I'm back in my suite, reviewing reports, when the notification hits my private tablet. The photo's already online. Filtered and posted. She works with a terrifying efficiency, a speed that rivals my own operatives. It's both impressive and infuriating.
The caption appears beneath the image, words that mean little to me, yet dictate so much:
@NikkiRicci: POV: You finally let someone make your morning coffee. #RomanHoliday #HeKnowsMyOrder
The comments are instant and insane. A digital avalanche of attention that threatens to bury us both.
"IS THIS WHO I THINK IT IS??"
"Sir sleeve is back!"
"Why is she soft-launching a mafia boss and how do I get one?"
"Screaming. Crying. Vomiting. I just collapsed in the street."
I don't understand half the slang, the emojis. The language of her online fans is foreign, a jumble of exaggerated feelings and nonsensical phrases.
But I understand what it means: She's winning.
And I'm letting her.
I'm enabling this, allowing my life, my reputation, to be consumed by her ridiculous spectacle.
Another post appears, barely an hour later. Just shadows on a cobblestone alley, two figures holding hands, undeniably ours. A simple image, yet profoundly effective.
"Some cities just feel like a reset button." #wheninrome
I slam the tablet down on the glass-top table in the center of the suite. The sharp crack echoes in the space. "She's enjoying this," I say, my anger rising fast.
Enzo doesn't look up from the financial reports he's reviewing with an unwavering focus. "She's influencing. It's what she does. You gave her back the platform and she's delivering."
“It was supposed to be simple. Quiet. A slow bleed of attention, not a full-blown media circus.”
"You wanted a cover," Enzo replies while casually folding a corner of a document.
"She's giving you one. A very effective one.
Engagement is up. The tags are shifting.
#MafiaBae has been eclipsed by #SoftLaunchRome and #AmalfiAfterDark.
The noise is drowning out the original video.
This is precisely what you wanted. This was your idea, remember? "
He's right, and I hate that he's right. I can't argue with his logic. This is the plan. This is the execution. Yet, a part of me chafes at her enthusiastic embrace of it.
I join her later that evening at the rooftop bar, a hidden gem overlooking the ancient city.
She's already perched on a high stool, casually sipping champagne while an army of bodyguards are posted nearby.
She wears sunglasses too large for her face, obscuring her eyes, but her grin is wide, meant to disarm.
"How about a glass of champagne or two?" she suggests, as if we're on a casual date, not locked in a battle of wills. "It might loosen you up and God knows you could use it."
"No," I reply. I take a sip of my own drink, a dark, heavy whiskey. The burn of the liquid as it slides down my throat is a welcome distraction.
"Do you do brunch? I bet you'd hate brunch with me," she continues, undeterred by my lack of engagement.
She tilts her head, her sunglasses glinting in the dying light.
"It involves a lot of mimosas and complaining about millennials.
And avocado toast. You strike me as a man who despises avocado toast. Am I right? "
I don't answer, not even to ask her what the fuck is avocado toast. Because I don't care.
I watch her bring the glass of champagne to her plump lips and take a sip as if the whole damn world isn't watching.
As if her very existence isn't a constant source of tension in my perfectly ordered universe. She's too carefree, too alive.
Too goddamn undeniably sexy.
"The photos are blowing up, Rafe," she says casually.
She takes out her phone, scrolling through her feed, a small, triumphant smile on her face.
"If everything goes as planned, we'll be Italy's hottest couple by sundown.
The engagement rate is insane. I mean, crazy insane!
We've even broken all my previous records. "
"And what about tomorrow? What'll we be then?"
She shrugs. "Tomorrow? You'll still look like you could kill someone in a suit and get away with it.
Because you can. And I'll still look like I could tweet about it, and probably make it trend globally.
Because I can. We're a perfectly balanced partnership of crime and glamour, wouldn't you agree? "
I scowl at her. "This is all a joke to you, isn't it? You seem to be enjoying this nonsense."
She might see this as a game, but it's far from it. The lines between a celebrity and a target are blurred. And she's blurring them further with every post.
She tilts her head, a slight smile playing on her lips. "Followers like the mystery. But they love the romance. It's human nature. People want to believe in love stories, even fake ones. Especially fake ones, the ones that hint at danger and forbidden desire."
"I'm not interested in what they want," I say. "I'm interested in their distraction. Their eventual forgetfulness. I need them to move on, to find a new fascination."
"Of course, you're not interested in their love fantasies.
But you're interested in saving your business relationships.
And right now, thanks to me, you're less of a liability and more of a boyfriend with good bone structure.
It works for both of us. You just have to let go a little. Relax Mafiabae."
"Don't call me that," I snap.
"Loosen up, would you? It's working, just like you wanted. You'll soon be less of a sexy criminal mastermind and more of a… well-dressed internet boyfriend. Congratulations, your plan's working."
I should be furious with her and in a way, I am. My carefully constructed life, my reputation, is being reduced to a meme.
But I'm not.
I'm fascinated as much as I try to deny it.
She's not just surviving this; she's branding it and flying. She's taking the chaos I thrust upon her and turning it into something powerful, something that serves her, even as it serves me.
But she smiles like she's already won and that pisses me off. It's an arrogant, self-satisfied smile that I want to wipe from her face.
"You're good at the performance," I say, swirling the liquid in my glass. The ice clinks softly, the only sound breaking the tension. "You can convince them to believe anything you want because you're a natural manipulator."
"It's what I do," she says, shrugging. "It's how I built an online presence from a literal trailer park.
From nothing. No rich parents to bankroll my dreams, no trust fund to fall back on.
Just me, a cheap camera, and a lot of hustle.
" She holds my gaze, a challenge in hers, a raw vulnerability exposed.
"Don't pretend you don't know all about that.
You hinted at it before when I first arrived.
At my humble beginnings. My hard-working single mother who depends on me now to keep her from ever having to go back to that kind of life.
Do you think I enjoy this? This constant performance?
This constant fear of losing it all every damn day and going back there? It's exhausting."
I'd only mentioned the lie about her parents before to exert control, to show her that her secrets weren't safe. Now, she throws it back at me like a weapon.
"I know everything about you that's relevant. Your past, your present. It serves my purpose. Everything serves a purpose in my world."
"Your world," she says, her voice dangerously soft. "Good to know my life serves your purpose as another pawn in your grand strategy."
"It's a mutually beneficial arrangement," I reply. "You survive. You regain your influence. And I become… less visible. A fair exchange you agreed to. A necessary evil, perhaps, for both of us."
She lowers her sunglasses, slowly, deliberately, revealing her eyes.
"Oh, I understand. I understand the only way out of this is through it.
And the more convincing we are, the safer I am.
And the more I control the narrative, the more power I have.
It's not just your game anymore. It's ours. And I'm playing to win."
She's challenging me.
And I'm slowly losing control of her much as I hate to admit it.
Later that night, I see the next photo on her profile.
A mirror selfie. Her face is perfect, eyes heavy-lidded from red wine and a hint of sin.
And in the background, blurry but unmistakable, I'm shirtless, adjusting my watch, a fleeting moment of vulnerability captured and broadcast to the world.
My back's to the camera, but the angle, the setting, it's intimate.
Too intimate.
Caption:
"Ignore the background. I'm the main character. #softlaunch"
It's not dirty or explicit. It's worse. It's a calculated invasion, designed to elicit precisely this reaction.
I watch the comments flood in:
"I just collapsed in the street."
"Who is this man and why is he everywhere I want to be?"
"If I go missing, just know I was trying to find him."
I turn off the screen, the glowing rectangle going dark in my hand. I'm left with the lingering image of her, and the unsettling realization that her game is far more effective than I'd ever anticipated.
She's not just a variable.
She’s a force. And she’s taking control. Not just of the narrative, but of me. One perfectly timed post at a time.
And the worst part? I’m not sure who’s using who anymore.