Chapter 18 #2
I laughed under my breath, shaking my head. “There’s no way. The wedding’s next Sunday. That’s one week. No one can plan something that – at least not in New York. Everyone’s too busy, too booked, too – ”
Before I could finish, Matteo reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a sleek black pen and a paper from my father’s desk. He scribbled something quickly – five short lines of numbers, his handwriting sharp and angled, all confidence and precision.
When he slid the page across the desk toward me, I blinked at it. Five names and their phone numbers. “What’s this?”
“Five people that work for me. Call them, and they’ll make it happen. Flowers, venue, designer, catering – whatever you want. They’ll get it done for you.”
“You’re serious?”
“I don’t waste time on things I’m not serious about.”
The air between us thickened again, that same strange tension winding itself through the room, tugging between us like an invisible thread.
I looked at him for a moment – at the clean line of his jaw, the way his shirt stretched over his shoulders, the gold chain peeking faintly at his collarbone – and for the first time since the meeting ended, I forgot to be irritated.
I tilted the piece of paper in my hand, the light from my father’s desk lamp catching the edge. “Won’t that be expensive?”
Matteo just chuckled, that low, rich sound that always seemed to pull at the air between us. He leaned back in his chair, one arm slung casually along the backrest. “Give me more credit than that, princesa.”
His eyes glinted with amusement as he reached into his jacket again, and slid a sleek, matte-black Amex card and placed it on the desk in front of me. The embossed letters of his name shimmered faintly against the lamplight.
M L DI’ABLO
“They already have my info, but just in case.”
I blinked, staring at it. “Matteo, I have my own.”
“I’m not letting you pay for your own wedding. Your soon-to-be-husband should do at least that much.”
“Soon to be fake husband.”
“We’ll see.”
My pulse skipped. The words landed heavier than I expected, too close to something real. I reached out and slid the card toward me but didn’t pick it up just yet.
“So,” I said after a beat, trying to keep my tone light. “I’ll uh… See you next Sunday then?”
He tilted his head slightly, the faintest smirk curving his mouth. “Sure,” he said, voice casual. “Or…” His eyes locked with mine. “You could tell me what you’re doing for the wedding planning, and I’ll go with you.”
I raised a brow. “Thought you didn’t want any part in this ten minutes ago.”
Matteo’s smile deepened, slow and deliberate. “Neither did you.”
For a second, I couldn’t look away from him. There was something in his expression – mischief, challenge, maybe even understanding – that made the whole situation feel less like a cage and more like an unexpected game I suddenly didn’t mind playing.
Maybe this arrangement wasn’t going to be entirely unbearable.
I finally picked up the card, sliding it between my fingers, feeling the weight of it – of him – settle in my palm.
“Alright then,” I said, standing from my chair. “We’ll see what happens.”
And for the first time since hearing the word wedding, I caught myself smiling.
He stood too, though by the time he was done and towering over me, my neck was tilted up.
My love must be a kind of blind love…
His eyes held mine, steady and unreadable, but there was something there – something quiet and dangerous, like a tide you didn’t notice until it pulled you under.
I can’t see anyone but you…
For a few long seconds, we just… Stood there. Not quite close enough to touch, but close enough to feel something.
Are the stars out tonight…
From somewhere down the hall, faint music drifted through the open door – the soft hum of an old record, the delicate crackle of vinyl. A song I hadn’t heard in years filled the silence between us.
I don’t know if it’s cloudy or bright…
I Only Have Eyes For You.
The melody curled through the air, slow and honey-smooth, wrapping itself around the two of us like a secret. Matteo’s gaze didn’t waver. For a heartbeat, it almost looked like he was going to take a step closer.
Instead, he tilted his head slightly with a faint smile. “Should we join the others for lunch?”
“Yeah,” I said softly.
He moved first, reaching for the door. I followed, the distance between us narrowing, though it felt charged in a way that made every breath feel sharper, more deliberate.
As we walked down the marble hall toward the foyer, the song followed us – its verse growing in the hum of conversation and the faint scent of rosemary and wine drifting from the kitchen.
Sunday lunch suddenly didn’t seem so dreadful after all.
The dining room glowed in soft golden light, the kind that made even the chaos of my family look idyllic. The long table stretched across the room beneath the chandelier. The air was thick with the scent of grilled sea bass, lemons, and the faint sweetness of my grandmother’s cannoli.
As Matteo and I stepped inside, dozens of heads turned. Laughter hushed, wine glasses paused midair, and for a moment, every eye was on us.
“Finally,” my aunt Carla said, her diamond bracelets catching the sun peaking through the windows. “Look who decided to grace us with their presence.”
Matteo’s hand brushed the small of my back as we made our way toward the table. It was casual, polite – something any fiancé might do. But it burned through me like static.
We took our seats beside each other, near the center of the table, just across from my parents.
My father’s dark eyes studied Matteo for a second too long before turning his attention back to the conversation.
My mother smiled warmly, clueless to the tension that never seemed to fully disappear when Matteo Di’Ablo was around.
Halfway through the first course, my uncle Vito leaned forward with a grin. “So,” He said, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear, “You two really thought you could keep this whole thing a secret? A year together, and not a word?”
My fork froze midair.
Matteo didn’t miss a beat.
“We prefer our privacy,” he said smoothly, the corner of his mouth curving just enough to make it believable.
Everyone chuckled, my cousins exchanging knowing looks that made me bite my cheek. I’d caught them gossiping and giggling about me having sex with Matteo earlier. I just smiled faintly, pretending to be amused, and stabbed at a piece of grilled zucchini like it had personally wronged me.
The conversation flowed around us again – business, gossip, travel plans, politics.
The sound of laughter and the occasional clink of silverware filled the air.
Across the table, my parents sat close together, hands entwined on the tablecloth.
My father leaned in to murmur something in my mother’s ear, and she laughed softly, the kind of laugh that sounded like home.
He was a dangerous man – cold, calculating, feared. But when it came to her, he was still the boy who’d fallen in love with the girl from Palermo. The only thing in his world that could soften him.
For a moment, I let myself imagine what Matteo would be like as a husband.
Would he hold someone’s hand like that? Look at her the way my father looked at my mother? Would he ever let himself love that freely – or was Matteo Di’Ablo the kind of man who could conquer empires and never surrender his heart?
I forced myself to look away, catching the faint curve of his smirk as he spoke to my cousin, Romeo, about something I wasn’t even pretending to listen to. His sleeves were rolled up, forearms dusted with sunlight, the watch on his wrist glinting as he gestured lazily.
Fake husband, I reminded myself. Fake.
And yet, when he glanced my way and our eyes met across the chaos of my family’s laughter and the drifting smell of rosemary and wine…
My eyes caught onto the red lace poking from his pocket.
My face fell with realization.
I straightened, my gaze snapping back up to his smoldering one.
“What do you think you’re doing?!” I whisper yelled only for him to hear, and shoved my hand in his pocket to push my underwear out of anybody else’s view – like my aunt, Lucilia, sitting on my other side.
Matteo only leaned back in his seat, utterly unbothered, his arm draping over the back of my chair as if we were the picture of calm domestic bliss. The lazy shift of his body was pure provocation – relaxed, controlled, and maddeningly smug.
“Just holding onto a souvenir,” he murmured low, the words curling in the space between us like smoke.
I froze, breath caught halfway in my chest. Our eyes locked, and suddenly the chatter around the table – my cousins laughing, the clinking of silverware, my aunt calling for more wine – blurred into nothing but the music playing from the vinyl. All I could see was him.
For a split second, my mind betrayed me.
The memory flashed bright and unbidden – his mouth on mine, the feel of his hands gripping my waist, the way he’d said my name like he never wanted to let me go.
Heat bloomed under my skin, low and sharp. My pulse thundered in my throat, slowly flowing down between my legs.
And then, under my fingers, still deep in his pocket, I felt it. The shift. The unmistakable, living tension beneath the expensive fabric.
His eyes darkened, lashes lowering just slightly as his nostrils flared, the muscle in his jaw tightening.
My face went hot. I jerked my hand out of his pocket, then, without thinking, I slammed my heel down hard on his foot beneath the table.
He winced – quietly, but it was there. His eyes snapped to mine, burning the skin off me.
I glared at him, cheeks still burning, while he shifted in his seat and pulled his arm back, pretending to focus on whatever story my grandpapa was telling.
The tension coiled between us like a live wire.
I forced my attention back to my plate, spearing a piece of roasted pepper that I couldn’t taste, willing my heartbeat to slow.
Neither of us spoke again.
But every time his sleeve brushed mine, I swore I could still feel the echo of that moment – his touch, his heat, his pulse…
And that damned red lace burning in his pocket.
The party had thinned out slowly – like smoke fading into the cold air – until laughter and conversation were just faint echoes in the great hall.
Coats rustled, kisses were exchanged, engines started.
By the time I slipped away, the house had quieted to that particular hush that came only after family gatherings – half warmth, half exhaustion.
The night had settled fully outside, deep and crisp, the air tasting faintly of snow and pine. I stepped through the heavy front doors, my breath curling into the dark like pale silk.
The driveway glowed with a soft amber sheen from the overhead lamps, the heated system beneath keeping it clear despite the thin dusting of snow at the edges.
My knee-high boots clicked rhythmically as I made my way down, the cold air biting the exposed skin above them.
At the far end of the drive, the unmistakable silhouette of Matteo’s G-Wagon gleamed under the light. He was already there, about to get in.
“You sneaked out without saying goodbye?”
“What are you doing out here?” His breath fogged in the cold between us, dissolving just as quickly.
“Getting my underwear back. Obviously…” I hesitated, wrapping my hands around myself.
He chuckled. “Donna, I will die clutching onto those red, lace panties of yours before I hand them back.”
“Matteo–”
“Not happening. Now why don’t you tell me why you’re really out here?”
I exhaled slowly, the words leaving my mouth before I could stop them. “You know, I was thinking, and… I think it’s best I just handle the wedding myself.”
That earned me a small pause. The wind caught his coat, tugging it open just slightly. His eyes – those dark, unshakable eyes – held mine for a moment longer than necessary.
“Francesca – ”
“I’ll see you next Sunday,” I cut in, giving him a polite smile that felt almost like armor. “Goodnight.”
Before he could reply, I turned and walked away.
The soft crunch of melting snow followed me back up the glowing drive, the mansion’s warm light spilling golden across the front steps.
I didn’t look back, but I could feel his gaze on me – the weight of it, steady and unreadable – until the heavy door closed behind me and the world outside vanished.