Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Rachel
I rolled over, reaching for Matteo, and came up empty. I sat up and scanned the room, threw on his shirt, and headed out.
First stop downstairs—coffee. Then I'd hunt him down from whatever study or terrace he'd holed up in and drag him back to fulfill our beach walk plan from last night.
I made it to the second floor. Voices drifted from the study. He was speaking Italian—couldn't understand a word, but the tone sure as hell wasn't the same guy who'd spun me around in the ocean last night.
"Farrell... cargo... Charles... FBI..."
Those were the only words I caught. Perfect. Real romantic. Who doesn't love waking up to their boyfriend discussing their ex-boss and the feds in Italian? Better than coffee. More jarring than a cold shower.
My fingers tightened around the banister. The man who came at me outside the hotel that night. Leona's debt. Those security guys in Matteo's apartment—the ones I'd always thought were paranoid as hell...
I stepped back without thinking, and my shoulder clipped the corner cabinet. The ceramic vase wobbled. I reached for it. Too slow. It hit the carpet's edge and shattered.
The voices stopped. So did my heart. The study door swung open.
Matteo stood there, phone in hand, face still wearing that coldness he hadn't had time to shed. The second he saw me, the tension in his features melted.
"Don't move." He strode toward me.
"I didn't mean to—"
"Rachel! Stay still!"
He stepped over the shards, one arm around my waist, the other steadying my elbow, lifting me clear of the mess and into his arms.
"Matteo, I can walk."
He ignored me completely, carrying me upstairs.
He set me on the bed and knelt to check my feet.
My foot rested in his palm, heat shooting from skin to knee.
I tried to pull back. His fingers locked around it.
Only after confirming I wasn't cut did he release me, then draped a throw blanket over my legs.
I gripped the blanket's edge, watching him. "Just now... who were you talking to?"
He paused. "You heard?"
"Only a few names."
"Family business. Nothing for you to worry about."
Family business. A pretty black box that could hold anything. I hugged my knees.
"Is something major happening?"
"Bit of trouble."
"A bit?"
"For me, yeah, a bit."
"That's not reassuring at all." I looked at him. "Matteo, when you say 'a bit,' normal people are probably already calling an ambulance."
His mouth finally twitched. He laughed softly and pulled me into his arms. He pressed a kiss to my temple.
"There are some things I need to handle right now. Once I'm done, it'll be fine."
I wanted to ask who Farrell was. Who Davide was. Why Charles's name came up in his calls. More than anything, I wanted to know if there was news about Leona, if he was hiding something from me. But in the end, I just buried my face in his chest.
"Okay. Still going for that walk?"
"What are we waiting for?"
He helped me into my shoes, took my hand, and led me downstairs. My worries scattered in the sea breeze.
"Rachel, once I get through this mess, I want to take you to Italy."
I'd been walking ahead of him. I froze, stopped, turned. "Why bring that up now?"
"It's not that sudden." Matteo's tone was serious. "Just hadn't found the right moment. You'll love it there. Olive groves, the sea, stone castles, and a whole bunch of nosy Vitales who all think they're right about everything."
My heartbeat stumbled. I turned to face him. "You mean... You want me to meet your family?"
"Yes." He didn't hesitate. "You should meet them eventually, shouldn't you?"
"What if... I mean, what if your family doesn't like me?" I bit my lip.
"I'll make them like you."
My eyes widened. "That sounds like a threat."
"If necessary."
I couldn't help but laugh, though my chest ached sweetly.
I'd been so afraid I was just his secret, tucked away in his apartment.
A woman kissed at night, filed under "assistant" by day.
But now he wanted to take me to Italy. To his family estate.
To meet the elders. I turned and kept walking, fighting back tears.
"What do I need to prepare? Evening gowns? Etiquette lessons? What else?"
"Just bring yourself. I'll handle the rest."
"Sounds like I'm luggage you're packing."
"You can walk on your own."
I stared at him. "What stellar reassurance."
I gave up and ignored him. Matteo caught up.
We walked and talked—he told me about stealing wine cellar keys with Luca as kids and getting drunk and punished together, about his mother's bad-tempered dog Aldo.
For the first time, I realized Matteo Vitale hadn't always been Matteo Vitale.
Once, he'd been a little boy who stole keys and got detention.
Unfortunately, that soft, sweet life only lasted until Sunday. The car had barely pulled up to the apartment when the calls started flooding in. He'd just taken off his jacket before disappearing into the study. "I'll be right out."
"Okay. I'll feed Cassius."
Passing the study door, I heard Matteo's lowered voice—English this time. I meant to keep walking, but my feet stopped when I heard my own name. His voice was quiet, but I caught one sentence clearly—"Wednesday's dinner, I'm bringing her."
Who? Me? Bringing me? Why? Matteo didn't make me wonder long.
"Wednesday night's gala, you're coming with me," Matteo said it while changing, casual as anything.
"Real smooth invitation."
"What?"
"Nothing." I covered my embarrassment quickly. "What kind of event is it?"
"A few old money New York families throw it every year. Small crowd. But everyone who shows up matters."
"Sounds like a bunch of ultra-rich people getting together to hide their mutual price-checking behind charity and antiques."
"Pretty much."
"Fine." I agreed.
He leaned down and kissed my forehead.
"We leave at seven."
That evening, the housekeeper knocked with a long dress box.
Inside was a champagne-gold off-shoulder gown, the satin like moonlight made fabric.
The hem had no excess decoration, yet it commanded more attention than any haute couture piece.
Beside it lay matching strappy heels and a delicate diamond clutch.
Wednesday arrived fast. Standing before the mirror, I barely recognized myself.
Unlike the company gala, this time Matteo's styling team handled everything.
The stylist swept my hair into a low chignon with a few strands framing my face, then added small pearl drop earrings.
The champagne gown fit like it had been sewn onto my skin.
The off-shoulder design showcased my collarbones and shoulders completely, the waistline cinched perfectly, the hem flowing like pale gold water when I moved.
I looked like I could actually stand beside Matteo now—not like that night with Samantha—like a woman who truly belonged there.
When I left my room, Matteo was waiting in the living room. He wore a black tuxedo, silver-gray hair perfectly styled, bow tie immaculate. He heard me and turned. His gaze landed on me.
His stare made me look down. He walked over, lifted my chin, his eyes traveling from my face to my neck and shoulders, then slowly back to my eyes.
"I'm regretting this now. Don't want to take you anymore."
"What?"
He leaned close to my ear. "Too many people will be looking at you tonight."
My ears burned instantly. "If you cancel now, I'm hitting you with this clutch."
He laughed and offered his hand. "Let's go, sweetheart."
When we reached the private club on the Upper East Side, cars already lined the entrance. Matteo got out first, then extended his hand. I placed mine in his. Stepping out in those strappy heels, my ankle felt tight. I gripped his arm. He seemed to sense my tension and patted my hand gently.
"Just stay with me."
I nodded and straightened my spine. I couldn't embarrass him. More importantly, I couldn't embarrass myself.
The hall blazed with light. Crystal chandeliers hung like inverted constellations. Black marble floors reflected hems and dress shoes. George approached and lowered his voice. "The Hamiltons are on the left. The old lady from Spencer Fund is by the piano. The Ashfords haven't arrived yet."
My fingers tensed on Matteo's arm. A bad feeling crept over me. But before I could process it, Henry Hamilton stood before us. I pushed aside those scattered thoughts and focused on supporting Matteo.
"Matteo." Henry extended his hand. "Good to see you tonight."
Then his gaze shifted to me. "And who's this?"
Matteo drew me closer to his side. "Rachel Kane," he said. "My girlfriend."
My breath caught. Girlfriend. First time he'd said it. At this kind of event. Under these people's scrutiny.
I released Matteo's arm and greeted Henry and Margaret with a polite nod.
Margaret's gaze swept over me. "Ms. Kane," she smiled, "you look lovely tonight."
"Thank you." I smiled back. "The dress does most of the work."
The atmosphere warmed. Matteo released me and stepped aside with Henry and the others to talk business. Just then, Samantha entered from the far end of the hall, arm in arm with her father. The moment she walked in, she headed straight for Matteo.
Then she saw me. Her expression collapsed. She grabbed a champagne flute from a passing server's tray and marched toward me with aggressive purpose.
"Well, well, well, Rachel." Samantha raised her glass with a cold laugh. "Talk about climbing the ladder. I thought you'd spend your whole life stuck next to a copy machine."
Samantha covered her mouth with her hand, deliberately raising her volume. "Oh, that's right. I heard your sister—the one frying potatoes in Brooklyn—got into some kind of trouble recently? Something about owing the mob a huge loan shark debt and running off in the middle of the night? How tragic."
The moment she finished, the society ladies watching nearby flashed looks of embarrassment and disdain. Samantha wasn't done with me.
"Come to think of it, Rachel, you left early from the company gala last time, missed the whole art auction segment.
Such a shame." Samantha's mouth curved in mockery.
"Tonight's salon theme happens to be eighteenth-century art collecting.
I'm wondering if you've done any research on that?
Or does your art appreciation stop at the discount posters in your family's diner? "
Fury burned in my chest. I stepped forward, about to speak.
"Samantha." Matteo's arm came around my shoulders. "Rachel's not interested in art collecting. She prefers literature and history. If she wants to see those old paintings, I'll rent out the Met and let her take her time. She doesn't need your commentary."
"Instead of worrying about Rachel's hobbies," Matteo said coldly, "I suggest you pay more attention to your father's business. Heard the Ashford Group's overseas tax shelter accounts ran into some trouble recently? The IRS doesn't mess around."
Samantha's face went white. Her mouth opened stiffly, but Matteo's words left her speechless.
Matteo didn't look at her again. Instead, he scanned the surrounding crowd of society wives and elites, their expressions varied.
"I think you all need to understand something.
Rachel is my girlfriend. Matteo Vitale's girlfriend.
If anyone has a problem with her background or with her as a person, come talk to me directly. I'm available anytime."
He looked at Samantha with disgust. "As for you, Samantha. Go check the seating chart at the entrance. Your seat isn't even here."
Samantha's face went from white to purple. Her grip on the glass tightened until her knuckles looked ready to snap. Eyes reddening, jaw clenched, she backed away and left in humiliation.
I watched her retreating figure, my nerves finally easing slightly. I turned to the man who'd shielded me under his wing. Matteo leaned close to my ear, warm breath grazing my skin. "Sweetheart. Want to get some air on the terrace?"
"Yes."
Matteo smiled faintly and took my hand. Under the shocked, awed, and envious stares of everyone in that ballroom, we walked calmly through the glittering hall.