Chapter 3 – Welcome to Rome, Let’s Get Drunk
Sasha
I made the right decision.
Rome is fucking awesome and the place I’m staying, an Airbnb tucked in a quiet street, is a little slice of heaven on earth.
It’s cozy, romantic and the view from my bedroom is to die for. As soon as I walk into the room, I forget all about Brandon and my embarrassing encounter with Matteo on the plane.
This is really it. My fresh start.
After checking out the house, I get in the shower, unpack then get on my phone to update the girls.
In Rome. It’s amazing. I send out the text, followed by a selfie with the view.
I’m jealous. Erica’s text comes in a second later. Then Gabriella’s. That view is to die for. Naomi replies with a thumbs up and heart emoji and Isabelle comments on how happy I look.
My phone pings with incoming messages, and I settle onto the bed.
Naomi: So no crying in gelato yet? I'm impressed.
I roll my eyes, but she's not entirely wrong to expect tears. It's barely been 72 hours since I found Brandon with his pants around his ankles.
I type out a reply: Surprisingly, no. The dress helped. You should have seen people's faces at the airport.
They don’t need to know about my outburst on the plane. It was already embarrassing enough in front of Matteo.
Gabriella: OMG tell me someone asked where your husband was!
I laugh: A sweet old Italian lady at customs patted my hand and said "Non ti preoccupare, lo troverai" which I think means "Don't worry, you'll find him."
Erina: LMAO she thought you LOST him. Like he's a piece of luggage.
Isabelle: Seriously though, how are you feeling?
My fingers hesitate over the keyboard. It's a fair question. How AM I feeling? The answer is complicated. I wish I’d done this trip with Brandon.
I had envisioned the whole thing, but it is what it is. He’s not here and I’m going to have the time of my life without him.
Me: Honestly? Better than expected. There's something about being in a completely different place. Like I can breathe here.
I consider telling them about Matteo. About those intense green eyes, his sexy accent, how my skin tingled when he touched my hand.
But what would be the point? I'd sound like a desperate rebound girl developing a crush on the first attractive man who showed her kindness after a breakup.
Besides, I'm not looking for a relationship. Not now anyway. I need to heal first. Get over Brandon. Then maybe I’ll run into Matteo again, and this time, I won’t decline his offer to drive me home.
And who know what that will lead to.
Speaking of Matteo, I exit the chat and go to google.
I know. Very stalker-ish of me, but I’m curious.
I type "Matteo De Luca Rome hotels" into the search bar, and holy shit—the results load instantly, page after page of them.
My jaw drops as I scroll through news articles, business profiles, and glossy magazine features.
De Luca Hospitality Group isn't just some boutique hotel chain—it's a luxury empire with properties across Italy and expanding internationally.
And Matteo isn't just part of the company—he's the CEO and heir to the whole damn thing.
There's a Forbes article from last year: "The De Luca Dynasty: How Matteo De Luca Transformed His Family's Legacy into a Modern Luxury Powerhouse." The estimated worth of their holdings? Over two billion euros.
"Jesus Christ," I whisper to the empty room. "I sat next to a billionaire in my wedding dress while crying about Brandon."
I click on an image search and dozens of photos appear.
Matteo at charity galas.
Matteo cutting ribbons at hotel openings.
Matteo in tailored suits that probably cost more than my entire wedding would have.
He looks devilishly handsome in every single one—that strong jaw, those penetrating green eyes, the dark curls that always seem perfectly styled even when they appear slightly tousled.
In most of the photos, he's alone or with business associates. Occasionally there's a stunning woman on his arm, but never the same one twice, from what I can tell.
I find myself scrutinizing these women more carefully than the others.
A tall blonde at a yacht party in Portofino.
A sophisticated brunette at the Venice Film Festival.
A redhead with legs for days at some gala in Milan.
I click on a particularly striking image of him leaning against a Ferrari, sunglasses pushed up into those dark curls, white shirt unbuttoned just enough to make my mouth go dry.
The caption reads: "Italy's most eligible bachelor shows off his latest acquisition at the Monaco Grand Prix."
Most eligible bachelor. So he is single.
Not that it matters. Not that I'm interested. Not that I'm still thinking about how his hand felt on mine during that turbulence, or how his eyes crinkled when he smiled, or how that accent made even the most boring words sound like poetry.
I switch to Instagram and find his verified account. It's surprisingly modest for someone of his wealth. It’s mostly architectural shots of his hotels, occasional travel photos, and the rare selfie.
His most recent post is from three days ago, a sunrise view from what must be a penthouse somewhere in New York, the caption simply reading: "Arrivederci, Manhattan."
I scroll down, taking in glimpses of his life.
There he is standing on a balcony overlooking Lake Como.
There's a shot of his hand holding an espresso cup against the backdrop of the Amalfi Coast. A video of him driving down a winding coastal road, one hand on the wheel, sunglasses reflecting the Mediterranean.
I'm deep in his feed now, going back months, years. Then I stop. What the hell am I doing? I've gone back almost two years in this man's Instagram feed like some obsessed teenager.
"Get a grip, Sasha," I mutter, and exit Instagram, feeling a flush of embarrassment even though no one witnessed my deep dive into Matteo De Luca's digital life. I switch back to the group chat, which has exploded with new messages.
Isabelle: You should make a list of all the touristy things Brandon refused to do and DO THEM ALL.
Erina: YES! And post pictures looking fabulous at each one!
Gabriella: Trevi Fountain selfie in a red dress = instant revenge porn
Naomi: The Spanish Steps! The Colosseum! OH! You should do one of those cheesy gladiator photos and tag Brandon in it!
I laugh despite myself. My friends' enthusiasm is contagious, even if their motivations are slightly questionable.
Me: Not sure about tagging Brandon (blocked him on everything anyway), but I do have a list already. Starting tomorrow with a bar tonight.
Isabelle: Perfect! Post everything.
Naomi: Alone? Girl, you better put yourself out there.
I snort. Leave it to Naomi to push me toward another man before I've even had time to process the end of my engagement.
Me: YES alone. I'm not here to find a replacement for Brandon.
Gabriella: No one said anything about replacing him! Just... you know... a little vacation fling? When in Rome...
I think of Matteo again. Of his offer to drive me here, the disappointment in his eyes when I declined. The way he called me "Cara Mia" with that delicious accent.
Me: I literally just got here wearing my WEDDING DRESS. Maybe give me 24 hours before pushing me into some Italian guy's bed?
Naomi: Fair point. Have fun.
As the night sets in, I get ready to go out. I find myself thinking about Brandon. About what he’s doing right now. Is he with Alyssa? Is he regretting what happened? Does he miss me?
Surprisingly, the questions don't bring the sharp pain I expected.
I slip into a simple black dress—nothing fancy, just enough to blend in with the stylish locals. My hair, still damp from the shower, falls in loose waves around my shoulders, and I apply just enough makeup to hide the remnants of jetlag beneath my eyes.
I wander without direction, letting the maze-like streets guide me, occasionally stopping to take in the old buildings. After fifteen minutes of aimless wandering, I find myself drawn to a small wine bar tucked between a gelato shop and a bakery.
A chalkboard sign outside advertises "Degustazione Di Vini Locali” in looping script.
I push open the heavy wooden door, and a bell tinkles softly above me. The interior smells of aged wood, wine, and something herbal—maybe rosemary. It's crowded but not packed. Just perfect.
I make my way to the bar, where a middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair tied in a loose bun greets me with a warm "Buonasera."
"Buonasera," I reply, grateful for the simple Italian phrases I've practiced. "Un bicchiere di vino rosso, per favore."
I hope I’ve asked for a glass of red. My Italian is limited to a few words, but the woman’s smile reassures me.
She nods approvingly at my attempt and reaches for a bottle.
As she pours the deep ruby liquid into a glass, I scan the room, taking in the mix of locals and tourists. Most are in groups or couples. Suddenly, I feel a pang of loneliness creeping in.
The bartender places the wine in front of me with a smile. I take a sip, closing my eyes as the rich, velvety flavor coats my tongue. When I open them again, I nearly choke.
Sitting at a small table in the corner, partially obscured by a stone column but unmistakable, is Matteo De Luca.
He hasn't noticed me yet. He's engaged in conversation with an older man, their heads bent slightly toward each other in what appears to be serious discussion.
I should leave. I should absolutely turn around, finish my wine, and find another bar. Rome has thousands of them, after all. What are the chances of running into him again?
But before I can decide, he looks up. Our eyes meet across the room, and surprise registers on his face, followed by a slow smile that sends an unexpected flutter through my chest.
He says something to the older man, who nods, and then Matteo is rising from his chair, making his way toward me with a confident stride.
"Sasha Moretti," he says, pronouncing my name with a heavy accent. "Of all the wine bars in all of Rome..."
"Are you following me?" I ask, only half-joking. The coincidence seems too perfect.