Chapter 4 – The Night That Shouldn’t Happen
Matteo
Her lips are right there. Parted slightly. The faintest trace of wine still visible on them. In the dim light of the alleyway, her eyes have taken on a honeyed glow, pupils dilated as they flicker between my eyes and mouth.
My arm is still wrapped around her waist, her body warm against mine, and I can feel her heartbeat quickening to match my own.
Everything in me wants to close that distance. To taste her, to discover if her lips are as soft as they look. Her fingers have somehow found their way to my chest, resting lightly against my shirt, and I can feel the heat of her touch through the fabric.
But as I begin to lean in, a sobering thought cuts through the haze of wine and attraction.
She was wearing a wedding dress less than twenty-four hours ago. Crying over a man who betrayed her. Vulnerable. Hurt. And three thousand miles from everything familiar.
This isn't right. Not like this.
With more willpower than I knew I possessed, I gently disentangle myself, keeping one hand on her elbow to ensure she's steady.
"We should get you that pasta," I say, my voice rougher than intended. "Before all the good tables are taken."
Something like disappointment flashes across her face before she blinks it away, replacing it with a small smile. "Right. Food. Good idea."
I step back, creating a safer distance between us. I really need it.
The narrow alleyway suddenly feels too intimate— a dangerous territory that I shouldn’t explore. I clear my throat and gesture ahead where the path widens into a small piazza.
"It's just around the corner," I say, guiding her forward without touching her this time.
The restaurant is tucked into a corner—no sign, just a weathered green door with a small brass knocker. I rap twice, a private signal. Moments later, the door swings open to reveal Franco, his white apron already stained with sauce despite the early evening hour.
"Matteo!" he exclaims, pulling me into a crushing embrace that smells of garlic and basil. "è passato troppo tempo!"
"Solo due settimane, vecchio mio" I laugh, returning his embrace before stepping back to introduce Sasha. "Franco, this is my friend Sasha. She's experiencing real Roman cuisine for the first time."
Franco's eyes widen dramatically as he turns to Sasha. "Mai mangiato la vera cucina Romano? Impossibile!" He clasps her hand between both of his flour-dusted palms. "We will fix this tragedy immediately."
"He says—" I begin to translate.
"That it's impossible I've never had real Roman food," Sasha finishes with a smile. "And that he'll fix this tragedy right away."
I raise an eyebrow, impressed. "Your Italian is better than you let on."
She shrugs, a playful glint in her eye. "I understand more than I speak."
Franco ushers us through the restaurant—a small, intimate space with perhaps ten tables, most already occupied by locals who nod in recognition as I pass.
He leads us to a corner table partially concealed by a stone archway, offering some privacy while still allowing a view of the bustling kitchen.
Franco disappears to the kitchen after depositing a decanter of house wine and two glasses on our table. I pour for both of us, careful not to fill the glasses too high. We've had enough already, and I need to keep a clear head.
"So," Sasha says, taking a small sip. "Is this where you bring all your dates to impress them?”
"Is that what this is?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. "A date?"
She blushes, the pink in her cheeks deepening. "I didn't mean—"
"I'm teasing, mio dolcezza," I say, enjoying the way she gets flustered. "And no, I don't bring 'all my dates' here. Franco doesn't allow tourists or strangers. This place isn't on any app or guidebook."
"Then how did I make the cut?" She takes another sip of wine, her eyes never leaving mine.
"You're with me," I say simply. "And Franco trusts my judgment."
"Is that trust well-placed?" There's a challenge in her voice now, a playfulness that wasn't there on the plane.
I lean forward slightly. "That depends on what you're asking."
Before she can respond, Franco returns with a parade of small plates, setting them down with theatrical flourish.
"Antipasti!" he announces. "To begin your education."
Sasha's eyes widen at the spread—fried artichokes with lemon, supplì rice balls oozing with melted cheese, paper-thin slices of prosciutto draped over sweet melon, and bruschetta with tomatoes so red they look painted.
"I didn't order—" she begins.
"No one orders at Franco's," I explain. "He feeds you what he wants you to eat."
Franco nods vigorously. "Mangia! Eat! Enjoy!" He disappears again, already shouting orders to his kitchen staff.
Sasha picks up a supplì, taking a tentative bite. Her eyes close in pleasure as she savors the taste.
"Oh my God," she moans, and the sound does dangerous things to my self-control. "This is incredible."
"Try the carciofi next," I suggest, pushing the plate of fried artichokes toward her. "They're a Roman specialty."
For the next few minutes, we eat in appreciative silence, broken only by Sasha's occasional sighs of pleasure. I find myself watching her more than eating—the way she savors each bite, the expressions that cross her face as she discovers new flavors.
"You're staring," she says finally, wiping her fingers on a napkin.
"You're beautiful when you eat," I reply truthfully. "Most women I know pick at their food, worried about calories or how they look. You enjoy it."
"Life's too short for bad food," she says with a shrug. "Or for pretending not to like things."
Franco returns, clearing the antipasti plates and replacing them with two bowls of steaming pasta.
"Carbonara," he announces. "The real thing. No cream. No garlic. Just eggs, pecorino, guanciale, black pepper."
Sasha twirls her fork, capturing the silky strands. When she takes her first bite, the sound she makes is almost indecent. "Holy shit," she breathes, eyes wide. "This is... I don't even have words."
"I warned you about the carbonara," I remind her, enjoying my own pasta more slowly. "It will ruin you for all others."
"Worth it," she declares, taking another bite. "Completely worth it."
We eat in comfortable silence, the restaurant's ambient noise creating a private bubble around our corner table. Franco brings us more wine, then a second course of saltimbocca, followed by a simple green salad dressed with nothing but olive oil, lemon, and salt.
By the time Franco appears with dessert, a perfect panna cotta with fresh berries, Sasha is leaning back in her chair, one hand resting on her stomach.
"I can't eat another bite," she protests weakly, even as her eyes linger on the dessert.
"Just a taste," I urge, dipping my spoon into the creamy dessert and offering it to her.
She hesitates only briefly before leaning forward to accept the bite, her lips closing around my spoon in a way that sends heat surging through me
A small dab of cream remains on her lower lip, and I have to grip the edge of the table to stop myself from reaching out to wipe it away.
She catches the gesture and wipes her mouth with her napkin, a knowing look in her eyes.
"So," I say, desperate to break the tension before I do something stupid, "how long will you be in Rome?"
"A month, maybe more," she replies, twirling the stem of her wine glass. "I've rented the place for six weeks, but I can extend if needed. After that... who knows? Maybe I'll stay permanently if I find work."
The thought of her staying in Rome permanently sends an unexpected thrill through me. I shouldn't care this much about a woman I've just met, but something about Sasha Moretti has gotten under my skin in a way no woman has before.
“My family, well, my mother is hosting a charity gala this weekend and I’d love for you to be my date,” I say, the words coming out in a rush.
Sasha's eyes widen with surprise. "A gala? With your family?" She sets down her wine glass, suddenly looking uncertain. "That seems a bit... intense for people who just met."
"It's just a charity event," I say, trying to sound casual even as I wonder why I've just invited her.
I never bring dates to family functions.
"Very low pressure. Good food, better wine, raising money for children's education. My mother hosts it every year at our villa outside the city."
"Matteo..."
"Just as friends," I add quickly, though I'm not sure either of us believes that. "Consider it my personal welcome to Rome. Much better than those terrible tourist trap experiences."
She takes a sip of wine, studying me over the rim of her glass. "I appreciate the offer, really. But I don't think it's a good idea."
"Why not?"
"Because..." she hesitates, setting down her glass. "Because I just ended a six-year relationship. I'm still trying to figure out who I am without Brandon and showing up at some billionaire's family gala feels like jumping from one complicated situation into another."
"All valid points," I concede, surprising myself with my understanding. "The offer stands, though. If you change your mind."
"Thank you," she says softly. "Maybe another time."
When Franco brings the check, I wave him away, ignoring Sasha's protests about splitting the bill.
We step outside and walk side by side, close but not touching.
The wine has left a pleasant warmth in my veins, and I find myself noticing everything about her—the curve of her neck when she laughs, the way she traces her fingertips along ancient stone walls as we pass, the slight sway of her hips in that simple black dress.
"So, what's next on your adventure?" I ask.
"Sleep, probably," she admits with a small laugh. "Jetlag is catching up with me."
"A shame to waste such a beautiful night on sleep," I say, stopping beside fountain where water trickles from the mouth of a carved stone lion.
She turns to face me, her expression unreadable in the shadows. "What would you suggest instead?"
I should suggest a nightcap at a respectable bar. A walk to see the Trevi Fountain illuminated at night. Something appropriate for a woman who was nearly married yesterday.
Instead, I step closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume. "I have a terrace at my penthouse," I say, my voice low. "The view of Rome at night... there's nothing like it."
Her eyes widen slightly, and I immediately backtrack. "Just for a drink," I clarify. "To see the view. Nothing more."
Sasha studies me for a long moment, her lower lip caught between her teeth. I expect her to decline, to make her excuses and return to her Airbnb alone.
"Okay," she says finally, the word barely audible over the splash of the fountain. "Just for the view."
Now I’ve brought women back to my place before, but never have I ever been so nervous. I want her to like it.
It’s strange. I don’t crave validation, but I want to impress her. Sasha’s opinion matters to me.
We step into my penthouse, and I switch on the lights. I watch as she takes in the space. It’s huge, soaring ceilings,
“This is…” she begins, then stops, seemingly at a loss for words.
“Home,” I finish, setting my keys on the console table on the hallway. “Would you like a tour before we see the terrace?”
She nods, and I guide her through the main rooms. I keep on watching her face to see her reaction. I don’t know why it matters so much to me, but it just does and that’s really scary.