Chapter 2 Nicola #2
The moment the wine hit my lips, my stomach turned.
Not from the taste—it was perfect. A Vienella Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon, full-bodied and smooth, the kind of thing I would have ordered without hesitation.
Of course he knew. Of course he’d noticed.
And somehow that ruined it for me, the perfection soured by the thought of Matteo watching, cataloguing, remembering.
“Damn,” he said after watching me take a slow swallow, eyes trained on me again. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”
I tilted my head, pretending innocence. “What?”
“Saying thank you.”
“I say thank you all the time,” I said, indignant, sitting up straighter. “I’m a delight.”
“True,” he conceded with mock sincerity. “But usually not to me. Kinda rude, actually.”
“Please.” I rolled my eyes again, the motion starting to feel habitual around him. “I’ve thanked you before.”
Had I?
My brain came up short. No specific instance, no recollection of extending him even the most basic courtesy. The realization was a little mortifying.
It wasn’t that I tried to be cruel—I wasn’t that kind of person. Usually, I could smile through anything, smooth over tension, turn prickly situations into polite exchanges. That was what I was good at, my skill, my reputation.
But something about Matteo cracked through that veneer. Around him, my filter dissolved. The truth—sharp, unpolished, and often harsher than I intended—slipped out before I could catch it. He pulled it from me like a tide dragging loose stones, exposing everything I wanted neatly buried.
“Actually,” his smirk curled, slow and deliberate, as he lifted his glass of whiskey. The amber caught the light, his throat working as he swallowed before speaking again. “You don’t have to ever say thank you to me.”
I narrowed my eyes, suspicion pricking sharp. “Why?”
“Because,” he said, voice dipping lower, rougher, like the single word had weight, “please was so much better.”
The flush hit me before I could armor up.
Heat spread across my skin, traitorous and instant, as if my body had decided to betray me without running it by my brain first. Matteo was—God, he was always too much.
Too close, too smug, too loud. His flirtation was relentless, a constant hum in the background of every room he entered.
But this, his voice wrapped around that word, was different. It struck low, sharp, pulling something tight in my chest I absolutely refused to name.
I straightened in my chair, spine a steel rod, and rolled my eyes as if that could douse the fire licking up my neck. “Fuck off,” I snapped, my glare a shield, a lifeline.
I stood and turned on my heel before he could see the crack in my composure.
The slit of my dress skimmed high against my thigh as I walked, and maybe I let my hips sway more than necessary.
I didn’t have to look back to know his eyes were still on me, fixed and unblinking, tracing every step like he couldn’t help himself.
Good.
Lucia:
SOS
Nicola:
What?
Lucia:
Nathaniel is here
Want me to shove my heel into his foot?
I can spill wine on him
WAIT. What about a whole tray of food??
My skin itched at the mention of my ex boyfriend, like bugs under my skin.
I knew he came to events during the season, but I usually only visited a few times unlike this year, where I was at every race.
I chastised myself at the anxiety bubbling up.
I should have seen this coming, should have mentally prepared.
But there was no time for that. My anxiety waned at the thought of Lucia brought to violence in her want to protect me.
Nicola:
Not surprised he’s here but ugh.
I love your viciousness. I’m so proud.
Lucia:
Love YOU!
By the silent auction table
Alex said not to cause a scene but if you want me to I will gladly
“Nic!”
I heard my name first, then the familiar timbre of Carlos’s voice. He appeared through the crowd, steady as ever, his hand hovering at my back before tipping his chin in a silent cue. ‘Come with me.’
I followed him through the throng and into a quieter alcove at the edge of the ballroom. Floor-to-ceiling windows loomed, their doors cracked open to a balcony outside. The cool night air rushed over me like a balm, soothing the spike of my pulse.
“Stai bene?” Carlos asked, his accent curling over the words, so much like my own.
But my mind was elsewhere, already drowning in memories I didn’t invite—sharp edges of a relationship that had imploded back in January, right before the season began. I’d told myself to be ready, to expect him at some point, to prepare for polite hellos and colder silences.
I exhaled, shoulders tight. “Nathaniel is here.”
Carlos hummed low, leaning forward onto the railing. His suit pulled at the seams as he settled, unbothered.
Of course he knew. We all knew Nathaniel.
His family’s empire stretched across Formula One like greedy fingers.
Big energy money, sponsorship deals, backroom power plays.
I’d been foolish to hope this year might be different, that he wouldn’t attend events.
But it had only taken a few months for him to resurface, as bold and smug as ever.
“I know it’s stupid,” I muttered.
“It’s not.”
“It’s been almost a year,” I pressed, dragging a hand across my forehead. “And yet here I am, flustered over a stupid man.” My voice pitched, sharp with irritation, but Carlos’s lips twitched like he was seconds away from laughing. I caught it. “No offense.”
“None taken; men suck.” His shrug was easy, used to my antics. “Don’t let him mess this up, Nicola. This is your night. Don’t give him that power. He doesn’t deserve even the corner of your thoughts.”
A reluctant smile tugged at me. “You know, you do have flashes of wisdom every now and then.”
“Few and far between.” His grin broke wide, warm, before he draped an arm around my shoulder. “Now come on. You need another drink, kid.”
“You’re literally two years older than me,” I shot back.
He arched his brow. “And who bailed you out when you tried that awful fake ID at sixteen? Who covered when you snuck out of boarding school to see that band you were obsessed with?”
I groaned, throwing a hand up in surrender. “Okay, okay. I get it. What would I do without you?”
Carlos barked a laugh, nudging my shoulder as we turned back toward the ballroom.
“We need alcohol. Now,” I announced, draining the last sip of my wine.
“Something stronger than wine,” he agreed, steering us back into the light and noise.
Carlos and I were well into our second round of vodka sodas when he was snagged by a group of late arrivals.
He gave me one last look over his shoulder, lips jutting into an exaggerated pout before disappearing into the crowd.
I snorted into my drink, nearly spilling it, the laughter bubbling easy.
That was Carlos—always able to pull it out of me.
He’d had tunnel vision even back then, talking about engines and tracks.
He always wanted to be a racecar driver, following his own father’s footsteps.
I lifted my glass for another sip, relishing the cool bite of vodka and lime—when suddenly the air shifted. The overly pungent scent of a cologne I now hated invaded my personal space.
Nathaniel.
I looked over to him in annoyance. He wore a perfectly tailored suit that I was sure cost a small fortune. Seeing Nathaniel here burned something hot and ugly inside me. Rage, unfiltered. He didn’t belong in this space I’d built, this night I’d shaped with every ounce of effort and control I had.
“Nicky!” Nathaniel’s toothy smile grated on my nerves as much as using a nickname I despised. My name, from his mouth, was enough to sour the drink on my tongue. Nathaniel, standing there like he belonged, like his presence was a damn gift to the world. “Good to see you.”
I inhaled sharply at the exact wrong moment, the vodka catching in my throat.
Smooth, Moretti. Real smooth. I tried to play it off, aiming for cool and breezy—instead, it came out as a mangled sound halfway between a choke and a greeting.
My coughing fit was rewarded with the lift of his eyebrows, that smug flicker of satisfaction across his face.
Very much not breezy.
Stupid, stupid man.
My gaze darted desperately across the ballroom, searching for escape, for backup, for literally anyone I could drag into this nightmare. Across the way, I spotted Alexander’s unmistakable frame beside Lucia, her back turned toward me. Too far. Too loud in here. My silent pleas went unnoticed.
Fine. Cordial. Polite. I could manage this.
“Hello, Nathaniel.” My voice steadied after I cleared my throat, every syllable sharp as glass. “How’re you?”
Inside, my brain was screaming one word, over and over, louder and louder—
Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave.
“I’m really, really good.”
Of course he dragged it out, hitting every syllable like he was auditioning for the role of walking red flag entitled douchebag.
“That’s…fantastic,” I said, stretching a smile across my face so tight it could’ve cracked porcelain. Meanwhile, my brain was busy mapping every possible escape route out of this personal hell.
“Are you here alone?”
Not ‘How are you?’ Not ‘You look well.’ Straight to the jugular, as always. His words dressed themselves up in charm, but every syllable was a blade, slicing neat and intentional. Nathaniel never wasted a chance to remind me how precise he could be when he wanted to cut.
I pictured it—my drink arcing gracefully through the air, splashing across his smug face, his perfect suit ruined. God, the satisfaction it would bring.
But before I could mentally commit to my fantasy homicide, a hand slid around my waist. Warm. Steady. Possessive enough to make me jump.
“You really think Nicola Moretti would be alone at an event?”