Chapter 22 Matteo #2
I tried to hold in my grin. My sister looked ready to have a breakdown, and Nicola…looked mildly unhinged. Not in a bad way. More in a terrifyingly hot, goddess-of-wrath kind of way.
“Just talk,” Nicola said with a wicked little smirk that lit up the adrenaline in my veins like a fuse.
I didn’t even know how she knew who Matt was.
I had never told her about him. But Nicola had her ear to the ground when it came to the F1 circuit.
She probably knew everyone’s shoe size and therapy schedule.
She didn’t just walk into rooms—she owned them.
And right now, she was parting the club crowd like the damn Red Sea.
Lucia trailed close behind, shooting glances over her shoulder like we were headed into a lion’s den. Alexander was a solid wall at her back, protective and silent. And me?
I followed in the rear, heart pounding. Terrified and awestruck. Ready to tear Matt’s throat out and kiss Nicola senseless all in the same breath.
We spotted Matt and Theo by the bar—Matt leaning smugly against the counter, Theo looking disinterested in the way only he could, sipping his drink like the world owed him a podium.
Nicola didn’t hesitate.
“Hey, shithead!” she called, striding straight up with her arms crossed.
Matt’s head whipped up. Theo glanced over, looking bored.
“Excuse me?” Matt sneered, eyes narrowing.
“Yeah, you.” She pointed.
I clenched my fists, fighting every instinct in me that screamed to shield her. She didn’t need protection. Not from me. She was all fire and fury.
“And who are you?” Matt asked, voice dripping with smugness.
Her hip cocked as she stared him down. “You know exactly who I am.”
She leaned in, voice cool and low. “I want you to know you’re a pathetic little worm of a man.
I want you to know I know exactly what you did.
And if you come near me, my family, or my people again, you’ll never work in Formula One again.
I will ruin you. Burn every bridge you have left and salt the damn ashes. ”
A few people at the bar looked over, drivers looking impressed before going back to their conversations. Lucia blinked like she was watching a live crime drama. Alexander looked ready to put Matt through the floor, which was comforting.
Matt laughed, mean and mocking, “You gonna let your girlfriend of the month fight your battles, DeLuca?”
I didn’t even get a word out before Nicola stepped in front of me.
“I’m speaking to you,” she said sharply, and in a single move, swiped Matt’s phone from the bar.
He lunged.
“Don’t you fucking touch her,” I growled, heat and fury flooding my body like wildfire.
Matt recoiled but spat back, “Give me my phone back, you stupid bitch—”
Wrong. So wrong.
Alexander and I moved at the same time.
“Watch your fucking mouth,” Alexander snapped, pulling Lucia safely behind him.
Nicola didn’t even flinch. She smiled sweetly, then lifted the phone and smashed it on the bar.
Crack.
“This is for being a slimy, miserable little man.” Smash. “And this is for betraying Matteo.”
She tossed the shattered remains to the floor with finality.
“And that,” she said, standing tall, “Is for leaking that photo. For trying to spin some cheap lie like he’s using me. For thinking you could touch anything we’ve built and not get burned.”
Then she turned slightly and pointed back at me. “This man right here? He’s earned every goddamn thing he has. So congrats—you failed.”
Matt’s jaw dropped.
And then she turned to Theo, who was rather calm. “And you might want to watch your back with that one,” she said, nodding toward Matt.
Theo just nodded. The most serious I’d ever seen him.
And then she was marching away.
We all stood there, stunned. I glanced at Matt one last time. “Sucks about your phone, man.”
Alexander snorted, “Shame.”
We regrouped in a quieter private lounge, tucked into a corner of the club. Carlos waved us over, already surrounded by a few other drivers and their friends.
Nicola marched up to him, hugging him tight. “I need a drink.”
Carlos pulled back, eyebrows raised. “Oh God. What did she do?”
“Matt leaked a photo,” Lucia said cheerfully, because she was clearly riding the high of having a chaotic best friend. “Nic smashed his phone.”
Carlos looked appropriately proud. He bumped her shoulder. “Hell yeah, you did. Let’s get you that drink, Moretti.”
“About damn time,” she muttered, collapsing into the couch.
“You’re so badass,” Lucia said, flopping down beside her. “Like, terrifying, but inspiring. I want to be you when I grow up.”
Nicola cracked a real smile then. The tension eased slightly. Carlos flagged a waitress. Drinks started flowing, and slowly, the buzz of celebration returned.
I kept watching her. Trying to read her. Trying to figure out how much of tonight had actually shaken her.
And then, about an hour in, she leaned in and whispered, “Let’s go talk.”
She nodded toward a hallway lit by a neon sign pointing to the restrooms. My heart stuttered. I followed her in silence.
The hallway was dim and hushed, the music just a faint thump in the walls. A few modern art pieces hung crookedly on the plaster, bathed in low light.
She stopped and turned to face me. “Hey.”
My throat tightened at the softness in her voice.
“Hey, Princess,” I said quietly, trying to smile. My heart was a mess—thrumming too fast, too loud. Was this it? Was she going to end it?
“I wanted to talk…” she started, voice tentative. “I’m not good with feelings. Like, really bad. But I need you to know it’s not you. Any of this—it’s not you.”
I exhaled, shoulders finally dropping.
“I’m sorry about the photo,” I said. And I meant it. Every syllable.
“No. Uh-uh.” She held up a hand, her voice sharp, “You have nothing to apologize for. That piece of shit violated your privacy. You didn’t do anything wrong, not a damn thing. Don’t even think about carrying that weight.”
She looked so fierce, arms crossed, eyes blazing. Tiny and terrifying. And God, I adored her.
“Still,” I said, “It involved you. And that part kills me.”
She stepped closer. “You know what pissed me off the most? That article didn’t just leak a photo. It implied you—everything you’ve earned—meant nothing.”
Her fingers brushed my cheek.
“That they disrespected you.”
I blinked at her. “Not mad about the whole bombshell romance reveal?”
She shrugged. “Despite all my anti-relationship speeches…I like you, Matteo DeLuca. And it’s driving me insane.”
She was close now. So close I could count the gold flecks in her eyes.
“Nicola Moretti likes someone?” I teased, “Never thought I’d see the day.”
She swatted my arm. “You’ve completely ruined my men-are-trash worldview.”
“You’re so very welcome.”
“You’re infuriating.”
“But you like me,” I teased.
She groaned. “God, I already regret telling you.”
She took a breath, her gaze steady now. “But I’m serious. I’m suing that media outlet for defamation.”
I grinned. “You’d sue the tabloids for me, Moretti?”
“That’s exactly what I said, stupid.”
And then her fingers hooked in the collar of my shirt. Tugged me down.
“Now shut up,” she murmured, “And kiss me already.”
I didn’t have to be told twice. The second those words left her mouth, my hand was on her cheek, sliding slowly like I was trying to memorize every inch of her skin. My fingers traced the line of her cheekbone, brushing behind her ear before sinking into the soft waves of her hair.
“All you had to do was ask, Princess,” I whispered, lips ghosting over hers. My voice was rougher than I meant it to be, but she made it impossible to breathe, let alone sound suave.
Then I tugged her to me, and kissed her like the world might end.
The second our lips met, it was chaos and clarity all at once.
It was electric when our lips collided. Kissing her was like the first sip of espresso in the morning: it shot right through me, woke me up, and invigorated my very soul.
My favorite damn feeling in the world. And she kissed me back like she felt it too.
Like she’d been waiting for this. Maybe not tonight.
Maybe not even consciously. But deep down?
She’d been craving it just as much as I had.
Her hands fisted the front of my shirt, pulling me even closer, and God help me, I groaned into her mouth.
There was nothing soft or tentative about it anymore—this was messy, greedy, real.
Every unsaid word, every lingering look from the last few weeks—it was all pouring out in the way our mouths moved together.
“You’re going to be the end of me,” I mumbled against her lips, kissing her again before she could answer.
Her smile broke through the kiss, lips curving right against mine. “You wish you were that lucky.” She pulled back, just an inch, breath heavy, lips kiss-swollen. Her hands stayed on my chest, but her eyes searched mine like she was waiting for something.
For me to say it.
To mean it.
To prove I wasn’t scared of this, even if we both kind of were.
“I rather like you too, Moretti,” I murmured, brushing her hair off her face. “And I’m not saying that to complicate things. I’m saying it because it’s true. And because I don’t want to stop.”
Her brows knitted together, but her hands tightened on my shirt like she wasn’t ready to let go either.
“I don’t want you to stop, DeLuca,” she whispered. “And it’s very inconvenient.”
“Good,” I said, kissing her again, softer this time. Slower. “Because I’ve got at least five more compliments and three metaphors lined up about how good you taste.”
“Don’t push it.”
I grinned. “Too late.”
She rolled her eyes, but there was a laugh tangled with it now—and I knew I’d never stop chasing that sound.