Chapter 26 Nicola
NICOLA
The next two weeks passed in a blur of champagne toasts, press junkets, and countless hours working on events as the new chairwoman of the Moretti Foundation.
I hadn’t even had time to tell Matteo about my recent huge life-altering promotion.
It felt like an in-person type of announcement.
However, life was a fickle bitch, and somehow our schedules doubled in size and never lined up.
On top of that, it felt like once Matteo and I decided to give this thing an actual shot, we couldn’t even plan our first official date, which Matteo was very insistent had not happened regardless of the number of times we’d done things together by now.
We’d landed in Abu Dhabi for the final race of the season, and it felt like I hadn’t seen him in months instead of a measly fourteen days.
I’d texted, called, even sent the occasional suggestive voice note, but all we’d managed were a few stolen FaceTimes and a shared craving for room-service pasta.
It was infuriating. And also, maybe, kind of hot?
Absence made the heart grow fonder, or whatever.
But I didn’t want fond. I wanted Matteo—hands-on, lips pressed to my shoulder, falling asleep mid-rant about how he missed those cheesy puffs from the first night we all went out together. That kind of presence.
So I decided to take matters into my own very capable hands. I’d flown in with my dad this time, but the second we touched down, I texted Anna.
Nicola:
What’s Matteo’s room number?
Anna:
521. You didn’t get this from me.
My partner in PR crime was all too happy to participate in a little covert romance operation. Honestly, I think she’d been rooting for us since day one. That, or she just really enjoyed chaos.
Either way, I was now standing in front of Matteo’s hotel room, suitcase in hand, lipstick perfect, and the full intention of staying the weekend. Not just visiting—staying. With him.
Girlfriend behavior? Maybe. But if I was going to be emotionally reckless, I might as well look hot doing it.
I raised my hand to knock—three polite raps, but there was no answer. Just the hollow thud of knuckles against what was clearly an empty room. I sighed, one hand dropping to my hip, the other already fishing out the keycard I’d semi-legally acquired.
Technically speaking, it wasn’t stealing if you charmed it out of someone, right?
Turns out the concierge was a die-hard Moretti Racing fan—and an even bigger Matteo DeLuca fan. One coy smile, a signed cap, and a promised photo later, and I was the proud temporary holder of one crisp white keycard to Room 521.
My heels clicked softly against the tiled floor as I stepped inside. The room was dark except for the golden glow sneaking in through the curtains, casting soft shadows over sleek furniture and that plush, king-sized bed I had very specific plans for.
I dropped my suitcase just inside the door, kicked off my shoes, and collapsed face-first into the bed with a dramatic sigh.
Matteo’s cologne hit me instantly. Something warm and woodsy with just a hint of spice.
God, that scent. It wrapped around me like a weighted blanket and a secret all at once.
I laid there for a moment, burying my face in the pillow, smiling like an idiot. So okay, the surprise had failed, he wasn’t here to be ravished the second I walked in. But I was nothing if not adaptable.
A buzz from my phone pulled me out of my daydream. I flipped it over to find a message from the man himself.
Matteo:
Pulled into an extra training before my next meeting. Was really hoping to see you tonight but this schedule fucking sucks.
I bit my lip, eyes flicking to my suitcase. A plan formed in less than five seconds.
Nicola:
Would this make it any better?
I snapped a photo—tasteful, teasing, devastating—of the blue lace set I’d slipped on. The one he hadn’t seen yet. The one I specifically packed because I had intentions. His reply was nearly instant.
Matteo:
Jesus, warn a man. My phone was on full brightness and Carlos was right next to me.
I laughed out loud, a full-body kind of laugh.
Nicola:
Oops. Tell Carlos he’s welcome.
Matteo:
Menace.
Nicola:
And you love it.
No reply for a second.
Then:
Matteo:
Yeah. I do.
I stared at the screen for a long beat, something soft catching in my chest. I hadn’t expected to fall this fast. Not after everything.
But somehow, even with oceans and circuits and insane schedules between us, he made it feel easy.
I rolled onto my back, phone on my stomach, heart somewhere up near the chandelier.
I sorted all my things, hid my suitcase in the closet, then slid on the trousers I had formerly borrowed from Lucia.
After she saw them on me in a more awake state, she waved a hand and said, “Those are yours now.” I tried to argue but she smiled and mentioned how Alexander loved an excuse to take her shopping.
I decided to head to the track. Might as well stay busy while Matteo was off doing his thing.
Practice sessions, team meetings, sponsor obligations—whatever it was, he’d be buried in it.
And if I stayed in the hotel room any longer, I’d spiral.
The driver opened the town car door just as my phone buzzed in my hand.
My father’s name lit up the screen. I answered immediately, already smiling.
“Ciao, Papà,” I said, leaning back against the cool leather seat.
“Ciao, Tesoro. Are you busy today?” His voice was calm and warm—unhurried in the way that always soothed my racing thoughts.
“Heading to the track now. Why? What’s up?”
“I have a full slate of meetings,” he said with a dramatic sigh, “And Monty is sulking at the door like I’ve abandoned him. Could you take him off my hands for the day?”
I laughed. “Monty needs constant attention or he’s rather dramatic.”
“He gets it from you.”
“I’ll pretend that wasn’t an insult,” I teased, “Of course I’ll take him. I’ll swing by. Do you have time for a quick coffee before your meetings?”
“For you? Always. Meet me in the executive lounge. Ten minutes?”
“Done. See you soon.”
I hung up and smiled to myself. No matter what chaos the team or the world was throwing at him, he always made time for me.
And not in the obligatory I’m-your-dad way.
It was intentional. He wanted to. Maybe that was the reason for my belief in love, albeit a bit dreary.
But who could ever achieve the level of love my parents had for each other?
It was impossible. Who would drop anything at any time for his family?
The corner of my mind chanted at me a name I tried to ignore. What if he couldn’t show up for me when I needed him most? What if I was heartbroken and disappointed just like every other time?
But when I asked my inner self that, I was only met with one thought: he would show up for me. He always has.
The executive lounge was quiet early in the day.
Mostly staff, a few drivers, some executives in suits murmuring over pastries and espresso.
I spotted my father immediately—perfect posture, Moretti Racing polo, leather notebook in front of him, and Monty, his ridiculously pampered boy, curled at his feet like royalty.
“Hey,” I said, leaning in to kiss his cheek. He smelled like espresso, cologne, and motor oil. The classic cocktail of the Moretti men.
“Nicola,” he said with a proud smile, standing to give me a real hug. “You look rested. Is that…happiness I detect?”
“Don’t start,” I warned lightly, sliding into the chair across from him.
He raised a brow. “I didn’t say anything.”
Monty leapt into my lap without ceremony and immediately settled in, tail wagging.
“Traitor,” my father muttered, shaking his head, “I feed him, and yet here we are.”
“Dogs know where the drama is,” I said, sipping the espresso a server placed in front of me. “He thrives in emotionally rich environments.”
My father laughed. “So tell me, how are you faring? With the boy…with the event and new role?”
I leaned back, swirling the coffee in the tiny porcelain cup.
My father was a kind man, but he also did not beat around the bush.
He hit you right on with what was going on.
I inherited the trait, with a little less finesse.
I jumped right over the ‘the boy’ comment and into the event that took up most of my working thoughts other than the aforementioned boy.
“It’s a big event, but everything’s running smoothly.
Most of the big things are locked in, the press schedule is finalized, and driver’s teams have confirmed their commitments.
The whole track should be in attendance.
” I was rather proud of that too. It was rare to get everyone on the same page, or everyone to one event, especially considering that it was post-season.
Usually everyone would be jetting off to their preferred vacation spots, or home to their families.
But I had good relationships with the teams and the drivers.
So between me, Anna, and the boys, getting the drivers to attend had all come together.
It felt like nothing short of a miracle, and I was quietly stunned and thankful for my group of friends who had rallied behind me.
He nodded slowly, watching me with that quiet intensity.
“You’ve grown into this role,” he said finally, “I’m glad you asked to join the track this year.”
At the beginning of the season, I was so determined to find my place, to make a path for myself.
And I had done the damn thing—not just the usual visiting my dad during races but being important here, helping make a difference.
Now I was heading up the Moretti Foundation and dating a driver. It all felt like some fever dream.
“You taught me well,” I smiled. “No one controls my destiny but myself.”