Chapter 28 Nicola
NICOLA
The post-season blur was exactly that—a blur. A cocktail of events, confetti, fast cars, and gala planning. Somehow, between the last checkered flag of the season in Abu Dhabi and waking up this morning in a ridiculously posh Roman hotel suite, a whole week had vanished.
Alexander won his sixth world championship in Qatar, just one race before the end, cementing him into a Formula One legend with the most consecutive championship wins.
Worth it.
I was in Rome for my big post-season event.
Everything I had worked on for the last few months the biggest event yet for the Moretti Foundation, glitz and glam, and astronomical fundraising goals.
My phone buzzed where it sat beside me, and my heart did that annoying flutter thing it had picked up lately.
Matteo:
Landing in 2 hrs. Don’t start the party without me, Moretti.
Nicola:
You’re lucky I’m waiting at all. I look very good this week.
Matteo:
Pics or it didn’t happen.
I smirked, curling my legs beneath me on the plush white duvet, still in my silk robe. I snapped a mirror selfie—robe slightly off the shoulder, makeup half-done, coffee in hand, lips already glossed. Flirty, but with plausible deniability.
Nicola:
You’ll have to wait and see. Delayed gratification builds character.
Matteo:
I have enough character. What I don’t have is you under me. Would love to remedy that issue tonight.
I bit my lip, heat curling low in my belly.
Nicola:
You’re lucky I like you.
Matteo:
You just like me, Moretti?
My mind flashed to a few nights ago—those slow, honey-drenched days we’d spent wrapped up in each other like the world outside had ceased to exist. After the chaos of the final race and the whirlwind of champagne-soaked celebrations, Matteo had whisked me away to a quiet villa tucked in the rolling hills of the Italian countryside. No cameras. No schedules. Just us.
We were supposed to stay a weekend, but we dragged it on as long as we could.
We barely left the bed the first day. Sunlight filtered through gauzy white curtains as we stayed tangled in sheets and laughter and whispered promises.
His skin smelled like warm cedar and citrus, and I clung to it like oxygen.
Every time he touched me, I felt the walls around my heart crack open a little more.
By the third day, I’d insisted we come up for air. “We’re starting to forget what clothes feel like,” I teased, already pulling a sweater over my messy hair. He groaned in protest from the bed, hand lazily trailing across the sheets where I’d been moments before.
We slipped into town like shadows. Hats pulled low, sunglasses on, fingers brushing secretly under tables and in quiet corners of cobblestone cafes. The village was sleepy and sunlit, nestled between vineyards and olive groves. No one recognized us there. No one cared.
It was bliss.
That night we walked along a quiet dirt path that curved behind the villa, the sky bruised with twilight and the air scented with lavender. He pulled me close under a string of fairy lights draped across the terrace and started to sway, humming a song I didn’t know but never wanted to forget.
“Dance with me,” he’d said, his voice low and a little shy. My thoughts shouted at me:
I love you
I love you
I love you
I wanted to say it. Every second. Every time he looked at me like I was more than the life we’d both carefully planned around. But the words I love you burned like stars in my throat—bright, brilliant, and terrifying.
So instead, I said it in all the ways I could. In the way I made him coffee in the mornings before he was even awake. In the way I laughed at all his terrible jokes. In the way I kissed him like I didn’t care that there was a timer on this bubble we’d built.
But still…every time I looked at him—really looked at him—I wanted to scream it. I love you, Matteo DeLuca. You reckless, brilliant, maddening man. I love you so much I don’t know how to be quiet about it anymore.
And yet, I did stay quiet. Afraid that if I said it out loud, it would become too real. Too breakable.
Now, back in Rome on the morning of the gala, I could still feel the imprint of those days on my skin. The warmth of him in the quiet. The freedom of loving him in secret.
But secrets had a shelf life—and tonight, we were ready to tell the world.
Before I could spiral into a whole thing about feelings this early in the morning, a knock echoed from the adjoining suite. Anna’s voice followed, muffled but chipper, “Nic! Open up. I need caffeine or a stylist. Possibly both.”
I padded over and opened the door, grinning as Anna stepped in, wrapped in an oversized Belen Racing hoodie and leggings, looking far too good for someone who probably hadn’t slept either.
“Why are you glowing?” she asked, squinting at me like I’d personally offended her with my post-espresso radiance.
“Maybe because I’m about to have a very hot Italian man in my bed tonight?”
She groaned, “Disgusting. But also, go off.”
We both collapsed onto the sofa in the corner of the suite. I tossed her one of the croissants from the breakfast spread, which she caught midair with one hand like the PR goddess she was.
“Okay,” she said, munching, “Let’s go over the plan.”
“For?”
“Your first public outing with Matteo. The world’s already speculating after those photos leaked. Half the grid knows. The other half suspects. But tonight, you’ll go official.”
I chewed on my thumbnail. “Are we sure?”
Anna raised a brow. “He’s stupid in love with you. Yes.”
I sighed dramatically, “Fine. But I’m not doing some cheesy, over-the-top reveal.”
“Of course not. I was thinking chic. Classic. Hand in hand, walking into the gala like a sexy power couple who have nothing to hide and everything to celebrate, post a photo together for the fans, and you’re golden.”
“God, you’re good.”
She preened. “I know. Also, I already coordinated with Alex’s stylist for the press schedule, so I can get you and Matteo a buffer on the red carpet. Just enough time to make it a moment.”
I let out a smile and leaned back. “Fine. Operation Public Power Couple it is.”
She raised her coffee in salute. “To the hard launch that’s about to blow up the internet.”
I clinked my coffee cup against hers. Somewhere inside me, nerves fluttered—but they were the good kind. The ‘holy shit, this is real’ kind.
Tonight, it was all happening. And against all odds and my former better judgment, I was ready.
Sunlight filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse suite, golden and generous, as I stood in front of the mirror fastening a delicate gold hoop through one ear. My phone buzzed on the vanity beside me.
Matteo:
Landed.
Another buzz.
Matteo:
Don’t look too beautiful until I get there, I want the full effect.
I smiled at the screen, biting my lip to stifle the heat that flushed my cheeks. I typed back quickly.
Nicola:
You’re lucky I even waited for you. I was considering going solo just to start a scandal.
Three dots appeared. Then vanished. Then it appeared again.
Matteo:
Scandal is hotter when I’m involved. Save it for me, Moretti.
I was still grinning when the suite door swung open thirty minutes later. I turned, expecting Matteo alone.
Instead, he walked in surrounded by a full entourage—Lucia, holding little Gianna on her hip, and behind them…two familiar faces.
“Surprise!” Matteo beamed, sweeping into the room like a ray of golden sunlight.
I blinked. “Wait. Are those—?”
“My parents,” he said, grinning. “They flew in last night. Lucia and I picked them up this morning, and I might have conspired with your father for the two extra tickets.” His eyes sparkled with mischief.
My heart skidded in my chest, “I was wondering about those mystery tickets!” I could feel the emotion welling in my chest, I blinked a few times knowing the pure adoration was there.
Lucia laughed lightly, adjusting Gianna on her hip. “Don’t worry, I didn’t tell him it was overkill. But I did warn him that showing up to a gala with his entire family might read as overwhelming.”
“Hey,” Matteo said with mock offense, wrapping an arm around his sister’s shoulders. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”
Gianna let out a squeal at the exact moment Matteo’s mother rushed forward and hugged me, tightly, like we’d known each other forever. I barely had time to respond before his father followed, shaking my hand with a warmth that settled somewhere deep in my ribs.
Matteo stood behind them, eyes locked on mine, a lopsided smile tugging at his mouth.
“You didn’t have to—” I started.
“I wanted to,” he said simply. “They’ve been asking about you nonstop. Figured if we were going public tonight, it should be with the people who matter most standing beside us.”
My chest tightened. And just like that, every fear I had about this becoming too real, too loud, too big—faded.
Because there he was, giving me all of himself.
His world. His family. His love. He crossed the room to me slowly, hands finding my waist, eyes softening.
“Still want to go solo and start a scandal?” he whispered.
I leaned in close, voice low, “I’d rather have your hand in mine DeLuca. You’ve turned me into a romantic.”
His answering smile was the kind that made everything else fall away.
Somehow, being surrounded by the DeLuca family didn’t feel overwhelming. Instead, it was easy.
Being with you is easy. Matteo’s words bounced around in my mind.
It felt simple but monumental at the same time.
I was slowly getting used to this feeling of being loved, of the people who cared about me actually caring, not using me or talking about me behind my back like in past relationships.
Everything with Matteo was bright and new.
I loved him. I loved him so much it felt like it was bursting from me.
With the day to spend together, we left the hotel as a group early and wandered through a quieter corner of the city, where the buildings were sun-washed and crumbling in the way that made everything feel timeless.
Matteo held my hand like he didn’t care who saw.
His thumb traced the inside of my wrist as we walked, like he couldn’t help touching me.
We stopped at a quiet café tucked between two ivy-covered buildings.
His mother insisted I try the sfogliatelle, claiming no one in Rome made them quite like this.
Matteo’s father told old stories about Matteo’s childhood—how he used to sneak out to race mopeds and once got grounded for spray-painting a makeshift finish line across their driveway.
Matteo groaned, “Papà, seriously?” I laughed so hard I almost choked.
“Tell her about the time you crashed Zio Luca’s Vespa into Nonna’s tomato cart,” Lucia added, stirring sugar into her espresso with a grin.
“Traitors,” Matteo muttered under his breath, but his smile betrayed him.
Gianna sat in Matteo’s lap, happily smearing apricot jam on his shirt with sticky fingers, and he didn’t even flinch. He just kissed the top of her head and whispered something that made her giggle.
Later, as we walked a little behind everyone, Matteo pulled me aside beneath a row of cypress trees. The others kept walking, giving us a few moments of quiet.
He stopped and turned toward me, brushing my hair back from my face. “You okay?” he asked softly.
“More than okay,” I said, searching his eyes. “Your family…they’re wonderful.”
“They already adore you,” he said, “Especially my mom. I’m pretty sure she’s planning a wedding.”
I let out a breathy laugh, but the emotion stirred under my skin. “I just…I didn’t expect any of this. I thought tonight would feel scary. Big. Like the start of something I couldn’t control.”
“And now?”
I looked up at him. “Now it just feels like life. Yours and mine. Crashing together in the best way.”
He smiled, but something flickered behind it—something quieter, more intense. His hand dropped to my waist, fingers sliding just beneath the hem of my sweater.
“Nicola,” he said softly, “I think I started falling in love with you the first time you told me off at Silverstone.”
I blinked, my heart stuttering.
He stepped closer, his forehead brushing mine. “You don’t have to say it back. I just wanted you to know.”
I bit my lip, heart caught between my ribs. And even though I’d practiced the words in my head a thousand times, they still caught on my tongue like velvet.
He kissed me right there under the sun. I felt it in every part of me—my heart already belonged to him.