Chapter 29 Matteo
MATTEO
Nicola was humming under her breath—something slow and off-key—as she swiped a makeup brush across her cheekbone in the mirror. My shirt hung open, bowtie dangling from my neck like I’d already given up on it, and I was sprawled on the end of the bed watching her.
Well, more like pretending to watch the news on mute while really just watching her.
“You’re staring,” she said without looking over.
“Of course I am,” I said, grinning, “It’s either you or the recap of Alexander’s sixth win. No offense to him, but you’ve got the better legs.”
She rolled her eyes, biting back a smile. “You’ve seen me put on makeup a thousand times now. You’re going to get bored eventually.”
“Impossible,” I said, “Every version of you is my favorite. Makeup, no makeup, messy bun, just woke up, angry at me for stealing the last towel…”
“You used the towel I hung for myself!”
I held my hands up in mock surrender. “Truce. We’re about to go public. No towel-related scandals tonight.”
She laughed then—really laughed. That soft, bright sound I never got tired of. There was this freeness to her tonight, a softness around the edges I didn’t take for granted. She let her guard down like a drawbridge, piece by piece, and it felt like a goddamn honor every time she let me in.
I reached for the champagne chilling on the side table and opened it with a quiet pop, pouring two glasses while she disappeared into the bathroom to change.
“Don’t look!” she called, just as the door shut behind her.
“As if I could ever look away,” I muttered, mostly to myself like the lovesick fool I was.
I adjusted my cufflinks, tugged my collar, and stared at the mirror like it might give me some sort of calm.
But all I could think was, ‘This is real.’ This life.
Her. Somehow, I’d gone from teasing her at press conferences and arguing over team dinners to watching her get ready on the night we’d show the world we were together.
I hadn’t planned it, not any of it. But if I had, it still wouldn’t have come close to this.
The door creaked open, and she stepped out with her back to me. “Matteo,” she said softly, lifting her hair over one shoulder, “Can you…?”
Then she turned.
And I forgot how to breathe.
The dress was red. Not just red—’stop your heart, set the room on fire’ red.
Throwing me back to months ago and teasing her for wearing the team’s colors.
Little did she know, at the time, it was my favorite color to see on her.
By now she had figured that out, the soft knowing smile that reached her eyes, easily told me that.
The dress hugged every inch of her like it had been sewn onto her skin, the back dipping low, a trail of tiny buttons leading to the zipper she was asking for help with.
I stood and crossed the room slowly, fingers itching to touch her. Not even out of desire—though, yeah, that was there too—but because she looked like something out of a dream. And part of me still didn’t believe she was real.
“Nicola,” I murmured, voice low as I stood behind her.
My fingers moved to the zipper, but I paused.
“You are…you’re breathtaking.”
She turned slightly, a smile tugging at her mouth. “You’re biased.”
“I’m not biased. I’m in love with you. That’s different.”
Her breath caught. I saw it in the mirror. She blinked, just once, before smiling down at her hands.
“I’ve seen you in team kits and dripping wet in the rain,” I said, slowly zipping the dress. “I’ve seen you angry and exhausted, determined and fierce. But this…this softness? You like letting me see that part of you, you in red.” I looked her up and down and let out a whistle.
“I’ll never stop being in awe of you,” I said, “Not just because you’re beautiful. But because you survived a world that tried to flatten you, and you came out sharper, smarter, and somehow still soft where it matters most. You never had to be perfect for me. You just had to be you.”
She turned then, facing me fully, and I saw it in her eyes—that thing I’d been feeling for weeks now. Love. Big and blinding and honest.
I cupped her face, pressing my forehead against hers. “I’m not going to pretend like I planned any of this. But being with you—this is the best decision I’ve ever made.”
“I’m glad you stole my towel,” she whispered with a laugh.
“I’d steal all your towels if it meant keeping you.”
She leaned up, kissed me soft and slow, and I swore the rest of the world dropped away.
“I love you too, idiot,” she sighed into me.
My breath caught. I couldn’t hold it anymore.
I had to tell her, but I hadn’t expected her to say it back, not yet.
I knew she felt it too, but Nicola had placed bricks on bricks of walls around her, protecting herself.
Her shields were locked into place, but here she was opening the door, letting me in.
For the first time, the future didn’t feel so far off.
Her hand in mine. Being able to profess to the whole damn world that this whirlwind of a woman was mine. I was one lucky man.
The car ride to the gala passed in a blur of nerves I hadn’t expected to feel. Not race-day nerves. This was different. This was personal.
Nicola sat beside me, legs crossed at the ankle, one hand on her lap and the other resting between us, close enough for me to feel the warmth of her skin. The dress shimmered every time the car hit a patch of light, like the night was trying to show her off.
She was calm. Regal, even. But when I reached for her hand, she laced her fingers through mine without hesitation.
“You sure about this?” I asked, my voice low, barely more than a breath between us.
“Yes.” Just one word—but it landed like a punch to the chest, knocking the air right out of me.
Simple. Certain. So very Moretti of her.
Nicola never wavered when she made up her mind.
She didn’t do things halfway, didn’t say yes unless she meant it.
And the fact that she was sure about me?
That I was something she’d chosen with that same unwavering conviction?
God, it felt like the biggest honor of my life.
Outside the venue, the cameras were already going wild—flashes popping like fireworks, fans shouting behind barricades, the red carpet glowing under the entrance lights. It was the kind of chaos I was used to…but tonight it felt different.
Because she was beside me.
We stepped out together. Instantly, the sound doubled.
I felt her pause for half a breath, just enough for me to catch the flicker of nerves in her eyes. I squeezed her hand. “Ready to make them all jealous?”
“God, you’re annoying,” she muttered through a smile.
The press didn’t know where to look. I caught at least three jaws drop when they realized Nicola Moretti wasn’t just walking beside me—she was with me.
And I couldn’t even pretend to hide it. I kept my hand at the small of her back, touching her waist lightly as we turned toward the cameras, my body angled toward hers like gravity had finally stopped pretending.
We posed for the official shots—her with her practiced elegance, me with the smug grin of a man who knew damn well he’d hit the jackpot.
“You realize this is going to break the internet, right?” she whispered out of the corner of her mouth.
“Good.”
She laughed and turned to face me, took my face in her hands and pulled me down, our lips meeting on the red carpet. The sound was worth every headline that would follow.
Inside the gala, everything glittered. Glass chandeliers, champagne towers, black velvet tablecloths. The world of Formula One in its most polished, exclusive form.
We were quickly swarmed—teammates, drivers, media, even some executives doing that fake-sincere ‘We always knew!’ routine.
But through it all, I didn’t let go of her. Not once.
Eventually we found a quiet pocket near the back of the ballroom, half-hidden by tall floral arrangements and golden candlelight.
I turned toward her. “You were right, you know.”
“About?”
“You belong here. More than anyone. And not just because you look like a goddess in that dress.”
She laughed softly, “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m serious,” I said, “You’ve built your place in this world on your own terms. I’m so proud of you, Nicola.”
Her face softened then, the walls coming down like they always did when it was just us. I stepped closer, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You make everything better.”
She smiled, blinking slowly like she was trying not to get too emotional.
I stood proudly at Nicola’s side, watching her command the room with effortless grace.
There was something about the way she moved through the night—confident, elegant, utterly herself—that had everyone leaning in to listen when she spoke.
She made it look easy, even though I knew how much she’d once feared this kind of spotlight. Now? She owned it.
My gaze drifted across the ballroom to where our parents were seated together—mine beside hers, sipping wine, deep in conversation. Nicola caught my eye, and we exchanged a look, eyebrows raised and smirks barely contained. ‘Look at them. They’re actually getting along.’
I made my way to the next table where my sister sat, her arm slung over the back of her chair as if this glamorous gala was just another Tuesday. Before I could even sit down, a glittering blur launched herself into my lap.
“Zio!” Gianna beamed up at me, her arms wrapping tight around my neck. Her dress sparkled under the chandeliers, a tiny tiara askew in her curls.
“Ciao, Stellina,” I said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. She smelled like sugar and something vaguely floral—probably the glittery lotion Lucia let her wear for special occasions.
She wriggled, then pulled out a tiny purse and opened it with great ceremony. “Wanna see my lip gloss? It’s very special. Mommy says it’s just chapstick, but I know it’s fancy.”
I nodded solemnly. “Extremely fancy. I don’t think I’ve seen anything that sparkly all night.”
She giggled, then looked across the room with a dreamy sigh. “Zia Nicola looks really pretty.”
I followed her gaze. Nicola stood near the stage, laughing at something someone said, her red gown catching the light like fire. She was incandescent.
“She really does,” I murmured, more to myself than to Gia.
Lucia leaned over, sipping from her wine glass, a smug tilt to her lips. “You know, I really couldn’t have planned this better.”
I raised a brow. “Planned what?”
She gestured between Nicola and me with her glass. “You falling for my best friend.”
I rolled my eyes. “First of all, I knew her way before you did. And second of all, you fell for my best friend.”
She laughed, nudging Alexander with her elbow. “Crazy how that worked out, huh?”
“Yeah, you’re welcome for that,” I muttered.
Alexander just smirked, looking far too satisfied for someone who claimed he wasn’t a matchmaker.
And as I sat there with my niece on my lap, my sister smirking at me, and Nicola shining like a flame across the room, I realized something deep in my chest settled. This—all of this—was the life I never knew I needed.
The lights dimmed slightly as Nicola stepped onto the stage, the hum of chatter fading into quiet. She stood tall, radiant beneath the soft spotlight, and the room leaned in. I swore she looked straight at me before she spoke, like I was her anchor in a sea of eyes.
“Thank you,” she began, voice steady and clear, “For being here tonight, for believing in something bigger than ourselves. The Moretti Foundation was born from the belief that the Formula One community is more than just a sport—it’s a family. A global one.”
A pause. A breath.
“And tonight, thanks to your generosity, your belief, and your unwavering support, we didn’t just meet our fundraising goal. We surpassed it. By over a million euros.”
The room erupted in applause, cheers echoing off the vaulted ceilings. My heart swelled. Pride, awe, love. All of it tangled in my chest.
Nicola smiled, emotional but composed. “These funds will support families in need around the world. Many who have been displaced, struggling, or living below the poverty line in the very cities our sport visits each year. From S?o Paulo to Silverstone, from Las Vegas to Melbourne. Every stop, every story matters. And because of you, we can do more. We will do more.”
She thanked the teams, the drivers, and the Moretti Foundation members. She was graceful and articulate, her passion shining through every word. But to me, it wasn’t just what she said. It was how she said it. With her whole heart. Like this mattered more than any legacy or title or spotlight.
Across the table, Alexander grinned and leaned toward Lucia, who murmured something in his ear that I couldn’t quite catch. He kissed her temple, pride softening the sharpness of his usual expression.
When Nicola finally stepped down from the stage and returned to the table, the applause still echoing in the background, I rose to meet her.
I didn’t care that we were in front of half the paddock.
I pulled her into my side, arms tight around her waist, and whispered into her hair, “I hope you know how fucking incredible you are.”
She looked up at me, eyes a little glassy but still fierce, and smiled. “You’re biased.”
“Not biased. Just lucky,” I murmured, brushing a kiss to her cheek. “So damn lucky.”
The rest of the night passed in a blur of goodbyes and congratulations. People clapped me on the back, gave Nicola hugs, and asked about next year’s gala. My parents said goodbye to hers like they were old friends. And just before we stepped outside, Mr. Moretti found me.
He extended his hand.
“Matteo,” he said, giving me a firm shake. His eyes—always intense, always measuring—held something softer now. “Welcome to the family.”
I didn’t have words. Just a quiet nod. A stunned, grateful smile.
Later that night, with Nicola’s heels dangling from her fingers and her head resting on my shoulder as we sat in the back of the car, I looked out at the city lights blinking by and thought This is it. This is everything.
And somehow, in this wild, fast, unpredictable world—we found each other.
She reached for my hand. I held it tight, ready to spend all the moments with her. Each heart-racing moment with the girl of my dreams.