Chapter 23
NIKKI
I’ve spent all day trying not to overanalyze what happened between us.
The wine’s not helping. I'm halfway through my second glass when he knocks.
Not a real knock. Not a polite, "may I come in?
" kind of knock that normal people use. It's more like a warning.
One long, firm rap, decisive and unyielding.
Authority in hardwood form. It's the sound of a man who expects to be obeyed, not invited.
He opens the door before I even have a chance to answer.
"We need to talk," he says, not wasting time with pleasantries.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t look at me like he did last night. And just like that, the high I’ve been floating on crashes. I know immediately, he’s going to pretend last night never happened.
So, I put my mask back on too. I meet distance with sarcasm, because that’s what I do best.
"Wow," I deadpan, swirling the wine in my glass, watching the liquid catch the light. "I was just thinking this night needed more ominous declarations. We’ve already done the ‘you’re probably going to die’ thing." I force a bright, dismissive smile, but my heart's already pounding.
I can’t shake off the memories from last night. The raw intensity in his eyes when he was inside me, the way he held me like I was breakable and dangerous at once.
It all felt so real. So earth-shattering.
But now? Now, he's standing there like it never happened. Like I'm still nothing except another problem to solve. The hurt cuts deeper than I expected. I take another sip of wine to hide my emotion.
"I'm serious," he says.
"So am I," I reply, lifting my glass slightly. "This is Chianti which serious business to me. This isn't a cheap date wine. This is a 'something very bad just happened or is about to happen' kind of wine, wouldn't you agree?"
He doesn't smile or blink. My fake bravado sags a little around the edges. It's hard to keep up the performance when I’m feeling deflated.
Did last night mean nothing to him? The thought twists in my stomach like a knife.
“Okay, fine. Go ahead and talk,” I say, and my voice sounds flippant, but my heart's doing cartwheels. “Make it quick. I’ve got a date with this bottle of Chianti, and frankly, it listens better than you do.”
He crosses the room, slow and deliberate, but keeps a foot of distance between us.
Like even now, even when everything's on fire, even when the world outside this suite's threatening to implode because of me, he's still not sure how close is too close.
He's a walking contradiction, and it's infuriating.
And, okay, maybe a little heartbreaking. Especially heartbreaking.
Damn him!
How can he stand there so calmly after what we shared? I want to scream at him, to demand answers, but I don’t.
"I have a way to protect you," he says, a new urgency in his eyes.
"You said that before," I remind him, crossing my legs, trying to appear nonchalant.
"You said the fake relationship would protect me. And now I’ve got the entire Scorpione Nero after me because we screwed up somewhere down the line.
Forgive me if my faith in your protection strategies is currently at an all-time low. "
"This plan will work," he insists.
"That's very comforting," I say, taking a long sip of wine. "Really. It fills me with a sense of security that I can't even describe. So, what's the big plan this time? Are we going to fake our own deaths? Because I've always wanted to see my own funeral. Actually, I’m kidding about that…mostly."
His eyes flicker. Frustration, maybe. Or guilt. I can't tell. It's so subtle, that micro-expression, gone in an instant. He's a master at hiding his true feelings, but lately, I've been getting glimpses.
"We go public."
I blink at him, while my brain struggles to process this brilliant idea. "Hello? We already are, remember? The entire internet thinks we're dating. Half of them think you're my mafia boyfriend, which, you know, technically isn't wrong. Seriously, is that all you’ve got?"
He moves closer, bringing back every sensation from last night, his skin against mine, the way he made me feel alive and wanted.
"Not just soft launch stories and flirty photo ops. This is... deeper. More official and real."
My brain lurches. The words echo in my head. "You mean... you want us to be... actually together. For real. No more pretending. You want to ditch the fake part?”
Maybe last night meant something to him after all.
"No, we do a fake engagement," he says, shattering the illusion. "We put our relationship on speed dial. No one will dare touch the girl the world is obsessed with. This makes you untouchable."
The word 'fake' stings more than it should. My chest tightens, and something fragile inside me cracks. He's still talking about performance, discussing strategy. As if last night was just another part of the show.
Damn, that hurts.
I stare at him. "You're insane. You're actually, truly insane. You think this makes sense? A fake engagement? Are you out of your mind? Do you know how much work this would involve?"
I ramble on about all the damn details going into an engagement when all I really want to ask is if our night together meant anything to him? Will it happen again?
"No, I’m not insane," he replies. "I'm desperate. And this is the only way to guarantee your safety from Scorpione Nero. This is the one play we have left."
I set the wine down on the table with a thud before I drop it. This is a level of crazy I didn't even know existed. A fake engagement to a mafia boss. My life's officially more unhinged than my most unhinged followers.
"You truly think a fake engagement makes me safer?" I ask again, needing to hear it, to fully grasp the ludicrousness of it.
"Yes, because it makes you mine in my world," he says quietly. “No one wants to start a war over someone’s fiancée, especially not mine. Not when the world’s watching.”
"Let me get this straight," I say. "You want me to pretend I'm madly in love with you. Online and in public with sappy captions and 'oh my God I said yes' posts. For real. Like, actual fake real."
"Yes, if that’s what it takes," he says. “Whatever it takes, Nikki. We need to try this. It might be our last shot.”
"They will be photoshoots," I continue, already picturing the outfits, the locations, the angles.
My influencer brain's kicking in, despite the sheer absurdity of the situation. Despite the ache in my chest. “Engagement photoshoots. With dramatic lighting and maybe a fountain. It’s Italy, after all.”
"Yes, to that too," he confirms.
"What about matching outfits?" I challenge, pushing the boundaries, just to see how far he'll go.
His lips twitch with a ghost of a smile, gone as quickly as it appeared. "Don't push it. There are limits."
This is insane. It's utterly, completely insane. But it's also... compelling. A twisted, dangerous kind of compelling.
"And what do I get out of this? Beyond not being murdered, which, you know, is a definite plus. What's my actual incentive here?"
"Breathing," he replies. "For one. And a life free from constant surveillance, free from the threat of retaliation. A life where you can continue to be you. Perhaps even more so. Maybe much more."
Much more.
The words hang in the air between us, and for a moment, I let myself hope that maybe he means it. Maybe last night wasn't just strategy. Maybe the way he touched me, the way he whispered my name, maybe it was real.
My throat goes tight because I want the more. I want the unspoken promise in his eyes. I know I shouldn't because this is all fake. But the way he looks at me sometimes, it feels one hundred percent real.
"So, do we post a ring shot and call it a day?" I ask, trying to sound casual.
"No," he says, shaking his head. “I have other ideas. We need to do this right to make it believable.”
Of course, he's already thought this through, every meticulous detail.
"We stage the proposal. Tomorrow in Florence at sunset. At the Ponte Vecchio, perhaps. It's a romantic setting. Perfect for your brand and our message."
"You already planned this. You already picked out the location. The time. Everything. Before you even told me any of this."
He shrugs. "I always plan ahead for everything. You know that about me. Contingencies. Strategies. Every detail's considered. It's how I operate. It's how I survive. Or survived I should say until you came along and turned everything upside down."
I study him for a long second. The man who stole me, protected me and who last night touched me like a secret he didn't want to share. The man who admitted he's fighting hard not to want me. And now he wants to fake marry me to protect me.
A desperate, terrifying, yet utterly captivating act.
But when I look into his eyes, they say he'd do it for real.
They say everything he's fighting so hard to suppress.
Maybe that's enough.
Maybe it has to be enough for me.
For now, anyway.
"I need something first," I say.
"What?" he asks.
"If I'm going to sell a proposal this big," I begin.
I take a slow step forward. "If I'm going to make the entire world believe I'm falling in love with you.
.." I take another step. Until I'm toe to toe with him.
So, close our chests are almost touching, the air between us crackling with an undeniable electricity.
"I need to know what you're selling, Rafe," I whisper. "I need to know what's real. Underneath all the strategy. I need to know if last night meant something to you too."
And then I kiss him. Not fake. Not safe. My hand reaches up, cupping his jaw, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. My lips press against his, hard and hungry, a desperate demand for truth.
He stiffens for a fraction of a second. Then, his arms come around me, pulling me flush against him. His mouth responds to mine, hard and breathless and starving. He kisses me back with a desperate intensity that sends shivers through my entire body, a raw, untamed passion that consumes me.
And in that moment, in the fiery embrace of his kiss, I know. We've already crossed the line. The one he tried so desperately to maintain. And there's no going back. Not for either of us.
This isn’t just about survival anymore.
It’s about lines blurring.
And I’m terrified I won’t be able to tell what’s real until it’s too late.