Chapter 25
NIKKI
I've known a lot of fake things in my life. Fake friends who only wanted my follower count. Fake smiles for brand deals I secretly hated. Fake eyelashes so aggressive they once flew off mid-interview on live television, which, for the record, was an absolute nightmare to explain.
But this? This proposal on the Ponte Vecchio, under the golden glow of the Florentine sunset?
It didn't feel fake.
Not when he got down on one knee, his broad shoulders filling my entire vision. Not when he said my name, "Nikki Ricci," like it meant something, like it was a sacred vow instead of a rehearsed line.
And definitely not when he kissed me, hard and breathless, as if he wanted the cameras to disappear, like he wanted to devour me right there, in front of God and all of Italy. My lips still tingle from that kiss.
We walk hand-in-hand through Florence, a scene ripped straight from a very expensive music video. Tourists stare, their mouths agape, their phones already out. A few brave souls clap, a smattering of applause that feels both genuine and utterly surreal.
Someone shouts "Auguri!" which I think means congratulations, but honestly, it all just sounds like noise. The diamond on my finger catches every last ray of sunlight.
Rafe nods to the gathering crowd, the barest acknowledgment of the chaos we've just created, a subtle tip of his head that somehow conveys both disdain and ownership.
He pulls me closer, his hand a solid anchor around mine.
But I can feel the tension in his grip. The way his thumb brushes my palm, over and over again, a restless, almost frantic movement, like he's grounding himself in the only thing that still feels solid amidst the swirling illusion.
And that thing is me.
Which is wild, because I'm not solid. I'm still spinning from that kiss.
Spinning from that look in his eyes, raw and hungry and terrifyingly honest. Spinning from the way he whispered "they bought it" like it was a win, a brilliant strategic victory, but his tone cracked on the last word, betraying a fragility I never thought I'd hear from him.
We duck into a private car with tinted windows. The door shuts with a quiet thud, cutting off the world, silencing the last echoes of the crowd. No more pretending.
Except… we still are.
Aren't we? Or are we?
That's the terrifying question hanging in the air.
"A little dramatic, don't you think," I say, turning the enormous diamond ring on my finger, letting the light catch its facets.
I try to sound casual, as if this is all just another boring Tuesday afternoon for me.
"I mean, the whole Ponte Vecchio thing. Did you consider a simpler proposal, like, over a pizza.
Or a text message. 'Will you marry me?' My followers would've gone wild. "
Rafe watches me. Unreadable as always. He’s back hiding behind his walls again.
"You said sell it," I add, trying to fill the uncomfortable silence that stretches between us. "I'm following the plan, boss man. I'm giving the people what they want. What you want. Maximum engagement. Maximum viral potential."
"You did well," he says.
It's a compliment, I think. From him, it's practically a declaration of undying love.
“That's it? That's all I get? No smirk? No snark? No ‘you're not entirely useless after all?’ No acknowledgment of the fact that I just put on the performance of a lifetime?”
I wait for more, for something, but he just stares out the window at the passing cityscape.
I press on, unable to bear the quiet. "So, what now?
Do we book a fake honeymoon to the Maldives?
Start arguing about caterers for our fake wedding?
Do I have to start a Pinterest board? Because I have some very strong opinions about artisanal macaron towers, just so you know. "
He leans back, stretching his long legs like a panther preparing for war, or a very well-fed cat. He looks utterly relaxed, yet coiled, ready to spring. And yet, he won’t look at me. Like I’m the threat in our lives.
"Now we let the internet do what it does," he says.
"They'll obsess over the proposal. Pick apart every detail.
The dress. The ring. The location. The kiss.
They'll create their own narratives, their own fan theories.
The more noise they make, the safer you are.
The more convinced they are of the illusion, the less likely anyone'll look for the truth. "
Right.
Because this is still about safety. Totally. Absolutely. My safety. His safety. The safety of his carefully constructed criminal empire. Nothing else. Just another cold, hard transaction.
I glance down at the ring again, the enormous diamond glinting under the dim light of the car. It's heavy. Real. Too real for a fake engagement. He could’ve put a fake diamond on my finger and no one would’ve known.
"You looked nervous," I say. My eyes meet his in the reflection of the tinted window.
"I wasn't," he replies.
"You were sweating," I insist, pushing, just to see his reaction. "For a guy who's supposedly never nervous, you looked like you were about to pass out right there on the bridge."
"It was hot," he explains. "The sun and the… unexpected heat of the moment." His gaze flickers to my lips.
"You hesitated before you kissed me," I accuse. "You stood there for a full second, looking like you were debating the pros and cons of certain death versus kissing me.”
He doesn’t deny it.
“I need a drink," I mutter, turning toward the minibar built into the luxurious car, needing something cold and sharp to cut through the suffocating tension. I reach for a small bottle of vodka, my hand shaking slightly.
But he's already there. Already pouring. As if he knew. As if he could read my mind. He takes a crystal tumbler, fills it with ice, and pours a generous measure of the clear liquid.
He hands me a glass. Our fingers brush, a brief, electric contact.
And it's electric again, the current of raw energy snapping between us.
Even here, in the cold, controlled silence of the car.
Even now, after the most high-stakes fake moment of our lives, the chemistry's undeniable. It hums between us always.
We drink in silence, the harsh burn of the alcohol a welcome distraction. My mind's reeling. And somewhere in the back of my mind, a terrifying, exhilarating realization begins to settle in: I'm not pretending anymore. Not really. Not when it comes to him.
And I don't think he is either.
That scares me more than the men who want me dead.
Because the men who want me dead, I understand. I can fight them. I can run.
But him? This feeling? This confusing, dangerous, undeniable connection?
This terrifying, beautiful lie that feels more real than anything else?
I have no idea how to fight that.
Or how I’ll survive when it ends.