9 | Moody Man
FIORELLA
I lower the treadmill speed to a brisk walk, swiping the sweat from my face with a towel.
One glance in the mirror makes me grimace—my skin is blotchy red except for the pale circles around my eyes and mouth, which make me look like some sort of cursed Halloween skull.
I’ve always flushed this way when I work out, which is why I prefer to do it alone. Luckily, Santo’s gym is empty.
As if to mock me, the door swings open. My heart drops.
Not Santo—but Matteo strolls in, wearing a black muscle tee and basketball shorts. He jerks his chin at me, wordless, before heading straight for the bench press in the far corner of the gym.
I hit the stop button and step off the treadmill, trying to look casual as I drop to the floor for stretches, half-hidden behind the squat rack. My muscles still hum from the run, breath shallow as I fold forward, pulling my toes toward me until my hamstrings scream.
“Boss said you need me to drive you to work,” Matteo says, easing back on the bench. He wraps his fingers around the bar, settling his grip like it’s muscle memory.
“He said I could pick a car, actually.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
He grunts as he unhooks the barbell and lowers it toward his chest. The plates clink faintly with each movement, tendons standing out along his arms as he presses the bar back up. His jaw locks with the strain of it.
I narrow my eyes. “Isn’t that dangerous without a spotter?”
He laughs under his breath, still pressing. “You offering, principessa?”
I arch an eyebrow. “No. I’ll actually just sit here and watch while the weight slowly crushes your arrogant windpipe.”
He benches two more times, then re-racks the bar with a clang, the sound echoing off the mirrors. Sitting up, he wipes his forehead with a towel, a grin breaking through. “So vicious.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, pushing to my feet. “That was unfair. I’m just—short-tempered lately. Given the circumstances.”
“Nah, all good,” he says easily, tossing the towel over his shoulder. “You need some fire to stay afloat around here.” He nods toward the bar. “No collars on the ends. I can dump the plates if I get stuck.”
“Smart.” I grab my water bottle and hoodie—pulse still racing from my run—and head for the door.
“Don’t leave on my account,” he says, reclining again.
“That’s okay,” I say, slipping my arms through the sleeves of my hoodie. “I need to get ready for work anyway.”
“Let me drive you.”
I frown. “Why are you so eager? I said I could drive myself.”
He shoots me a look, not unkind. “You really want to leave a Bugatti parked outside your family’s restaurant? Thought you wanted to keep them in the dark.”
I roll my eyes. “Doesn’t he have something more… understated?”
A snort. “Have you met your fiancé?”
The word makes my chest tighten.
Matteo clocks it, and softens. “Just let me drive you. I’ll drop you off down the street. I work for you too now, remember?”
I sigh. “If you insist. I’ll get ready. Meet you in the foyer at eleven?”
He grins, gripping the bar and squaring his shoulders. “I’ll be there.”
----
“I’ll be right back with that melanzana!”
I push through the swinging kitchen doors and into the kitchen. The air is warm and rich, heavy with the scent of garlic and basil. Nonna slides a steaming plate onto the counter without looking up, already turning back to the stove.
I’m halfway to grabbing it when the doors creak again.
“Ella.”
I turn to see Luca.
He’s standing in the doorway, pale and tight-jawed, hair damp with sweat despite the autumn chill. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days.
I grab the plate and usher him out with a forced smile. “You shouldn’t be back here where Nonna can see you looking like that.”
He ignores me, lowering his voice just enough that the diners can’t hear. “Where did you get it?”
I blink. “Get what?”
“The money,” he snaps. “Don’t play dumb, Ella. They said the debt’s cleared. Paid in full. You think I wouldn’t find out?”
I take a steadying breath. “I said I’d take care of it. This is me doing that—you should be grateful, not angry.”
“I am angry,” he hisses, stepping closer. “Because I know you don’t have that kind of money. So where did you get it?”
I swallow, caught between wanting to yell at him and wanting to confess everything. “I guess neither of us knows the other as well as we thought we did.”
His jaw flexes. For a moment, I think he’ll make a scene—but then something in him deflates.
“Ella…” His voice cracks. “What did you do?”
“No, Luca.” I step closer, my voice low and steady. “What did you do? How do you even rack up two hundred grand in debt? Drugs?”
He shakes his head hard, eyes darting. “I made a mistake. I’ll fix it. But I need to know where you got the money—so I can set things straight.”
“The only thing I need from you,” I bite out, “is to stay out of trouble for once in your life.” I tighten my grip on the plate, shouldering past him. “I’ll clean up your mess again.”
----
The autumn air bites at my cheeks when I step out of the restaurant. My cheeks are still rosy from running around with dishes all afternoon. The rush is over, but my pulse hasn’t slowed.
Matteo’s parked down the street, engine idling, the car’s black paint glinting under the weak, setting sun.
I glance over my shoulder to make sure no one is following me before slipping my ring back on. For a man like Santo, it’s unexpectedly delicate. A slim yellow-gold band, a single oval diamond that glitters even in shadow—understated, but impossible to ignore.
I slide into the passenger seat, the scent of leather and cologne wrapping around me. Matteo shifts gears before I’ve even buckled in.
“I’m gonna have to warn you, bella,” he says lightly. “Your man’s in a mood.”
“He’s not my man.” I glare at him. “And what do you mean, in a mood?”
His knuckles whiten on the wheel. “You know. Short-tempered. Aggressive. On edge.”
I scoff. “He has other moods?”
Matteo grins. “He picked a good one in you. He needs someone who bites back.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Pretty sure he wanted someone to sit pretty and nod along.”
“Sure. In public. He needs to keep up appearances.” Matteo throws me a knowing look. “But behind closed doors? He likes the fight. Be yourself.”
I study him, suspicious. “You seem pretty decent.”
He chuckles. “Yeah? You wouldn’t just stand there laughing as I got crushed by a barbell anymore?”
“I never said I’d laugh,” I murmur. “I just wouldn’t intervene.”
His laugh rumbles through the car, warm and hearty. “See? Perfect match for Santo.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah. Our story really is one for the books.”
The city fades, glinting buildings melting into quiet suburbs.
By the time Matteo pulls up the long drive, I’m just about ready to bolt off the property and run to my old apartment, heels and all.
Coming home to Santo is intimidating enough; with him in a mood, it feels like walking straight into the storm.
“Relax,” Matteo mutters. “He can smell fear.”
I shoot him a glare as I swing open the door, but he’s laughing. “I’m kidding. Just… steer clear until dinner with the Morescos.”
“I wasn’t exactly planning to hang around your boss for fun,” I mutter, slamming the car door shut. “The guy’s a manipulative, power-abusing criminal.”
A low voice answers from behind me, making me yelp.
“Now, that doesn’t sound like something a loving wife would say.”
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HELP!! I'm leaving you guys dangling for a week on that, sorry ??