Chapter 27 Sunday Brunch
Valentina
Matteo closes the SUV door behind him with a soft thunk, and I feel the subtle shift of tension in the air. Something changes when he’s around his grandfather. Like he’s trying to impress a ghost still watching from the grave.
“Rosco,” he says, voice low but firm, “head to Nonno’s favorite.”
“Already keyed in,” Rosco replies smoothly from the front.
Beside him, Alessio brightens like a boy promised cake. “Ah! You remembered. God, I’ve missed that place. Tell me they still serve the warm ciabatta with the lemon oil.”
“They do,” Matteo says, a small smirk playing at the edge of his mouth. “You’ll be first to tear it open.”
Alessio chuckles and turns slightly in his seat to face us, arm draped across the backrest like we’re all old friends on a road trip. “So,” he says, eyes glinting, “how did you two meet? Matteo never tells me anything anymore. Talking to him is like shaking a vault and hoping a secret falls out.”
Before I can come up with something charming and plausible, I feel it.
A hand.
His hand.
Resting on my thigh.
Not aggressively. Not hidden.
Just… there.
Heavy, warm, claiming space that was mine a second ago.
My breath snags for half a heartbeat.
He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t say a word. His hand stays where he placed it, casual as breathing—like we do this all the time. Like I’m the kind of woman who knows what to do with a gesture like this.
I don’t move. Because I can’t.
Because I’m supposed to let him do this. I’m supposed to play the part.
This is what couples do, right?
Touch. Sit close. Pretend to belong to each other while people call them lovebirds.
But I’ve never done this before.
Never sat in the back of a car with someone who touched me like this—soft, confident, like he had every right.
I’ve never even dated anyone. Not really.
No candlelit dinners. No weekend escapes. No brushing hands in a grocery store aisle or forehead kisses before bed.
My parents didn’t exactly model affection, and my life never left room for it.
And now here I am, with the hand of a man I plan to destroy resting on my thigh like he owns me.
Alessio is still waiting, smiling like he’s hoping for a love story.
I sit up a little straighter and force a smile of my own. “It’s not a very glamorous story, I’m afraid.”
He waves a hand. “Please. Glamour is for the bored. I want the real thing.”
Beside me, Matteo chuckles, low and smooth—and then his thumb brushes once, slow, across the top of my thigh before settling again like nothing happened.
A shiver runs down my spine.
And for a moment, I forget what role I’m supposed to be playing.
Alessio’s smile lingers, warm and expectant.
I shift slightly in my seat, Matteo’s hand still resting on my thigh like a loaded weapon. The pressure of it is steady, but when I glance sideways, he’s watching me from the corner of his eye—waiting to see what I’ll say.
Fine.
Let’s tell a story.
I tilt my head toward his grandfather, lips curving. “Okay. You want the real story? Here it is.”
Matteo’s grip tightens slightly—just a light squeeze, a silent warning or maybe encouragement. I don’t flinch. Instead, I slide my hand down and rest it gently on top of his. Let him feel the control I’m choosing to give him. Just for now.
He shifts slightly beside me, but says nothing.
I smile, turning my attention fully back to Alessio. “We were both at a high-stakes poker game.”
That gets a spark in his eyes.
“I had a hand that I was absolutely sure no one could beat. One of those freak combinations that you dream about but never actually expect to happen. I was ready to walk away with half the table’s chips. Matteo here kept raising the pot—cool, confident, the whole smug mafia heir package—until I was completely out of chips.”
Matteo chuckles softly beside me, the sound low and amused.
“I thought for sure he was bluffing,” I continue, giving his hand a small pat. “But I couldn’t bring myself to fold. The hand was too good. So Matteo leans across the table and offers me a way to stay in.”
Alessio is fully invested now, eyes gleaming.
“He says, ‘You can finish the hand, but if I win, you marry me.’”
Alessio barks out a laugh.
“And I said, ‘If I win, I walk away a rich woman.’”
“And?” he prompts, already grinning.
“And wouldn’t you know it? The odds were one in a million—but he had one of the two hands that could beat mine. Beat me by a single card.”
I raise a brow, shaking my head. “He might as well have played the lottery.”
Alessio erupts into full laughter now, head tipping back against the seat. “Dio mio! Matteo, you scoundrel! She makes it sound like you proposed with a royal flush.”
Matteo only smirks, and I let myself enjoy the moment—Alessio’s laughter, the sheer absurdity of the tale, the warm hum of power that comes from spinning truth into gold.
Alessio is none the wiser that the story is actually true. It’s easier to keep things straight the less lies you tell.
When his laughter finally dies down, I smile sweetly and add, “Sorry the real story of how we met is so boring. So this is what I tell people instead. It’s a lot more fun than saying we met at an art exhibition.”
Alessio grins at me, a twinkle in his eye like he’s just discovered his new favorite person. “Brava. That’s how you do it. Never let the truth get in the way of a good story.”
Matteo’s thumb strokes the inside of my thigh once—just once—before going still again.
And I sit back, satisfied.
Let the games begin.