Chapter 28 The Story
Matteo
She sells the lie like she was born for it.
Not the story we agreed on. Not the quiet, respectable, art-exhibition meet-cute I told her to stick to.
No.
She went for the poker game. A twisted, glittering version of the truth that I didn’t authorize. One with sharp edges and theatrical flair, told so convincingly even my grandfather fell for it—for a second.
She even touched me.
That delicate hand of hers resting over mine like it belonged there.
And she smiled like she meant it.
I should’ve been pissed.
But all I could think was: impressive.
We pull up to the restaurant, and Rosco loops the SUV into the private side entrance. It’s grandfather’s favorite place. He’s practically vibrating with anticipation in the passenger seat.
I step out and circle the car.
Valentina waits.
She always does that—waits to be helped out, like some old-world duchess. It should annoy me. It doesn’t.
I offer my hand. She places hers in mine, light but confident. When she rises, I place my other hand gently on the small of her back, guiding her forward—fingers drifting low until they rest on the opposite swell of her hip. The curve of her ass fits perfectly beneath my palm.
Let the world see.
We walk like that into the restaurant.
We’re escorted to the private table immediately, no wait, no menus. They already know what I’ll want. And what she’ll have too.
We sit. I position her to my right, grandfather to my left.
My hand finds its way back to her thigh without thought.
Possession. Comfort. Both.
She doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t move.
She just settles into it like she was born to be touched like this.
Alessio launches into conversation with her immediately. Something about the wine selection here being better before the new owners took over. She listens. Engages. Even teases him a little. I watch him soften toward her like butter meeting flame.
She’s good.
Better than I expected.
I don’t even look at the waiter when he approaches.
“She’ll have the crab benedict with the asparagus and truffle glaze,” I say smoothly. “And black coffee, splash of cream.”
She doesn’t correct me.
The waiter bows slightly and leaves.
I glance over at her profile—watching the way she leans in slightly when my grandfather speaks, the light in her eyes, the way she makes people feel like they matter.
I can’t decide if it’s genuine.
Or a goddamn weapon.
And I keep thinking about what she did in the car.
Telling that story.
The real one—stripped down and weaponized, with just enough drama to distract from the fact that it was actually true.
She looked me dead in the eye as she told it.
Squeezed my hand.
Smiled.
Laughed.
Like we were in on something together.
The balls on her.
I watch her now as she sips her coffee and leans in to ask grandfather about his vineyard. She’s radiant. Polished. Fucking magnetic.
And I can’t shake the feeling that for the first time in a very long time…
I don’t know who’s playing who.
She laughs at something Alessio says. Not too loud, not too soft—just the kind of laugh that makes people lean closer, makes them want more.
Then she turns her head.
And looks at me.
Soft.
Too soft.
If I weren’t in on it, I’d believe her. Every gesture. Every glance. Every smile curved just for me.
The girl could kill a man with a look like that.
And maybe that’s the point.
She reaches up without hesitation, thumb grazing the corner of my mouth. A dab of sauce, maybe. Or maybe nothing at all. Maybe she just wanted to touch me. Or make it look like she wanted to touch me.
“Messy,” she murmurs, dabbing the corner of my lip like it’s something she’s done a hundred times.
Like she has the right.
My jaw ticks. Not from irritation.
From the burn it leaves behind.
I catch her hand before it drops. Keep it in mine.
And slowly, I lift it to my mouth.
Her skin smells like faint perfume and powder. Something soft. Something dangerous.
I kiss her knuckles, one by one. Let it linger just long enough for my grandfather to see.
My other arm drapes casually along the back of her chair, fingers brushing her shoulder.
I glance to the side—and Alessio is smiling.
Satisfied.
She leans slightly into my touch, the picture of contentment.
But I know better.
This girl is playing the game as instructed. Every move is calculated, every smile rehearsed, every reaction sculpted to perfection.
It’s a performance.
But it’s a damn good one.
Too good.
And that’s what makes it dangerous. A man could get used to this, could fall for this.
We returned just after one.
Rosco took Grandfather’s bags without being asked, murmuring something about getting him settled. I followed close behind as Valentina stepped out of the SUV, smiling like she hadn’t just hijacked our story in front of a mafia legend.
“I’ll check on you in a bit, Grandfather,” I said, already trailing her. “Just going to walk Valentina to her room.”
She didn’t look back.
Not until she reached the door.
And even then, the look she gave me wasn’t gratitude. It was annoyance.
She stepped inside without inviting me. I followed anyway.
She whirled, arms folded, a sharp little tilt to her head. “What?”
My brow rose.
“I played the good little puppet,” she added with a shrug. “Didn’t I?”
I closed the door behind me. “You’re lucky that little story of yours didn’t backfire.”
“Oh, please.” She rolled her eyes and wandered toward her vanity, unpinning a single bobby pin. “Relax, pappy is putty in my hands.”
I stepped closer, voice dropping low. “That ‘putty’ built an empire that makes the IRS blink. You think he won’t see through a few flirty smiles and a fake poker tale?”
She turned, smirking, eyes flicking to mine with dangerous ease. “I think he likes me.”
I stepped in even closer, voice dark. “I think you’re playing with fire.”
She leaned up slightly on her toes, so close I could smell her shampoo, feel the soft curve of her mouth twitching into a grin. “So are you.”
And just like that—she stepped back, kicked off her heels, and turned away.
Dismissed.
For now.
I clenched my jaw, studied the curve of her back as she slipped into the bathroom, and left the door open just enough for steam and temptation to roll out.
I wasn’t sure who the real puppet was anymore.
But I’d be damned if I didn’t keep the strings close.