Chapter 16: Counterplay
The Mayfair café was a gilded cage. Matteo had chosen it precisely for its visibility, its tiny tables spilling onto the pavement behind a velvet rope. He held the door open for you, a gesture so normal it felt like a pantomime. Every head turned. A whisper cut through the clatter of china, sharp as a knife. “Is that… Rossi?”
He guided you to a table in the center of the terrace, his hand a firm brand on the small of your back. The air was chill, but the heat of attention was immediate, a physical pressure. You sat. The marble tabletop was slick with condensation from your water glass.
“Two espressos, per favore,” Matteo said to the waiter, his Italian accent layering the request with a casual warmth. He didn’t look at the menu. He looked at you, reached across the table, and took your hand. His fingers laced with yours, his thumb tracing slow circles on your knuckle. It was a lover’s gesture. It felt like a command.
A camera flash went off from the sidewalk. Then another. A low, gathering buzz.
“They’re here,” you said, your voice barely a breath.
“They were already here,” he corrected gently, his eyes never leaving yours. “Now, they are just taking better pictures.” He leaned in slightly, his cologne—bergamot and something darker—cutting through the smell of roasted coffee and sweet pastries. “Smile a little. You look like you are waiting for a dentist.”
A nervous laugh escaped you. “This is worse than a dentist.”
“Eh, the drill is quieter,” he conceded, a flash of real amusement in his eyes. He lifted your hand and pressed a light kiss to your fingers. Another volley of flashes. “See? Now they have their shot. The romantic breakfast. Much better than that… gloomy rooftop picture.”
But his performance was too perfect. The realization seeped in, cold and clarifying. This wasn’t just a strategic counter-move. This was a statement. The blackmailer had tried to hide a piece of him, so he was putting all of it—including you—on display. You weren’t just a partner in the bluff. You were the central piece in his retaliation. The trophy, paraded.
“Matteo,” you started.
“Do you want the cornetto?” he interrupted, his tone light. “They are good here. Not like home, but good.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You should eat. It will be a long day.” He said it with finality, then nodded to a figure striding through the café interior. “Ah. Reinforcements.”
Izzy Lombardi looked like a storm contained in a tailored blazer. Her dark hair was in a severe knot, her eyes scanning the terrace with the tactical precision of a field general. She ignored the cameras, slipping past the rope with a murmured word to the host. She pulled out the third chair and sat, placing her phone face-down on the table.
“Matteo,” she said, her voice tight. “You could have called.”
“I did. You did not answer.”
“I was in a meeting. About your endorsement.” Her gaze flicked to you, to your joined hands. Her smile was professional and utterly without warmth. “Hello. I’m Izzy, Matteo’s publicist. We haven’t officially met.”
“We’re having coffee,” Matteo said, as if that explained everything. “It is a beautiful morning.”
“It’s a circus,” Izzy hissed, leaning in. “The Mail already has a tip. They’re asking for comment. What is the narrative here, Matteo? What am I supposed to sell? A whirlwind romance? Because that roof photo, the one someone just happened to send to my inbox an hour ago, tells a different story.”
So she’d seen it. Your cheeks burned.
“The narrative,” Matteo said, letting go of your hand to gesture with a casual openness, “is that I am a man who meets someone interesting. We have a private moment. Some parassita tries to turn it into something ugly. And I, refusing to be extorted, am instead introducing her to the world. Simple. Honest.” He took a slow sip of the espresso that had just arrived, black and bitter. “We are taking the power back.”
“You’re pouring gasoline on a fire and calling it a controlled burn,” Izzy shot back. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Do you have any idea what this will do to the family brand? The ‘mysterious Matteo’ angle works because it’s clean. This is… messy.”
“Life is messy, cara.”
A new voice, rich with laughter, cut through. “And Rossi is the messiest of all!”
Marco Bianchi dropped into the chair beside Izzy, flashing a brilliant, photogenic smile at the cameras. He clapped Matteo on the shoulder. “I hear you started a party without me!” He winked at you. “You must be the reason he has been ignoring my calls. I approve.”
Izzy looked skyward. “Great. The whole team’s here.”
“What? I was in the neighbourhood!” Marco said, stealing a piece of biscotti from Matteo’s plate. “When I saw the crowd, I thought, only one man causes this. So, is this real?” He gestured between you and Matteo, his curiosity genuine.
Matteo’s answer was to look at you, a question in his eyes. It was the first unscripted moment since you’d sat down. The noise of the café, the flashes, Izzy’s anxiety, Marco’s levity—it all faded to a muffled roar. He was asking you, silently, to choose a side in front of everyone.
You placed your hand back in his. “It’s real enough.”
His grip tightened, almost imperceptibly.
“Well then!” Marco boomed, raising his coffee cup. “Salute! To real things!”
The cameras ate it up. The four of you, locked in a frozen tableau of camaraderie and tension. Izzy’s phone buzzed incessantly. She finally looked at it, her face paling. She turned the screen to Matteo. A gossip blog homepage. There you were, at the table, hand in hand. The headline read: “ROSSI’S ROMAN (HIDEOUT?) CUT SHORT BY BLACKMAIL SCANDAL: STAR FIGHTS BACK WITH PUBLIC DEBUT.”
“They already have the blackmail angle,” Izzy said, her voice hollow. “It’s out.”
Matteo’s jaw tightened. For the first time, you saw a crack in the armor. Not fear, but a cold, furious calculation. “They connected it fast.”
“Someone wanted them to,” you murmured.
His eyes met yours. The same thought crystallized between you. The blackmailer hadn’t waited for the money. They’d moved straight to applying public pressure, trying to force a costly, messy drama—exactly what Izzy feared.
Marco whistled low. “So it is a war. Good. I hate being bored.” He leaned back, grinning at the paparazzi line. “You want a show? We’ll give you a show.”
Matteo stood up abruptly, pulling you with him. He tossed some bills on the table. “We’re leaving.”
“Where?” Izzy demanded, standing as well.
“Anywhere that isn’t here.” He nodded to Marco. “You distract them.”
“My specialty,” Marco said, already turning to face the cameras with a wave, drawing their focus.
Matteo led you quickly through the interior of the café, past the kitchens, and out a service entrance into a quiet mews. The sudden silence was deafening. A black SUV was idling there, as if pre-arranged.
He opened the door for you. Before you got in, he stopped you, his hands on your shoulders. The confident mask was gone. In its place was a raw, focused intensity.
“It is messier than I planned,” he admitted, the words rough. “They are not just threatening. They are trying to humiliate. To separate us before we even start.” His gaze searched your face. “The question is the same. Are you still with me?”
Down the alley, you could hear Marco’s laughing voice and the shouting of photographers. The storm was breaking. You were already in the centre of it.
You thought of the ripped pieces of the photo in the wine bottle. A private moment, destroyed. He was offering to build something else in its place, out in the open, on a battlefield.
You got into the car. He followed, and as the door shut, sealing you in quiet gloom, you finally answered.
“Just tell me what happens next.”
The SUV pulled away from the curb, the world outside blurring into streaks of grey stone and green park. The silence inside was a thick, palpable thing. Matteo leaned forward, tapping the partition. The driver nodded, and the sound of the city vanished behind rising glass.
He sank back into the cream-colored leather, running a hand through his hair. For a moment, he just stared at the roof liner, the confident facade from the café completely dissolved. You could see the gears turning, fast and sharp.
“Next, we go to the training ground,” he said, his voice flat. “I have a session. Marco will already be there, making jokes. The cameras will be at the gates. It will look normal. It will look like this…” he gestured between you, “…does not shake me.”
“And does it?” you asked.
He turned his head, his eyes dark and unreadable. “The blackmail? No. That is business. Annoying, but business.” He shifted, facing you fully. The space between the seats felt suddenly vast and infinitesimal. “Their timing, though. Releasing the story to the blogs the moment we sat down? That was personal. They wanted to see if you would run from the table.”
The car took a corner smoothly. You remembered the feeling of his hand over yours, the protective, possessive weight of it. “I didn’t.”
“No.” A single syllable, laden with something more than approval. “You did not.”
You watched the imposing buildings give way to tree-lined streets. The normalcy of people walking their dogs was a surreal contrast to the vortex you were in. You thought of the ripped pieces of the photograph, the way he’d casually destroyed the evidence as if it meant nothing. But it had meant something. It had meant everything.
“That photo,” you started, unsure how to form the question.
“Was a moment,” he finished. He looked out his window. “A private one. It was not for them. It was not for branding. It was not for a story in a magazine.” His jaw worked. “It was mine. Ours. And they tried to make it dirty. To use it as a lever.” He turned back, and his gaze was scorching now. “I do not respond to levers. I break them.”
The car slowed, nearing the high fences of the training facility. You could already see the cluster of lenses at the main entrance, a swarm of distant, hungry insects.
The driver spoke softly. “Player entrance, signore?”
“Yes. Grazie.”
The vehicle glided around a corner, toward a more discreet gate. The quiet returned, but it was a ticking quiet now, filled with the unspoken. This was the calm before another performance. You thought of Izzy’s pale, furious face. You thought of the headline. You thought of his thumb tracing circles on your knuckle, a gesture that felt both utterly genuine and strategically perfect.
The SUV stopped. He didn’t move to get out. The question that had been burning in the café, through the whole dizzying escape, finally broke free.
“Can you tell me what we are?” you asked. The words were quiet, almost lost in the purr of the engine.
Matteo went very still. He studied you, his expression softening around the edges, the strategist momentarily receding. He reached over, his fingers gently brushing a strand of hair from your cheek, tucking it behind your ear. The touch was unbearably tender.
“We are a problem for everyone else,” he said, his voice a low rasp. “And we are the only thing that makes sense to me.”
He said it without fanfare, without poetic flourish. It was a statement of pure, frustrating fact. It was the most honest thing he’d said all day.
You didn’t think. You closed the space between you, your hand coming up to cradle the line of his jaw, and you kissed him. It wasn’t like the rooftop, all frantic heat and stolen breath. This was slower, deeper, a sealing of a pact. His surprise lasted only a second before he responded, his arms pulling you closer across the console, his mouth warm and sure against yours.
It was an answer. It was a choice.
A sharp rap on the window made you jerk apart. Marco’s grinning face, upside down, was peering in. He mimed wiping a tear from his eye.