Chapter 4: Your phone buzzes with an unknown number—a single photo of you sleeping in Matteo's bed, followed by a text: 'Izzy Lombardi. We need to talk. Now.' The attached address leads to a private café where journalists lurk like sharks.
You were two blocks from the river when your stomach growled, a sharp and hollow sound in the quiet street. The smell of baking bread and sugar was unmistakable, cutting through the damp-stone smell of the city. A tiny pasticceria, its windows steamy and warm, glowed like a beacon on the corner. You needed coffee. You needed something solid to ground you, to prove you were a person who had breakfasts and normal mornings, not just secrets and stolen shirts.
You pushed the door open, a little bell jingling overhead. The warmth enveloped you, rich with the scent of butter and almonds. An older woman behind the counter gave you a once-over—your dress, your likely smudged makeup, the man’s shirt wadded in your hand—and her eyes softened. She didn’t ask. You pointed to a cornetto dusted with powdered sugar and held up one finger. “E un caffè, per favore.”
“Subito,” she said.
You took the paper-wrapped pastry and the tiny, scalding espresso to a narrow ledge by the window. You took a bite, flaky pastry shattering, and the simple, sweet normalcy of it almost made your eyes sting. You were here. You had left. You were fine.
The bell on the door jingled again, a burst of cooler air hitting your back. You didn’t turn.
“Beh, guarda chi si rivede,” a man’s voice said, loud and familiar, cutting through the gentle pastry-shop hum.
Your spine went rigid. You knew that voice. The club. The laughter. Marco.
Before you could even think to hide, a figure slid into the space next to you at the ledge, his shoulder brushing yours. He was already leaning in, his familiar, handsome face split by a grin. He wore a tracksuit, his hair still damp from a shower. He smelled of expensive soap and, faintly, of grass—the pitch.
“The mystery woman,” Marco Bianchi said, his eyes dropping to the shirt in your hand. His grin widened. “Or should I say, the shirt-napper.”
You froze, the cornetto halfway to your mouth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t.” He chuckled, pulling out his phone. His thumbs moved fast over the screen. “Matteo’s been tearing the city apart for you. Well, as much as one can tear apart a city from a training pitch. More like he’s been silently fuming and checking his phone every thirty seconds. It’s been hilarious to watch, actually.”
Your stomach, full of buttery pastry, turned to lead. “He shouldn’t be.”
“Shouldn’t be what? Looking? Trust me, he looked. Pretty intensely, from what I saw in that photo.” He tilted his head, appraising you in the morning light. “You’re paler in person. Less… theatrical.”
“Thanks,” you said flatly, turning back to your coffee. You willed your hand not to shake.
Marco ignored your tone. He held up his phone. On the screen was a text thread. The top contact name was simply Fratello — Brother. The latest message, sent ten minutes ago, read: Found your phantom. Pasticceria al Ponte. Looks like she’s enjoying breakfast. What’s the bounty?
You hadn’t even seen him text.
“What are you doing?” you asked, your voice low.
“Collecting,” he said, his tone light but his eyes shrewd. “Matteo doesn’t lose things. He especially doesn’t lose things that wander off with his favorite shirt. It’s creating a narrative he doesn’t like.”
“I’m not a thing.”
“Aren’t you?” He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “You’re the unidentified variable in a very carefully managed equation. The board is pissed. Izzy is having kittens. And Matteo…” He paused, scrolling up on the phone. He showed you another message from Matteo, sent an hour earlier: If you see her, you don’t.
You stared at the stark words. You don’t. As in, you don’t see her? Or you don’t… touch? You don’t interfere?
“He followed that with about five missed calls to me, which, rude, I was sleeping,” Marco continued, slipping the phone back into his pocket. “So. Here we are.”
The woman behind the counter called out, “Marco! Il solito?”
“Sì, grazie bella!” he called back, his public smile flawless. When he looked back at you, the smile remained, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to finish your very sad, lonely breakfast. Then you’re going to come with me.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“You’d rather wait here for him? Because he will come.
He said it with a finality that made your skin prickle.
The bell above the door chimed again. Marco glanced toward it, expecting Matteo, his posture shifting into something more performative. It was just an old man collecting his newspaper. The distraction lasted only a second, but it was enough. A reckless, clear-headed anger surged up, burning away the last of the morning’s fugue.
You moved before you thought.
Your hand shot out, not toward him, but into the pocket of his tracksuit jacket where he’d just tucked his phone. Your fingers closed around the cold, hard edge. He flinched back, startled, but you already had it, stepping out of his immediate reach.
“Hey, what the—”
You unlocked it with a swipe; he didn’t have a passcode. Idiot. Your thumb found the camera icon. You turned it on yourself.
The screen showed your face, pale under the pastry shop’s fluorescent light, dark circles under your eyes, hair a mess. The collar of his shirt—Matteo’s shirt—was just visible at the bottom of the frame. You forced a smile, thin and deliberate. It wasn’t friendly. It was a statement.
You tapped the shutter. The click was absurdly loud.
You navigated back to his messages, to the thread with Matteo. You attached the photo. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. What did you even say? ‘Found your phantom’ was already there, from him. You deleted Marco’s last text. You typed three words.
I’m keeping this.
You hit send. You dropped the phone onto the counter next to his untouched espresso. It clattered against the saucer.
“Tell him he doesn’t own the narrative,” you said, your voice quieter than you intended.
Marco stared at you, his mouth slightly open. He wasn’t grinning anymore. He looked shocked, then genuinely amused, then something darker—impressed, and maybe a little pissed.
You didn’t wait for his reply. You turned, pushed through the door, and the cold Roman air slammed into you like a wall. You didn’t look back.
You walked fast, his shirt balled in your fist, your heels clicking a frantic rhythm on the wet cobblestones. A taxi, you needed a taxi. Your head was a buzz of static, the adrenaline sharp and metallic in your mouth. You turned onto a larger street, traffic beginning to thicken.
You saw the yellow sign, the ‘libero’ light on. You thrust your arm out, a sharp, commanding gesture. The Fiat swerved, curbing sharply beside you.
You yanked the door open and fell into the cracked leather seat. The smell of old smoke and pine air freshener was overwhelming.
“Via dei Condotti, per favore,” you said, giving the street near your apartment, not the number.
The driver grunted, pulling back into the stream of traffic. You didn’t look out the window. You stared straight ahead, watching the city blur past, your own reflection ghostly in the smudged glass. Your phone buzzed in your purse. Once. Twice. You ignored it.
The taxi pulled up ten doors down from your building. You shoved euros at the driver, not waiting for change.
You half-ran to your door, fumbling for your keys. The familiar scrolled iron of the entryway gate was cold under your fingers. You got it open, rushed through the inner courtyard, and took the stairs two at a time to your second-floor apartment.
Your key found the lock. You turned it, shoved the door open, and stepped into the quiet, dim space.
You closed the door behind you and leaned against it, the wood solid and real against your back. The only sound was the hum of your refrigerator. Sunlight filtered through your own blinds, painting stripes on your own floor. You were home.
You looked down at your hand. You were still clutching Matteo’s shirt, the fabric now deeply wrinkled from your grip. You brought it to your face again, closing your eyes. It still smelled like him, like the night, like a choice you’d already walked away from.
Your phone buzzed again in your bag, persistent. You let it ring.