Chapter 5 COLLISION IN MILAN

The motorcade left the De Luca estate just after sunrise, tires whispering over the gravel as the world was still shaking the sleep from its eyes. Lucia sat beside Matteo in the back of the lead car, her palms pressed lightly against her knees to keep from wringing them. The morning mist still clung to the vineyards; behind them, Villa De Luca receded like a memory she wasn't sure she'd earned.

Matteo was scrolling through financial updates on a tablet, jaw tight, eyes unblinking. He hadn't spoken since they stepped into the car.

"Is it always like this?" Lucia finally asked.

He didn't look up. "Like what?"

"The silence. The schedule. Moving from one obligation to another before you've even felt the last one."

"That's business," he said. "Feelings slow you down."

She turned to the window. "Then it's a miracle you made it to the altar."

He glanced at her then-quick, sharp, almost amused. "We were on time, weren't we?"

"Depends what clock you're using," she murmured.

Arrival

Milan did not greet. It arrived-all at once. Steel, glass, relentless motion. Their convoy slid into the city and was immediately consumed by traffic lights, motorbikes, and angled architecture that seemed to lean forward to inspect its newest import.

The De Luca International headquarters towered over Piazza delle Arti-a skyscraper of mirrored panels that turned the morning sky into fractured silver. As their car pulled into the underground entrance, a wall of cameras flashed. Reporters shouted questions; the words rushed marriage, mystery bride, and Carla Rossini sliced through the air like thrown knives.

Lucia stiffened. Matteo placed a hand at the small of her back-firm, directive. "Look forward. Walk. Smile when I stop. Don't answer anything unless I cue you."

"Do people actually live like this?" she whispered.

"People like me do."

"And now," she said, forcing a smile as they stepped out into the strobe storm, "so do I."

They paused beneath a branded backdrop in the lobby atrium where approved press had been corralled. Matteo did the talking-growth numbers, investment strategies, the foundation gala that evening. A reporter shouted, "Signora De Luca, how did you and Matteo meet?" The question wasn't on the pre-brief.

Lucia smiled. "Through family," she said simply. "And fate."

Matteo's eyes flicked to her. Approval? Maybe. Or warning. Hard to tell.

The Boardroom Test

The De Luca boardroom was a theater dressed as a conference space-forty-foot windows, a marble table, screens embedded in the walls. Eleven board members sat waiting, some with expressions polite enough to pass for welcome, some not bothering.

Matteo introduced Lucia formally. Two members-Lorenzo Carrini and Paolo Vitale-stood and shook her hand. Others nodded. One woman, elegant in icy blue, looked her up and down with surgical precision.

"Congratulations," she said in English, the tone anything but warm. "I confess, we were expecting someone from... the circles." Her smile thinned. "But authenticity is a brand now, isn't it?"

Lucia felt heat rise at the back of her neck. Matteo's expression didn't change, but the air around him cooled.

"Authenticity," Lucia said, taking her seat beside him, "isn't a brand where I'm from. It's how people stay alive."

The woman blinked. Lorenzo choked on a laugh and covered it with a cough.

The meeting began-merger discussions, shipping delays, harvest forecasts for the winery arm, currency exposure in North Africa. Lucia didn't understand all of it, but she watched Matteo work. He negotiated without raising his voice, redirected criticism like water, cut through presentations that meandered. Power radiated from him-but not performed. Earned. For the first time, she saw past the ice.

Midway through, Vice Chair Vitale leaned forward. "Optics matter. Investors like stability. Marriage helps. Provided it's... credible."

The room shifted. Eyes slid toward Lucia.

Matteo's jaw tightened. "My marriage is not a strategy."

Vitale spread his hands. "Of course. But the market won't care why it happened-only that it happened fast. And days after certain... personal associations ended."

Carla. Always Carla.

Lucia spoke before she thought. "If the market values timing over character, perhaps we should educate it."

A beat. Then Matteo said, "We'll issue an interview profile introducing Lucia-background, family, values tied to our philanthropic initiatives. She'll speak with our communications director after lunch." He didn't look at her, but he'd just pulled her into the heart of his image machine.

Lucia sat straighter. So this is how it begins.

Dressing for War

By late afternoon, they were installed at the Grand Aurora Milano-a hotel whose lobby smelled of polished citrus and wealth. Their reservation: the Duomo Terrace Residence Suite, a sprawling series of rooms with cathedral views... except a glitch had surfaced.

"Terribly sorry," the concierge said, hands tight, smile tighter. "Due to a burst pipe above the smaller adjoining suite, we've had to consolidate your party. We've moved both reservations into the main residence. One master bedroom, one study convertible to sleeping quarters"-she cleared her throat-"but security recommends you remain together tonight due to the crowd activity downstairs."

Lucia glanced at Matteo. "Crowd activity?"

He checked his phone. "Paparazzi cluster. Carla just arrived in Milan. She's attending the gala too."

Of course she was.

Security weighed in: split rooms meant more exposure when moving between them; staying in the same secure suite was cleaner. For optics-and safety-they should share.

Lucia lifted a brow. "Looks like 'pretend' just got more immersive."

Matteo signed the forms. "We adapt."

Fitting Fire

An in-suite fitting had been arranged. Garment racks filled the sitting room; stylists buzzed around like bees in a sugar rush. Lucia was poured into a midnight silk gown with a low back and structured bodice that made her feel like a blade. Matteo, in a tuxedo jacket waiting on tailoring pins, stepped behind her as the seamstress adjusted the fall of the fabric.

"Turn," Chiara instructed.

Lucia turned toward the mirror. Matteo's reflection loomed behind hers-broad shoulders, crisp lines, a man used to command. He reached up, almost absentmindedly, and swept her hair over one shoulder so the seamstress could access the zipper line. His fingers grazed the back of her neck.

Heat shot straight down her spine.

His eyes met hers in the mirror. Neither moved.

"Perfect," Chiara declared brightly, oblivious to the current sparking between her clients. "You will own the room."

Lucia wasn't sure whether that thrilled her or terrified her.

Flashpoint at the Gala

The De Luca Foundation's Milan gala was held in a converted conservatory dripping in glass and light. Orchids hung from beams. Champagne flowed. Socialites in couture greeted each other with air kisses that never met skin.

Lucia entered on Matteo's arm. Heads turned. A wave of whispered commentary rippled through the room like wind through tall grass.

"That's her? The farm girl?"

"She's stunning."

"Strategic move. Stabilizes the brand."

"Wait until Carla sees-oh, there she is."

Lucia followed the shift in attention. Carla Rossini, lethal in white satin, approached with the smile of a woman walking toward prey she intended to wound.

"Matteo," Carla said, kissing the air near his cheek. "Congratulations. Again." She pivoted to Lucia. "I hope the city isn't... overwhelming."

Lucia held her gaze. "It's breathtaking. Thank you for attending-we appreciate your support of the foundation."

Carla's lashes swept down, concealing ice. "Always happy to support Matteo. In any capacity."

Matteo cut in. "Lucia, the director of the children's oncology wing is waiting to meet you." He didn't wait for Carla's response. He guided Lucia away, hand at her back. Possessive? Protective? Performance? She couldn't tell.

But her pulse didn't care. It raced anyway.

Storm

The gala was still underway when security leaned in to whisper to Matteo. He frowned, then excused them. Outside, protesters had gathered-union pressure over a shipping subsidiary dispute. Police presence grew. Paparazzi surged. The situation escalated faster than anticipated; the safest route back to the hotel required staging and delay.

By the time they reached the Grand Aurora, the crowd had swelled, forcing security to move them through a service entrance and up a freight elevator.

In the suite, the mood shifted. Sirens in the distance. Phone alerts buzzing. Flights threatened by strikes. Streets partially blocked.

"Stay inside," security advised. "We'll reevaluate in the morning."

"One night," Matteo said. "We'll make do."

Lucia glanced at the single master bed. Then at the pullout sofa that hadn't arrived yet.

She arched a brow. "Still want distance?"

He loosened his tie. "I've slept in worse conditions."

"So have I," she said. "But not in evening wear."

He pulled off his jacket and draped it over a chair. For the first time since she'd met him, Matteo looked... tired.

Forced Proximity

They ordered room service-pasta eaten in silence at the edge of the bed while news reports replayed footage of the gala and the protests. Lucia toed off her heels and curled her legs beneath her, grateful for the reprieve. Matteo undid his cufflinks and rolled up his sleeves.

"You handled them," he said finally, not looking at her. "The board. The press. Carla."

"I grew up mediating goat disputes," she said dryly. "Rich people aren't that different."

He laughed-actually laughed-and it transformed him. Younger. Human.

"Your brother," he said after a pause. "Enzo. The neurology consult is scheduled. Full workup in Milan next week. I sent transport arrangements to your grandmother."

Lucia stared. "You already did it?"

"I told you I would."

The pressure in her chest cracked. Gratitude flooded in, hot and disorienting. "Thank you."

His eyes met hers, unguarded for a breath. "You don't owe me that."

"I do," she said. "You don't have to care. But you did something that matters."

He shifted closer on the mattress. "Don't mistake logistics for care."

"Don't hide care behind logistics," she countered.

Silence.

The air thickened. They were inches apart, the glow from the city casting silver across his cheekbones. His hand lifted-hesitated-then brushed a stray curl from her forehead.

Her pulse thundered.

"Matteo-"

A knock shattered the moment. Security. Urgent.

Matteo stood, mask dropping into place. "Yes?"

"Sir," the guard said through the door. "Media push notification just hit-Carla Rossini gave an off-record comment implying the marriage is a 'family-arranged asset play.' It's spreading."

Of course she had.

Matteo swore under his breath. Lucia rose. "Then we get ahead of it."

He looked at her. "How?"

"We give them a better picture." She crossed to the balcony doors and threw them open. The Duomo glowed beyond. "Married couple, city lights, unified front. Give them a shot they can't resist-and one that makes Carla look petty."

He hesitated. Then joined her.

Outside, cameras below spotted movement; flashes erupted like distant lightning. Matteo slipped an arm around Lucia's waist and drew her in. For the press, for the market-maybe for themselves. She rested a hand on his chest. He lowered his forehead to hers.

"Smile," he murmured.

She did. But what shone in her eyes wasn't only performance.

For one suspended instant, with Milan blazing below and scandal licking at their heels, Lucia felt the tectonic plates between obligation and something dangerously like attraction begin to shift.

The Message

Later-long after the balcony show, after security briefings, after she changed out of the gown and he stripped down to a white undershirt-Lucia found another envelope slipped under the inner suite door.

Inside: a single line, clipped from a magazine headline and taped to card stock.

You don't know what he did to Carla.

No signature.

Lucia looked up. Matteo was standing in the doorway to the master bedroom, watching her read it. His expression was unreadable-except for the shadow that passed through his eyes.

"Go ahead," he said quietly. "Ask."

She folded the note. "Tomorrow."

Because tonight, the distance between them had already shifted. And whatever truth waited under that history-she wanted to face it when neither of them was hiding behind ceremony, scandal, or silk.