Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 135364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
I grip my phone tighter, my heart racing.
"How?"
He exhales slowly. "It’s like I said. I know people. A few journalists who were already suspicious about his bylines, a friend who works in the legal department of a rival network - and, of course, Richard."
"You called Richard?"
"Not directly," Matteo says. "But I might’ve given some helpful information to someone who did." His voice softens. "I told you, Daphne. I wasn’t going to let him get away with it. Not after what he did to you."
Emotion surges in my chest.
It’s not just the gesture, it’s how quickly he’s made this all happen.
It’s almost insane.
For the past two months, I’ve been dealing with Mark Chapman’s bullshit; and in under forty-eight hours, Matteo Rossi has made it all go away as though it’s nothing at all.
"I don't know what to say," I admit.
"You don't have to say anything," Matteo replies. "You just have to be happy, now. He's gone. He can't upset you anymore."
I cover my mouth with my hand, blinking back tears I didn't expect.
Gone.
Mark is gone.
"Thank you," I whisper. "I’m so - I mean it, Matteo. Thank you."
There’s a pause on the line.
Then his voice comes through, warm and reassuring.
"Always."
We end the call, and I hover there for several more minutes, the weight of everything sinking in as I stare blankly out of the window and out onto the bustling streets below.
The fear, the humiliation, the constant dread of what Mark might say or do next - it's all over.
The dark cloud that's hovered over my time here in Rome has finally lifted.
I glance toward his empty office one last time and inhale deeply.
I'm still here. He isn't.
And I’ve never felt more victorious.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Daphne
The train ride to Matteo’s is smooth and uneventful, but I spend the entire journey with nervous energy thrumming through my veins.
I try to distract myself by scrolling through my emails and skimming through my half-finished articles, but nothing sticks.
My mind instead is stuck on one simple fact: I’m spending the weekend at Matteo Rossi’s house.
His mansion, really. Because calling it a house feels like calling the Colosseum a building.
The closer the train pulls towards the small station on the outskirts of the city, the more surreal it all becomes.
The moment I step out of the platform and onto the streets with my weekend bag slung over my shoulder, I see him. He’s leaning casually against a black Maserati, sunglasses perched on his nose and his arms crossed over his broad chest.
"Ciao, amore," he calls as I approach.
"Hey yourself," I reply, suddenly hyper-aware of the warmth in my cheeks.
He pushes off the car and takes my bag before I can protest, tossing it easily into the boot. Then, without warning, he wraps me in his arms and kisses me, right there on the street where anyone could see us.
The kiss is deep and unapologetic as his tongue sweeps into my mouth, and the low growl he makes when I melt into him turns my legs to liquid.
When he finally pulls back, I'm breathless.
"I thought you said you were just picking me up," I murmur.
"I am,” he grins, brushing a thumb along my lower lip. "But I've been thinking about doing that for days."
He opens and closes the car door for me before walking around the vehicle himself. I smile as I sit myself down, the bare skin of my thighs brushing against the plush leather as my sundress rises up slightly.
I cross my legs and revel in the familiar weight of his hand coming to rest on my thigh as he starts the engine and begins to drive us away from the station.
The drive to Matteo's house is short, winding through tree-lined roads that grow increasingly more secluded as we leave the outskirts of Rome behind.
His estate is nestled on a hill, behind tall iron gates that slide open at the press of a button.
Last time we arrived here, it was much later into the evening; but in the light of the late afternoon, I can’t help but think of how the driveway alone could double as a jogging track. It stretches up towards the sleek, modern villa surrounded by perfectly manicured gardens, and he parks beside the entrance and steps out, coming around to open my door before I can do it myself.
"I still can’t get over the fact that you actually live here," I tell him, taking in the wide stone terrace and the panoramic view of the city in the distance.
"Yeah." He glances at the house. "A bit much, eh?"
"A bit?" I huff a laugh. "Matteo, this place is obscene."
"Obscene? Cara mia, I'll have you know it's tastefully extravagant." He smirks and takes my hand. "Come on. Let’s put your things away before we go to dinner."
*
Dinner turns out to be at a small, candlelit restaurant a short drive down the hill from his home. I tell him that we can walk, but he insists on calling a taxi for us to save my feet in my heels.