Her phone is raised like a weapon, aimed directly at me. We are on a villa's grand balcony, overlooking the sprawling landscape of Rome.
"Not like you're about to kill someone, Rafe. Although, you totally could, I'm sure. No, act like you own the view. Like this entire city is just your backyard."
"I do own it," I mutter irritably. It's not a boast, simply a fact. She should respect this, respect me.
She snorts, a small, dismissive sound that grates on my nerves. She finds amusement in my irritation.
"Then try looking less annoyed about it or your face is going to break the internet for being too angry. We're going for 'effortlessly cool Italian billionaire boyfriend,' not 'man who just realized he lost millions in the stock market.'"
I don't respond. I simply adjust my posture, forcing my features into a mask of casual indifference. My hand lingers a second too long on her waist. Not for the camera. For me.
She snaps the shot, a quick click, and my world shifts again, pulled further into the swirling vortex of her digital empire.
She peeks at her camera. "Wow, the Italian light is fabulous. Nice! I think we got it. I'm off to edit."
Ten minutes later, I'm back in my suite, reviewing reports, when the notification hits my private tablet. The photo's already online. Filtered and posted. She works with a terrifying efficiency, a speed that rivals my own operatives. It's both impressive and infuriating.
The caption appears beneath the image, words that mean little to me, yet dictate so much:
@NikkiRicci: POV: You finally let someone make your morning coffee. #RomanHoliday #HeKnowsMyOrder
The comments are instant and insane. A digital avalanche of attention that threatens to bury us both.
"IS THIS WHO I THINK IT IS??"
"Sir sleeve is back!"
"Why is she soft-launching a mafia boss and how do I get one?"
"Screaming. Crying. Vomiting. I just collapsed in the street."
I don't understand half the slang, the emojis. The language of her online fans is foreign, a jumble of exaggerated feelings and nonsensical phrases.
But I understand what it means: She's winning.
And I'm letting her.
I'm enabling this, allowing my life, my reputation, to be consumed by her ridiculous spectacle.
Another post appears, barely an hour later. Just shadows on a cobblestone alley, two figures holding hands, undeniably ours. A simple image, yet profoundly effective.
"Some cities just feel like a reset button." #wheninrome
I slam the tablet down on the glass-top table in the center of the suite. The sharp crack echoes in the space. "She's enjoying this," I say, my anger rising fast.
Enzo doesn't look up from the financial reports he's reviewing with an unwavering focus. "She's influencing. It's what she does. You gave her back the platform and she's delivering."
“It was supposed to be simple. Quiet. A slow bleed of attention, not a full-blown media circus.”
"You wanted a cover," Enzo replies while casually folding a corner of a document. "She's giving you one. A very effective one. Engagement is up. The tags are shifting. #MafiaBae has been eclipsed by #SoftLaunchRome and #AmalfiAfterDark. The noise is drowning out the original video. This is precisely what you wanted. This was your idea, remember?"
He's right, and I hate that he's right. I can't argue with his logic. This is the plan. This is the execution. Yet, a part of me chafes at her enthusiastic embrace of it.
I join her later that evening at the rooftop bar, a hidden gem overlooking the ancient city. She's already perched on a high stool, casually sipping champagne while an army of bodyguards are posted nearby. She wears sunglasses too large for her face, obscuring her eyes, but her grin is wide, meant to disarm.
"How about a glass of champagne or two?" she suggests, as if we're on a casual date, not locked in a battle of wills. "It might loosen you up and God knows you could use it."
"No," I reply. I take a sip of my own drink, a dark, heavy whiskey. The burn of the liquid as it slides down my throat is a welcome distraction.
