“Excuse me?” I said looking over to Nicola.
“My family owns the Langlin Hotels,” she said like it was an obvious thing.
“Holy shit, what doesn’t your family do?”
“My grandfather bought a small resort in London when he was in his twenties. It was foreclosing and everything, but he turned it into what the Langlins are today. I asked him for the Vegas one, my brother will get the London one, and my father has the other four.”
“I repeat: holy shit,” I said, too stunned to form any other words.
“It’s not that big of a deal.” She gently slapped my arm. “We have access to them on our thirtieth birthdays. I’m very excited, I want them to be the premier spot for Moretti Foundation events too!”
“That’s amazing Nic,” I said, squeezing her hand, then cracked a smile. “What’s it like being richer than me?”
She rolled her eyes. “Well, according to the tabloids, you’re the one using me, remember? For all my fame and fortune.”
“Do you think I can get another Moretti G8 series but in one of those custom colors?”
“Might be under the tree at Christmas,” she winked. I coughed out a laugh. “Alright, let’s get in there. We can’t be late. Gianfranco wouldnotapprove.”
The mere mention of Nicola’s father had me adjusting my jacket like it could somehow armor me against the oncoming storm. I wasn’t sure what was worse: Gianfranco Moretti being my boss and a living legend in the F1 world or him being thefather of the woman I was falling for. He was the kind of man who built dynasties and dismantled egos without blinking. You didn’t mess with Gianfranco. You didn’t even breathe around him without double-checking your form.
I stepped out of the car and tried to mirror Nicola’s calm confidence, but honestly, the nerves were tap-dancing in my stomach. My usual charm? Useless here. My smile? A minor annoyance to a man like Gianfranco. What Ididhave was a solid track record and the work ethic to back it up.
I walked around to open the door for her. Nicola stepped out, shorter than usual without her heels, but no less powerful.
“We’ve got this,” she said as we approached the front door.
I wanted to believe her.
The door creaked open, and Nicola led us through the polished corridors of the lounge. She waved at the bartender—because of course she knew the bartender—and then we slipped behind the bar like some secret agents on a mission. The man casually pressed against a shelf of liquor, and suddenly, it swung open to reveal a hidden door.
My jaw dropped. “Respectfully? This is some mafia-type shit.”
“Shut up,” she muttered, rolling her eyes.
But I caught the curve of a smirk as we stepped into the dimly lit room. It looked like something out of a film: leather chairs, dark wood, floor-to-ceiling shelves lined with books that looked older than the sport itself. And at the back sat Gianfranco Moretti.
He stood the moment Nicola entered, his face softening instantly as he opened his arms. She walked into his hug without hesitation.
Then his eyes shifted to me, and the warmth vanished like it had never been there.
“DeLuca,” he said, extending a hand.
I took it. Firm shake. Almost a bone-crusher. A message disguised as a greeting.
We sat. A bartender entered with three cups and a steaming kettle of chamomile tea. I blinked. Not what I expected from a man who could command a room with a single look, but then again, this was Gianfranco Moretti. He didn’t need whiskey to be terrifying.
“So.” He poured the tea with quiet precision. “You two are together now?”
Straight to it.Damn.
I glanced at Nicola, offering her the lead. It was her father. Her call.
“Yes,” she said, clear and steady, and then—she reached for my hand. Interlaced our fingers. My heart did a strange little flip.
“I would have preferred to hear it from you,Tesoro,” Gianfranco said, his voice dipping to something more personal, “not from a tabloid headline. But I understand the need for privacy. Unfortunately, this is no longer a private matter.”
“I know,” Nicola said. Her voice didn’t waver. “We’ll handle it.”
