Page 62 of Matteo

“You learned everything you know by going to an after-school computer club?”

He’s completely changed the topic. Doesn’t like talking about family much.

So, being careful not to mention a word about my hacker background, I tell him how I joined various online channels and groups and lurked in computer forums where I started to post code as solutions to specific problems.

I tell him how someone noticed and invited me to a private online channel, and I started to do small jobs with them. I tell him how later, as I aged out of care and needed to stand on my own two feet, I did more jobs. I learned to do penetration testing and fix small business security. I learned how to build security tools. After that I had lots of little contracts come my way and I was able to slowly build up my reputation. And then I started my small cybersecurity firm about a year and a half ago.

What I don’t tell him is how before all the small contracts, I became part of a grey hat hacking group. I don’t tell him how I exposed company vulnerabilities and leaked data to embarrass them. How I hacked corrupt corporations.

How I got caught and interrogated.

He looks at me, his face a picture of admiration. “That’s incredible. Now I understand exactly why you’re so sharp and observant. You catch a lot of things others haven’t. I can tell you’re brilliant, and that’s why the old man hired you. He only wants the best.”

I feel my cheeks blush. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It’s a fact.”

I'm suddenly hyper aware of everything. The chatter in the background. The laughter from a few tables behind us. The clink of bottles and glasses. People relaxing on stools by the bar. The soft tones of music.

“You also don’t trust easily,” he says.

“Neither do you.”

The corners of his mouth lift. “Fair.”

We sit in silence again. Each of us sipping our drinks, at the same time. Then looking at each other. Then faintly smiling.

Mirroring.

My gaze falls to his tattoos again, because it’s impossible not to look at them. “Are you always the last one to leave?” Thinking about it now, I don’t stay late at work much, but I’ve heard Alex mention that Matteo is always the last to leave.

“I don’t see the point of going back to an empty apartment.”

“But you have five brothers.”

“Most of whom are busy with their girlfriends.”

It becomes quiet again. Something in my heart flutters. I glance at my watch. “I should go. It’s getting late.”

“How about I drive you home?” he offers.

My insides pop and fizzle with excitement. “That would be great,” I manage to say. It occurred to me to protest and tell him I’d take the subway, but a part of me doesn’t mind him taking me home. We split the bill and head back to the office, down to the underground car park.

I expect something obnoxious, something loud and impractical.

Instead, Matteo stops beside a dark grey Porsche Taycan.

And in that moment, I see that this is perfect for him.

With sleek lines and understated design, it is more him than a flashy sports car ever could be.

He unlocks it and I slide into the passenger seat.

The interior smells faintly of leather and cedar. Everything is black, and sleek. Soft lighting. It's clean and expensive. My body sinks into the seat as I slide into it, letting it hug me.

I'm not sure I want to ever get out.

“Nice car.”