Chapter 15 - What Luca Said When No One Was Watching
Our first real date happened in a twenty-four-hour diner in Brooklyn.
Luca hated the idea.
That was why I chose it.
“You own restaurants,” I reminded him.
“I own good restaurants.”
“This place is good.”
“The menu has photographs.”
“Stop being elitist.”
“I’m observant.”
“You’re eating pancakes.”
He looked down at the enormous stack in front of him.
“That doesn’t mean I approve.”
“You ordered extra syrup.”
“That is irrelevant.”
I laughed so loudly the waitress smiled.
Nobody recognized him.
Or if they did, they left us alone.
He wore jeans.
I had seen Luca in jeans perhaps four times in three years.
It felt weirdly intimate.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“Now you know how it feels.”
He smiled.
For two hours, we discussed almost nothing important.
Movies.
Bad dates.
Childhood Christmases.
The first jobs we ever had.
I learned Luca had worked one summer in a Moretti hotel laundry because his mother wanted him to understand how the business actually ran.
He learned I once accidentally crashed my father’s car into our own garage at seventeen.
“You told insurance it rolled?”
“I was young.”
“You committed fraud.”
“I corrected the statement.”
“After?”
“After my father discovered the security camera.”
Luca laughed.
Actually laughed.
The sound attracted several glances.
I realized most people probably never saw him like this.
The thought frightened me.
Because I liked being the person who did.
After dinner, we walked several blocks despite the cold.
Snow from earlier storms remained along the sidewalks.
Luca took my hand.
No cameras.
No family.
No performance.
“This feels strange,” I said.
“What?”
“Not pretending.”
“Better?”
“Yes.”
He stopped outside a closed bookstore.
“Emma.”
“What?”
“I need to tell you something.”
I groaned.
“No.”
He looked confused.
“No?”
“Every time you say that sentence, my life becomes significantly more complicated.”
He almost smiled.
“This one isn’t bad.”
“That’s what dangerous people say.”
“Please.”
I sighed dramatically.
“Fine.”
His expression became serious.
“When I told everyone at Christmas that you were the only woman I would choose…”
“Yes?”
“I had practiced it.”
I stared.
“What?”
“Not those exact words.”
“You practiced your fake declaration?”
“For months.”
My heart stumbled.
“Explain.”
He looked almost embarrassed.
Luca Moretti.
Embarrassed.
I would have paid money to record it.
“I used to imagine telling you.”
“Telling me what?”
“How I felt.”
“Where?”
“Office. Elevator. Car. Boston.”
I smiled.
“You rehearsed?”
“Yes.”
“And never said anything?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because every version sounded like an order.”
That wiped away my smile.
He continued.
“I’m good at asking people to do things because most people understand refusing me has consequences.”
“True.”
“I didn’t want that with you.”
“So you said nothing.”
“Yes.”
“Until you asked me to play your girlfriend.”
“That was…”
“Cowardly?”
“Extremely.”
I smiled softly.
“At least you know.”
He touched my fingers.
“I thought if you spent one night beside me, maybe I could understand whether what I felt was real.”
“And?”
“I knew before we entered the house.”
“How?”
“You threatened to murder me in the car.”
“That did it?”
“Strangely.”
I laughed.
Then his expression became softer.
“When I saw you in that red dress, I forgot every line I planned.”
“I noticed.”
“I should have told you then.”
“Yes.”
“I should have told you before the party.”
“Yes.”
“I should have given you every fact.”
“Yes.”
He exhaled.
“Are you going to agree with everything?”
“When I’m right.”
He smiled.
Then grew serious again.
“I love you.”
The words were quiet.
No ballroom.
No audience.
No reason for performance.
I felt tears sting unexpectedly.
“That was better.”
“Than Christmas?”
“Much.”
“Less dramatic.”
“That’s why.”
I touched his cheek.
“I’m not ready to say it back.”
Pain flickered across his expression.
But he nodded.
“I know.”
“I’m not saying I don’t.”
“I understand.”
“I need time.”
“You have it.”
“No pressure?”
“No.”
“No grandmother?”
“I cannot control her.”
“Fair.”
I smiled.
He kissed my forehead.
We continued walking.
For the next three weeks, Luca did something extraordinary.
Nothing dramatic.
No diamonds.
No private jets.
No public declarations.
He simply showed up.
Coffee before my early meetings.
Dinner when I worked late.
Texts asking whether I reached home.
Phone calls that ended because I said I was tired.
He learned.
Slowly.
Imperfectly.
Beautifully.
On his thirty-fifth birthday, Moretti Holdings officially transferred the trust shares into his control.
No marriage required.
No political arrangement.
No Rinaldi deal.
That night, the Moretti family gathered for dinner.
Julian raised a glass.
“To Luca.”
Everyone looked toward him.
“For surviving thirty-five years despite doing everything possible to make his life difficult.”
Laughter filled the room.
Then Julian looked at me.
“And to Emma.”
I immediately became suspicious.
“For being the first person in history stubborn enough to make my brother behave like a human being.”
More laughter.
Luca looked at me.
“I’m reconsidering keeping him in the family.”
“You can’t fire your brother.”
“Watch me.”
I laughed.
After dinner, Luca and I stood outside on the terrace.
Cold wind moved across Manhattan.
“Happy birthday,” I said.
“Thank you.”
“What does it feel like?”
“What?”
“To finally own your future.”
He thought.
Then looked at me.
“Less important than I expected.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He stepped closer.
“Because I finally understand ownership was never what I wanted.”
“What did you want?”
“A choice.”
His fingers intertwined with mine.
“And someone who chooses me back.”
My heart tightened.
For weeks I had waited.
Testing whether his changes were temporary.
Watching whether Luca respected boundaries when there was no crisis forcing him to.
He had.
Not perfectly.
But consistently.
So I smiled.
“Luca.”
“Yes?”
“I love you too.”
He froze.
It was perhaps the only time I had ever rendered Luca Moretti speechless.
I enjoyed it for three full seconds.
Then he kissed me.
And somewhere inside the house, Julian shouted,
“FINALLY.”
I broke the kiss laughing.
Luca closed his eyes.
“I’m going to kill him.”
“No homicide on your birthday.”
“Tomorrow?”
“We’ll discuss it.”
For once, the future felt simple.
I should have known better.
Because two days later, Grandmother Alessandra called me into the mansion alone.
And the first thing she said was,
May you like
“If you intend to marry my grandson, we need to talk.”
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