Page 85 of My Italian Love Affair

I force myself to stay where I am, even as the urge to go over there, take her by the hand and pull her right in with me sits heavy in my chest.

She can handle herself. I know she can.

But I still fucking hate it.

"Matteo," my manager says, nudging me. "Photo time."

I exhale sharply through my nose, forcing myself to focus as I pose for a few quick pictures, some with former players, some with the club’s sponsors.

I flash my usual charming smile as I shake a few more hands and nod along to whatever the fuck someone is talking about.

But my mind is still on her.

Alwayson her.

I don’t know how long I let myself get dragged around before I decide enough is enough.

She’s not going to leave this party without having at least spoken to me.

Not tonight.

Not while she’s in that fucking dress.

Anddefinitelynot while Mark Chapman is still standing too close, talking too much, looking at her like he has a right to.

So I finish my drink, hand my glass off to someone passing by, adjust my tuxedo jacket, and start making my way towards her.

She doesn’t know it yet, but I’m about to ruin her night.

And I’m going to enjoy every fucking second of it.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Daphne

Iam officially avoiding Matteo Rossi.

Not that I have a choice, really. Mark and his colleagues have a habit of pulling me into their conversations before I can escape, and -surprise, surprise- Matteo seems far too busy charming his way around the room to notice me.

Which is fine.

Totally fine.

I’d rather focus on trying to navigate this godforsaken event anyway.

The gala is in full swing now. I thought the room was full of them before, but now there seems to be a constant flurry of waiters gliding effortlessly through the ballroom, carrying silver trays of champagne and canapés and gathering up empty glasses and plates.

Every time I turn, I see some CEO or high-ranking official shaking hands with a footballer like they’re closing a business deal instead of pretending to care about tonight’s cause.

Not that I have much time to think on any of it, because Mark is still firmly attached to my side.

"That’s Alessandro Conti," he murmurs in my ear, tilting his chin toward a greying man laughing at something one of the club’s executives has just said. “One of the biggest financial backers of the team.”

I nod like I care.

“Old money,” he adds, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "The kind of guy who could make or break someone’s career if they pissed him off."

"Good thing I don’t plan on pissing him off," I say dryly.

---