Chapter 4 - The Gala at La Scala and the Ghost from the Past
Six months after my arrival in Milan, the annual Autumn Gala at the Teatro alla Scala arrived—the most exclusive cultural and corporate gathering in Italy.
I stood in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror in my penthouse suite, wearing a bespoke emerald-green silk gown designed by an atelier in Rome. The delicate diamond necklace resting against my collarbone had been delivered that afternoon with a simple handwritten note from Matteo: Wear this. Show them who owns the room.
When Matteo came to my door to escort me, his breath actually caught for a fraction of a second—a crack in his usual unshakable armor. He offered his arm, and we descended into the glittering foyer of La Scala, where flashbulbs popped and society reporters scrambled to capture photos of the reclusive billionaire and his newly appointed lead architect.
We moved through the crowd with effortless grace, accepting congratulations from Italian mayors, fashion moguls, and international investors.
Then, across the crowded ballroom, I saw him.
Rafael.
He looked thinner, his tailored suit hanging slightly loose on his frame. He had managed to scrape together enough money for a low-level consulting gig with a Latin American trade delegation visiting Milan, desperately trying to salvage what was left of his ruined career.
When his eyes locked onto mine across the room, I saw the exact moment recognition hit him. His jaw dropped open. He stared at the custom emerald gown, the multi-million-dollar necklace, and finally, at the man standing right beside me with his hand resting firmly on the small of my back.
Rafael started pushing his way through the crowd, desperate, frantic, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and opportunistic greed. He reached our perimeter just as Matteo was pouring a glass of champagne for me.
“Isabela?” Rafael’s voice cracked, breathless and pathetic. “Isabela, is that really you? My God, I’ve been looking for—I mean, I heard you were in Italy, but this... this is incredible!”
Matteo’s body went completely rigid. The air around our small circle dropped ten degrees.
Rafael, completely blind to the lethal danger radiating from Matteo, plastered on his old corporate smile and reached out to grab my arm. “Look, Izzy, let’s not be bitter. We both know we had something special. Now that you’re doing so well here, maybe we can talk about—interfacing our firms, reconnecting—”
Before Rafael’s fingers could even brush my sleeve, Matteo’s hand shot out like a striking viper. He caught Rafael’s wrist in a grip so tight Rafael winced, his face contorting in pain.
Matteo didn't raise his voice. He didn't yell. He simply stared down at Rafael with eyes as cold and dead as winter stone.
“Remove him,” Matteo commanded softly.
Two local security guards and one of Matteo’s personal enforcers materialized instantly, grabbing Rafael by the shoulders and lifting him off his feet.
“Wait! Do you know who I am? I’m an associate in international trade!” Rafael shrieked as they dragged him backward across the polished marble floor. “Isabela, tell them! Tell them we were together!”
I took a slow sip of my champagne, never breaking eye contact with my trembling ex-boyfriend as he was hauled toward the grand exit doors in disgrace.
Matteo turned his gaze from the retreating doors back to me, the ice in his expression instantly melting into a warm, genuine gaze. He reached up, gently brushing a stray lock of dark hair away from my face.
“Are you well, signora?” he asked softly.
May you like
I looked around the magnificent ballroom of La Scala, at the powerful men and women watching us with respectful awe, and finally into the dark, protective eyes of the man who had given me the world.
“Never better,” I smiled.
