Unmasking
752 Words
The oak-paneled boardroom of Palazzo Visconti was all austerity and power: gilded ceilings, oil portraits of grim ancestors, and a table long enough to seat a monarch’s council. Elena Bellini entered as she always did—in heels that whispered across polished floors and a black suit cut so sharply it felt like armor.
She had learned long ago that presence was currency. And today, she needed every cent of it.
Giulia was already there, seated beside two gallery trustees, murmuring pleasantries over espresso. Elena offered her a tight smile, then turned to scan the rest of the room.
Empty chairs. Crystal water pitchers. Neatly stacked dossiers.
And one seat at the head of the table—still vacant.
She wasn’t breathing.
Her heart beat, calm and controlled, but just beneath the surface, tension thrummed like the taut strings of a violin.
Then he walked in.
Matteo Ricci.
No mask. No shadows. Just the man himself—impossibly tall, dressed in black with no tie, his presence radiating like a magnetic field that shifted the energy in the room the moment he entered.
He paused when he saw her. A fraction of a second. But she saw it—the briefest flicker in his cool, calculating gaze. Recognition.
She stood motionless.
It was him.
Even without the mask, she knew. The eyes—steel-gray and unflinching. The way he moved, all command and quiet precision. The same voice that had murmured against her skin now filled the room with clipped introductions and cool authority.
“Elena Bellini,” he said, as he took his seat across from her. “I’ve heard your reputation precedes you.”
His tone was unreadable. Measured. Perfectly professional.
She inclined her head, matching him beat for beat. “Likewise, Signor Ricci.”
Business proceeded like clockwork. They discussed acquisitions, authentication processes, gallery projections. Elena answered every question with icy clarity, her fingers steady, her voice flawless.
But beneath the table, her hands were clenched so tightly her knuckles ached.
When the meeting adjourned, the trustees filed out with polite nods and brief chatter. Giulia followed with a meaningful glance at Elena, but said nothing.
And then they were alone.
Elena didn’t wait.
“You were at the masquerade.”
Matteo stilled, just for a moment.
“Is that what this is about?” he said coolly. “You recognized me from a party?”
“You left before I woke up,” she replied, voice sharp and low. “We agreed on no names, no expectations. I was fine with that. But—” She swallowed, forcing steel into her spine. “There’s something you need to know.”
His gaze darkened. “I don’t like games, Ms. Bellini.”
“This isn’t a game.” Her voice broke slightly, just once. “I’m pregnant.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
He didn’t blink. Didn’t move. The air between them was electric, charged with disbelief and something far more dangerous.
“I assume you’re sure it’s mine,” he said after a long moment.
“I haven’t been with anyone else,” she said, her eyes flashing. “But we can take a test if your pride requires scientific confirmation.”
He leaned back, studying her as if seeing her for the first time. Not the art consultant, not the poised society fixture—but the woman beneath.
“I don’t believe in coincidence,” he said slowly. “But I also don’t believe in accidents.”
“I didn’t come here asking for anything,” she snapped, standing. “Not money. Not interference. I came to inform you out of courtesy, not obligation.”
“Interesting word—courtesy—when you’re carrying my child.”
She stared down at him, jaw tight.
“I’ll handle this,” she said. “Alone, if I have to. I’ve done it before.”
His brow lifted. “You’ve done what before?”
She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her cold.
“Elena.”
Her name on his tongue felt entirely different than it had in the boardroom—rougher, realer. It anchored her in place.
“This… changes things,” he said.
She didn’t turn around. “Only if you want it to.”
Outside, the marble hall echoed with the sound of her footsteps.
Inside, Matteo Ricci sat at the head of his empire, staring at the door she had just closed.
And for the first time in years, he didn’t feel in control.
- Writer
