Page 8 of The Road to You
LENA
W e arrive in Bellagio just as the sun begins its slow descent behind the mountains, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink.
The town, nestled at the meeting point of the lake’s two branches, is a postcard come to life: elegant, timeless, and bathed in the golden glow of dusk.
But what truly captures my attention isn’t the beauty of the place, it’s the way we got here.
Michele didn’t drive us around the winding roads that hug the lake. Instead, he rented a private limousine boat, slicing through the water with an ease that makes me wonder just who the hell this man is.
He claims he’s between jobs, yet he throws money around like it’s pocket change—private boats, secluded restaurants, the kind of indulgences that don’t come cheap.
And judging by how effortlessly he arranged everything, this isn’t a spur-of-the-moment splurge to impress me.
He knows the boat guy, has his number saved in his phone, and they talk like old friends.
This is his world. I just happen to be stepping into it.
A part of me itches to ask questions, to peel back the layers of mystery surrounding him.
But we aren’t that close, and prying into his business feels like crossing a line.
I can only hope I’m not enjoying the generosity of a criminal mastermind.
I mean, who has that kind of money without needing a job?
The hotel we walk into screams luxury, with its polished chandeliers and marble floors. The moment we approach the front desk, the concierge’s face lights up with a broad smile.
“Signor Moretti, che piacere.”
Even without speaking Italian, I can tell it’s more than just politeness. It’s familiarity, the kind that suggests Michele isn’t just any guest; he’s known here. I don’t think this is his first time staying in this place.
“The pleasure is mine,” Michele responds in English, his hand settling lightly on my back as he guides me forward.
It’s a small gesture, but I appreciate it. He’s making sure I’m included, that I don’t feel like an outsider. The concierge’s gaze flickers to me, and the recognition dawns in slow motion. His surprise is there, just for a second, before he schools his expression into professional warmth.
“It’s a pleasure to have you here, miss,” he says with a polite nod.
“Nice to meet you,” I reply with a smile.
Michele leans casually against the counter, flashing an easy grin that feels almost too charming.
“Any chance you have a couple of rooms for tonight?” His voice is smooth, but there’s a hint of uncertainty beneath it.
“I know it’s last minute, and I wouldn’t normally ask during peak season, but I want her to experience a proper Italian getaway before she goes back to the chaos of Los Angeles. ”
The concierge doesn’t even hesitate. He smiles like he already knows the answer. “There is always room for you, Mr. Moretti.”
I feel the tension in Michele’s body ease slightly beside me. I hadn’t even realized he was nervous. The fact that he was surprises me. He’s gone out of his way to make sure I have a perfect time, and for what? I’m practically a stranger to him.
I’ve always heard about Italian hospitality, but this feels different. More than just cultural warmth, it’s personal, and I don’t know how to place it in a relationship between two strangers, because this is, ultimately, what we are .
We’re given two lake-view suites, and I’m relieved when Michele doesn’t insist on paying for mine. He has a habit of picking up the bill before I can even reach for my wallet, and sometimes, it makes me feel like I’m taking advantage of him.
Tonight, at least, I get to contribute. But as I take the key from the concierge, my curiosity only deepens. Who is Michele Moretti? And why do I get the feeling that beneath all his easy charm, there’s something he’s not telling me?
The hotel’s terrace overlooks the lake, its glassy surface reflecting the twinkling lights of the town across the water.
A soft breeze carries the scent of blooming flowers, mixing with the distant lapping of waves against the docks below.
The candle between us flickers, casting golden light over the crisp white tablecloth, adding an air of intimacy to the night.
It’s the kind of setting I’d picture for a honeymoon, a romantic getaway, the kind of night people dream about. Yet, with Michele’s easygoing smile and the relaxed way he leans back in his chair, it doesn’t feel awkward or forced. He isn’t trying to manufacture some grand romantic moment.
And if there’s one thing I’ve learned about him over the past couple of days, it’s that he doesn’t have a hidden agenda.
He’s not putting on a show to impress me, not orchestrating all of this as some elaborate ploy to get me into bed.
He’s just being him. I haven’t for a single moment felt pressured by him to go further.
It could be him playing the long game, but for the little I know him, it feels out of character, far from the persona he’s shown me up to now.
“So,” he says, lifting his wine glass to his lips, “are you enjoying your Italian life so far?” His eyes glint with amusement as he watches me, waiting for my verdict.
I take a sip of my own wine, savoring the taste before answering. “I’m loving it. The sights, the food, the company…” I flash him a teasing smile.
He chuckles, swirling the deep red liquid in his glass. “I’m glad to hear that. It’s strange, but I’ve realized I actually enjoy playing tour guide, showing you places that aren’t in the travel brochures, the kind of spots only locals know about.”
“You’re an amazing tour guide,” I say. “Ever considered doing it professionally? I know plenty of people back home who’d pay a lot of money for someone like you, especially if you can keep them away from the paparazzi.”
That earns me a real laugh, one of those deep, unrestrained ones that makes him throw his head back, his face lighting up in a way that seems to be happening more and more on this trip.
I watch him for a moment, curiosity stirring inside me.
There’s something about the way he carries himself, the weight I sense pressing on his shoulders, that makes me wonder.
“I don’t think I can change the course of my life that much,” he muses, his laughter fading into something more thoughtful.
I tilt my head, studying him. “And what is the course of your life?”
For the briefest second, his smile falters. It’s quick, barely noticeable, but I catch it before he schools his expression back into his usual charming facade.
“It’s something I worked hard for since I was a kid,” he says carefully. His voice is steady but lacking its usual playfulness. “I wished for it, fought for it. And now that I have it, walking away would feel like throwing away a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
It’s an answer without actually answering, a way of telling me something while still keeping me at arm’s length.
I could press. I could push for more. But I don’t because beneath the effortless charm, beneath the smooth words, I see the sadness lingering in his eyes, the hesitation just before he speaks.
And I don’t want him to tell me because I force him to.
If he ever decides to open up, I want it to be his choice.
“So I guess we both saw our dreams come true,” I say instead, shifting the conversation. “I always dreamed of becoming an actress. And I love my life, even if it means never doing anything crazy, like taking a spontaneous trip around Italy.”
Michele’s brow furrows, like I’ve just told him something completely incomprehensible. “Nothing crazy?” He leans forward, his expression incredulous. “Not even a little ?”
I shake my head, feeling strangely self-conscious under his scrutiny. “Not exactly. My life is…planned. Every day, every hour, down to the minute. There’s no room for detours.” I force a small smile. “Sounds boring, right?”
He doesn’t smile back. Instead, he studies me, his gaze soft but intent.
“No,” he says finally. “It sounds…sad.”
And for some reason, that hits harder than I expected.
Michele is on a mission. He doesn’t believe that I’ve never done anything spontaneous in my life, and by the look on his face, he won’t stop until he proves me wrong.
“Getting drunk with your friends in high school?” he suggests as we walk along the manicured garden of the hotel, with the lake stretching out beside us in the darkness.
I let out a laugh, shaking my head. “God, no. I was already auditioning full-time in high school. I was homeschooled.”
He stops mid-step and turns to look at me. His eyebrows are raised in surprise. “You were homeschooled? You didn’t have friends?”
I shrug. “I had some. Mostly other actresses I worked with, but those friendships never lasted beyond the movies we were filming together. It’s strange… This job surrounds you with people all the time, but when I think about who I’d consider real friends, the list is pretty short.”
Michele falls silent, thinking that over. Then he asks, “Not even the person who let you stay in the apartment in Milan?”
I smile. “She’s one of the few real ones. We were roommates when I moved to Los Angeles after high school. I couldn’t stay with my parents if I wanted to audition seriously, it just wasn’t feasible anymore. I managed when I was a minor, but it took a ridiculous level of commitment.”
He hums thoughtfully and stops in front of the stone parapet lining the lake. Leaning against it, he stares at the water and at the distant town lights reflecting across the surface.
“I know what you mean,” he says after a beat. “I didn’t have a lot of time to be young either. But I sure as hell did something crazy.” He chuckles, and I glance at him with curiosity.
“Like what?” I lean against the parapet beside him, the cool stone pressing against my forearms.