Friday, October 28, 2022

Demien's Apartment, Bergamo

6:47 PM

Sophia looked him over thoughtfully, her eyes scanning from his damp hair down to his bare feet while her expression shifted into something between amusement and concern, and after a moment she tilted her head slightly before speaking.

"Do you even have something decent to wear?" she asked.

Demien hesitated, his mouth opening briefly before closing again while he considered the contents of his wardrobe, and a half-smile appeared on his face though uncertainty flickered behind it because most of his clothes were either training gear or casual basics that didn't exactly scream clubbing appropriate.

"I'm not sure," he admitted.

Before he could finish elaborating or offer to figure it out himself, Sophia's hand wrapped around his wrist with surprising decisiveness, and she was already pulling him toward his bedroom while her grip was firm but playful, and Demien followed without resistance because arguing seemed pointless when she'd clearly made up her mind.

"Come on," she said while pushing open his bedroom door. "Let's see what we're working with."

His wardrobe wasn't large—a standard closet with hanging space and a few drawers below—and when Sophia opened it the contents were exactly what she'd expected: Atalanta training gear, plain t-shirts in various shades of grey and black, a few pairs of jeans, hoodies, one dress shirt that looked like it hadn't been worn since he'd signed his contract.

She pulled out the first hanger and held up a simple black t-shirt, examining it for exactly two seconds before shaking her head and tossing it onto the bed behind them.

"Too plain," she muttered.

The next was a navy blue hoodie, and it received the same treatment with barely more consideration.

"Too training-oriented."

A grey button-down came next, and Sophia's nose wrinkled slightly while she held it at arm's length as if the fabric itself offended her sensibilities.

"Too 'footballer who doesn't try,'" she said, and that one landed on the growing pile with the others.

Demien stood near the doorway watching this process unfold with growing amusement while his arms crossed loosely over his chest, and occasionally he protested when something he actually liked got dismissed, though his objections were half-hearted at best because Sophia's focus was absolute and arguing with someone who knew what they were doing seemed counterproductive.

"I like that one," he offered weakly when a black long-sleeve shirt joined the rejected pile.

"You would," Sophia replied without looking back at him, and her tone carried affectionate mockery. "That's the problem."

She continued pulling items systematically—another hoodie, joggers, a polo shirt that had come with his sponsorship package—and each received swift judgment before being discarded, and Demien started wondering if his entire wardrobe would end up on the bed before she found anything salvageable.

Then she paused.

Her hand stopped on a hanger near the back of the closet where a black button-down shirt hung—not the grey one from earlier but something slightly more fitted with subtle texture in the fabric—and beside it were dark jeans that actually looked decent rather than distressed or overly casual.

Sophia pulled both items out carefully and held them up together while her eyes narrowed in assessment, and after a moment she nodded once with clear satisfaction.

"This," she said, turning to show him. "This works."

Demien looked at the combination—clean, fitted, understated but somehow expensive-looking in a way he hadn't fully appreciated when he'd bought the jeans months ago—and he had to admit she had a point.

"Yeah?" he asked.

"Definitely," Sophia confirmed while laying both pieces on the one clear corner of his bed. "You have dress shoes?"

"Black ones. In the closet."

She found them quickly, examined them briefly to confirm they weren't scuffed beyond redemption, and added them to the outfit with an approving sound.

"Perfect," she said, stepping back and gesturing toward the assembled clothing. "Change. Let me see."

Demien grabbed the outfit and moved toward the bathroom out of habit, but Sophia rolled her eyes and sat on the edge of his bed while pulling out her phone.

"I'll turn around if you're shy," she teased.

"I'm not shy," Demien replied, though his tone suggested otherwise, and he changed quickly while she kept her word and focused on her phone, and when he finished buttoning the shirt and pulling on the shoes he stood there feeling slightly self-conscious about the whole thing.

"Done," he said.

Sophia looked up immediately and her expression shifted from casual interest to genuine approval while her eyes traveled over the outfit slowly, and when she stood and walked closer her smile was warm and satisfied in a way that made Demien's earlier uncertainty fade completely.

"See?" she said while reaching up to adjust his collar slightly. "You look good. Not like a player trying too hard. Just like a man who knows how to dress."

"Thanks to you," Demien pointed out.

"Obviously." She stepped back and looked him over once more before nodding definitively. "Now I need to finish getting ready. Give me twenty minutes."

She disappeared into the bathroom with her bag, and Demien sat on his bed looking at the pile of rejected clothes while wondering how she'd managed to find the one decent outfit in his entire wardrobe, and outside his window the evening light was fading toward dusk while Bergamo's streets began filling with Friday night activity.

Friday, October 28, 2022

Bergamo City Center

8:03 PM

By eight o'clock everything was set.

Sophia emerged from the bathroom looking completely different from the casual version who'd surprised him earlier—hair styled perfectly, makeup subtle but striking, wearing a black dress that managed to be both elegant and club-appropriate simultaneously—and when she grabbed her phone and made a quick call Demien heard her speaking Italian too rapidly for him to catch every word though the tone suggested she was confirming arrangements rather than making new ones.

"Five minutes," she said after hanging up.

They headed downstairs together, and when they stepped outside onto the quiet street a sleek black Lamborghini Urus was already pulling up to the curb with its engine purring softly in the evening air, and the driver—professional, middle-aged, wearing a dark suit—stepped out to open the rear door without speaking.

Sophia slid in first and Demien followed, still slightly unused to this level of casual luxury because even with his Atalanta salary and sponsorship deals he hadn't quite adjusted to the idea that renting high-end vehicles for a night out was normal behavior, but Sophia seemed completely at ease while she settled into the leather seat and pulled out her phone to check messages.

The interior was immaculate—soft lighting, expensive materials, space that felt both intimate and luxurious—and when the driver pulled smoothly into traffic the city lights began sliding past the tinted windows while low music played through speakers that were probably worth more than some people's cars.

Demien looked out at Bergamo passing by—familiar streets he'd walked dozens of times looking different from this perspective—and Sophia's hand found his on the seat between them, her fingers lacing through his casually while she scrolled through Instagram with her other hand.

"Nervous?" she asked without looking up from her phone.

"A little," Demien admitted. "I don't really know what to expect."

"It's just loud music and people dancing," Sophia said, and her tone was reassuring though amusement flickered at the edges. "You'll be fine. Just stay with me and don't let anyone pressure you into drinking if you don't want to."

"I won't."

"Good."

The drive lasted fifteen minutes through Bergamo's center, past restaurants and shops that were busy with Friday evening crowds, and when they finally pulled up outside a building with subtle blue lighting and a line of people waiting behind velvet ropes Demien could already hear the bass thumping from inside, muffled but insistent.

The driver stopped smoothly at the curb and came around to open Sophia's door first, and she stepped out with practiced grace while Demien followed, and immediately he felt the shift in atmosphere because they weren't anonymous anymore.

Someone in the waiting line noticed first.

"Yo, that's Demien Walter," a voice said, loud enough to carry over the ambient noise.

Heads turned.

Phones came out almost instantly, the way they always did now, and a small cluster of people near the entrance started moving toward them while recognition spread through the crowd like a wave, and Demien felt his shoulders tense automatically though he kept his expression neutral and approachable.

"Demien!" someone called. "Can we get a picture?"

He glanced at Sophia, who nodded slightly with an understanding smile, and he turned toward the small group that had formed—four guys in their early twenties, wearing jerseys and looking genuinely excited rather than invasive—and he handled it the way Marco had taught him.

"Sure, quick ones though," Demien said, keeping his tone polite but firm.

They formed up quickly and he took three photos in rapid succession, shaking hands briefly with each of them while they thanked him enthusiastically and told him he'd been incredible against Fiorentina, and throughout the entire interaction most people's focus stayed entirely on him because Sophia stood slightly to the side wearing dark clothing that didn't draw immediate attention, and nobody seemed to register who she was or why she'd arrived with him.

As they moved toward the entrance, Demien caught movement in his peripheral vision—a photographer with a professional camera, positioned near the club's entrance in the way press sometimes lurked hoping to catch celebrities or notable figures, and the man's expression shifted from bored surveillance to sharp interest when he recognized Demien's face.

The camera came up smoothly.

Click. Click. Click.

The sound was subtle beneath the music and crowd noise but Demien heard it clearly, that distinctive shutter sound that meant photos were being taken, and he noticed too late to do anything about it because turning away or covering his face would only make things worse, so he simply placed his hand lightly at Sophia's back and kept moving forward with professional composure while the photographer continued shooting.

Sophia felt his hand and glanced at him briefly, her expression questioning, and Demien gave a slight shake of his head that said not now, tell you later, and she accepted it without pressing while they approached the entrance.

The doorman—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing all black with an earpiece—recognized them immediately, or more accurately recognized Demien and made the logical assumption that anyone arriving with him belonged inside, and he unhooked the velvet rope without discussion while gesturing them through with professional efficiency.

"Enjoy your evening," he said.

Inside, the atmosphere hit like a physical force.

Music thumped through massive speakers, bass reverberating through the floor and into Demien's chest while colored lights swept across a packed dance floor where bodies moved in rhythm, and the space was larger than he'd expected—high ceilings, multiple levels, VIP sections elevated above the main floor with better views and slightly less chaos.

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