Chapter 17 Matteo
MATTEO
True to her word, she knocks on my door exactly an hour after we last spoke.
The sound hits me like a jolt. For a brief second, I don’t know which version of her I’m about to face. The last time I saw her, she had tears brimming in her eyes, kissing me goodbye like it was the last time, like she believed distance could sever whatever this is between us.
But I knew better. Like I told her—we are inevitable.
I open the door, and the breath stutters in my chest.
She’s pale.
A drained, fragile kind of pale, the kind that makes a man want to tear the world apart just to find who or what caused it. The smile she offers me is thin and forced, and it does nothing to hide the exhaustion carved into her features.
And all I can think about is how the last time she stood in this penthouse, I had her trembling beneath my mouth, her taste on my tongue, her body opening for me like she’d been waiting her whole life.
“Bella,” I say softly. I want to reach for her. I want to touch her. I don’t.
“Hey.” Her voice is a whisper, small and wrong on her tongue.
I step aside so she can enter. The scent of lavender trails in behind her, settling low in my lungs. I try not to inhale it. I fail.
“Do you want something to drink?” I ask, leading her to the kitchen because I need something to do with my hands. “You look like you could use something strong.” I pull out a bottle of wine, already reaching for a glass.
The moment I turn around, she goes rigid.
“No—that’s okay.” Her voice fractures around the words. “I’d rather just… get down to it. Please. And, what is that smell?”
Her eyes sweep the kitchen until they land on the cheese board my housekeeper left earlier.
“It’s cheese,” I say slowly. “Do you want—”
I don’t finish.
Her entire face contorts. She drops her bag onto the counter and clamps a hand over her mouth, swallowing hard like she’s fighting her own body.
“Beatrice?” I take a step forward. Her eyes are wide, panicked.
“Bathroom—please,” she manages through her hand. “Hurry.”
“Second door on the left.”
She doesn’t wait for me to finish. She sprints down the hall, disappearing behind the bathroom door.
For a moment, I’m frozen in place. The instinct to follow her nearly overrides every rational thought, every boundary she’s tried to keep between us. But I force myself to stay where I am.
She needs a moment. And if I barge in now, the fragile thread holding her together might snap.
Still, my worry spikes so hard it borders on rage. Whatever is happening to her, whatever has drained the light from her skin, whatever has brought her to my door looking like a ghost of herself… I have a sickening feeling I already know who is responsible.
I sit on one of the high kitchen stools, jaw tight, mind already spinning through every possible way I could break Giacomo for whatever he has done to her to make her come here white-faced and trembling.
I’ve never seen her like this—frightened, off-balance, stripped of her usual quiet strength—and the fact that she wants to run now, after everything, tells me whatever happened wasn’t small. It was catastrophic.
And after the way she bolted from me yesterday, even after that raw, primal moment between us, I know she wouldn’t have come to me so soon unless she was desperate. Unless she had nowhere else to go.
I look to my left and notice a few of her things have spilled from her bag, scattered over the countertop. I lean forward to gather them, but my hand stops mid-reach when I see a slip of paper half-hidden under the leather strap.
Something about the shape makes my heartbeat stutter.
I pull it free.
I unfold it.
The world drops into silence.
It’s an ultrasound.
The date is stamped clearly. The time. Today.
My pulse slams against my ribs.
No baby develops overnight. No life shows up on a screen a day after being conceived.
This child is not mine.
Which means—
“Matteo?”
Her voice cuts through the fog. I look up and find her standing near the archway, color returning to her cheeks but panic alive in her eyes. She looks stronger than she did a few minutes ago, but guarded, like she’s bracing for impact.
“What are you doing in my bag?” she asks.
I don’t look away. I don’t hide what I found.
“You’re pregnant.”
It’s not a question. The proof crumples slightly in my hand.
“Yes.” The word leaves her in a thin whisper.
“It’s his?”
She nods.
The confirmation should poison something inside me.
It should push me back, create distance, force me to guard myself.
She is carrying another man’s child—a man I despise, a man who has hurt her in ways I cannot yet quantify.
And yet all I feel is an overwhelming urge to go to her, to close the distance, to pull her against my chest and tell her she doesn’t have to be afraid.
“That’s why I needed an hour before coming here,” she says quietly. “I needed to be sure.”
Her color drains again, the same way it did when she ran for the bathroom. She crosses her arms over her chest like she’s protecting herself, or maybe the life inside her, but her voice—God, her voice—is steady, even when the edges tremble.
“That’s why you want to run?” I ask, even though the answer is written all over her face.
“If Giacomo finds out,” she says, “he’ll never let me go. Not because of me, but because of what this means. A child gives him leverage. Power. Something to control. And I will not let my baby become a weapon. I won’t let him use us to trap me forever.”
The fear in her eyes is real. The resolve is stronger.
I set the ultrasound on the counter as if it’s wired to explode, because in many ways, it is.
This changes everything.
“He won’t find out,” I tell her, and the conviction in my voice surprises even me. “I won’t allow him to. But you’re not running, Beatrice. You’re staying right here, in this city. With me.”
Her brows pull tight, confusion clouding her features. “What?”
“I told you I’d protect you and your family, and I meant every word.
But now that I know what’s at stake—now that I know you’re carrying his child—I can’t let you disappear.
Giacomo will hunt you, Beatrice. He’ll hunt you and your baby.
He hates looking like a fool more than he hates his enemies, and if you run, he will follow the scent until he reaches you.
He is like a dog with a bone; once he sets his sights on something, he won’t let go. ”
Fear widens her eyes. Her arms fold tighter around her body as if she’s bracing against a storm she can’t stop.
I stand and take slow steps toward her.
“So then what?” Her voice fractures. “What am I supposed to do? If I stay here, he’ll kill me.”
“Marry me.”
The words leave me before doubt has the chance to smother them. Before logic can interfere. Before I can ask myself if this is strategy or instinct or something far deeper.
She freezes.
I don’t.
“What?” she breathes.
“Marry me,” I repeat, stepping close enough that I can see the tremble in her lashes.
“Let the world believe the child is mine. Let Giacomo believe it. He won’t touch you if he thinks you and your baby fall under my protection.
Not unless he wants war with me—and with every man who answers to my name. ”
Her lips part, then seal shut again.
“I can’t marry you,” she whispers. “That’s insanity.”
“Crazier things have worked.” My voice stays even, but inside everything feels razor-thin, delicate, like one wrong word will shatter the moment. “If you run without a plan, without a trace… he will track you down. You know he will.”
I lean in—not touching her, but close enough that my words bind to her breath.
“But if you marry me… if you take my name… you get protection. Real protection. My legacy becomes your shield, and your child gets a life that isn’t built on fear.”
Her gaze drops to her hands, fingers trembling faintly.
“My father’s debt,” she whispers. “My mother—”
“I’ll erase it,” I say, my voice low, absolute. “All of it. And your mother will be under the care of the best specialists in the country. Whatever she needs, she’ll have.”
She lifts her head again, her eyes glassy but fiercely alive.
“Matteo… if I do this, if I marry you, he’ll see it as betrayal. As me choosing you over him. I know how deep the hatred between you runs. This will ignite everything.”
“I know.”
“And you’ll be dragged into this,” she whispers, voice trembling but steady. “More than you already are. This would make it official. Public. Irreversible.”
I step closer. Just one breath of distance between us now. Her lavender scent rises like a balm, softening the violent noise inside my head.
“I’m already in this,” I tell her, low and certain. “The night you stood on that rooftop, you became mine. Something pulled me toward you and hasn’t let go since. I don’t need a marriage certificate to feel it. But I’ll sign one; I’ll sign a hundred, if that’s what it takes to keep you safe.”
Her lips press together. A single tear slips free, then another, carving silent trails down her cheeks.
I hate seeing her like this—fragile, hurt, carrying burdens she never should’ve been asked to carry.
I close the final inch between us and take her hands gently in mine. I lift them to my lips, brushing a slow kiss across her knuckles. A vow without words. A promise already etched into my bones.
I will protect you.
“Marry me, Beatrice,” I say again. There’s no kneeling, no velvet box, no ceremony. Just truth, raw and unvarnished. “Marry me and let me protect you.”
The silence stretches. Heavy. Electric. Her hands stay in mine, not pulling away, not shaking. Just… there. Trusting me in this small, terrifying way.
“Marry me, Bea.”
I wait.
She nods—small, fragile, but enough to shift the axis of my entire world.
I pull her into my chest. Her body fits against mine like it was shaped to be held there. I press a kiss to the top of her head, letting the warmth of her seep into every place that has gone cold over the years.