Chapter 22 Luca
LUCA
Ialmost said it.
The words are right there, hovering on my tongue as I move inside her, her body arching beneath mine in the darkness of my bedroom. She's gasping my name, her nails digging into my shoulders, and for one terrible, perfect moment, I forget why I'm supposed to hate her.
I fuck her harder, kiss her harder, locking my hand around her throat. I want to punish her, hurt her the way she hurt me. Drag pleasure from her body while fucking her full of mine. I want…
I can’t think of what I really want. She tightens around me, gasps, arches, and I forget what I was thinking, why I was so angry. I forget everything except the way she feels. The way she looks at me like I'm everything she's ever wanted.
I love you.
The words form in my mind, clear and devastating. My mouth opens—
And then I catch myself.
The realization hits like ice water. What the fuck am I doing? What am I about to say?
I freeze mid-thrust, my entire body going rigid with horror at how close I came to destroying the last shred of control I have left.
"Luca?" Her voice is soft and confused. Her hands reach up toward my face, brushing against my cheeks, and I can't stand the tenderness in her touch or stand how much I want to lean into it.
"Don't." I pull back sharply, withdrawing from her completely. The air hits my straining, wet cock like a shock of pain, but I force myself to do it anyway, even though all I want is to plunge back into her and finish. "Don't touch me like that."
She pushes herself up partway, and I can see the hurt blooming in her eyes. "Luca, what's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong." I'm off the bed, pulling on my boxers, and forcing my aching cock inside. "This was a mistake. I shouldn't have—we shouldn't have—"
"We've been doing this for two weeks." Her voice is small, wounded, like I’ve taken away the only thing she had left. "What changed?"
I almost told you I love you, and I can't let that happen.
"I'm tired," I snap. “I wasn’t going to finish anyway. You should go back to your room."
That’s a fucking lie. I’m so close to coming, I’m on the verge of soaking my boxers. All I want in this goddamn world is to be back inside of her, and right after that, for her to leave so I can jerk off and finish before my balls explode.
The silence that follows is suffocating. I can feel her staring at me. I can practically hear the questions she wants to ask and the arguments she wants to make. But she slides out of bed, her perfect, naked body in my periphery, and grabs her clothes off the floor, yanking them on quickly.
"Okay," she whispers. "I'll go."
She walks to the door, and I force myself not to watch her leave and to stay exactly where I am, my hands clenched into fists at my sides.
The door closes with a soft click. I sink onto the edge of the bed, my head in my hands, and try to breathe. I’m still ragingly hard, and I can’t form a clear thought between the blinding lust and the panic clawing at my chest.
I can't love her. I can't. She lied to me.
Manipulated me. Created an entire false identity just to get what she wanted without giving me the choice to know who I was really with.
I can't—I won't—let myself forget that just because my body wants her, just because some traitorous part of my heart is starting to soften toward her.
I need to rebuild the walls she's been slowly dismantling with every desperate touch, every whispered plea, every moment of vulnerability. Tomorrow, I'll be colder. I'll remind both of us exactly what this marriage is and what it isn't.
I'll make sure she understands that nothing has changed.
I leave the house at five in the morning, before she has a chance to wake and find me. I don't leave tea on the counter or food. I don't leave anything that might suggest I give a fuck about her comfort or her needs.
The ginger tea and prenatal vitamins have become a routine, and routines create expectations, which lead to hope. And I can't let her hope for something that isn't going to happen.
At the office, I throw myself into work with an intensity that makes even Romeo raise an eyebrow. "You okay?" he asks, leaning against the doorframe of the small office I've claimed as my own.
"Fine." I don't look up from the reports I'm reviewing, numbers and logistics that don't require me to feel anything.
"You've been here since five-thirty."
"Lots to do."
"Luca." His voice is patient but firm. "Talk to me."
"There's nothing to talk about." I finally look up, meeting his eyes with the blank expression I've perfected over the past weeks. "I'm working. That's what you pay me for."
He studies me for a long moment, and I can see him weighing whether to push. Finally, he sighs and straightens. "Dante wants to see us both at ten. Something about the Benedetti family making moves in Sunset Park."
"I'll be there."
He leaves, and I go back to the reports. But the numbers blur together, meaningless, because all I can think about is the look on Giulia's face when I told her to leave last night.
The hurt. The confusion. The desperate hope that I was going to say something different.
I should feel satisfied that I maintained my boundaries. Relieved that I caught myself before I said something I couldn't take back.
Instead, I just feel empty.
—
I’m supposed to meet her for a doctor's appointment that is at two, and I consider canceling and telling her that I'm too busy, that she doesn't need me there.
But I don't. Despite the anger and the resentment and the desperate need to maintain distance, I can't quite bring myself to abandon her completely. So at one-thirty, I leave the office and drive home to pick her up.
She's waiting in the living room when I arrive, dressed in a simple sundress that shows the barest hint of the curve that's starting to form at her belly. She looks tired and pale, like she didn't sleep any better than I did.
"Ready?" My voice is flat, emotionless.
"Yes." She grabs her purse and follows me to the car without another word.
The drive to the doctor's office is silent.
I keep my eyes on the road and my hands tight on the steering wheel, my jaw clenched against the urge to say something—anything—to break the terrible quiet between us.
She doesn't try to make conversation, either.
She doesn't ask why I left without the usual tea and food or why I'm treating her like a stranger again after two weeks of slowly thawing. I’m sure she already has some idea.
And maybe she's finally starting to understand that this isn't going anywhere.
That the physical connection doesn't mean forgiveness, and that I'm never going to be the man she wants me to be.
We arrive at the doctor’s office, and the receptionist gives us a warm smile that feels entirely out of place given the tension radiating off both of us. "The doctor will be with you shortly," she says. "You can wait in room three."
Room three is small and sterile, with an examination table covered in paper, a rolling stool, and an ultrasound machine in the corner.
Giulia sits on the table, her hands folded in her lap and her eyes fixed on the floor.
I lean against the wall by the door, as far from her as I can get in the small space.
The silence stretches. "Luca—" she starts, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Don't." I cut her off before she could finish. "Whatever you're about to say, don't."
She flinches like I've struck her, and something in my chest twists painfully. But I don't take it back or soften. I can't.
The door opens, and Dr. Robinson walks in. "Mr. and Mrs. Moretti," she says warmly, extending her hand first to Giulia, then to me. "It's good to see you both. How are you feeling, Giulia?"
"Tired," Giulia says quietly. "Nauseous. But managing."
"That's normal for this stage. The fatigue should start to ease up in the next few weeks as you move into the second trimester." Dr. Robinson pulls up a stool and opens Giulia's chart on her tablet. "Any cramping? Spotting? Unusual pain?"
"No. Nothing like that."
"Good. That's good." She looks up with a smile. "Today we're going to do a quick ultrasound to check on the baby's development and listen to the heartbeat. Sound good?"
Giulia nods, and I feel my own heart rate kick up a notch. We're going to hear the heartbeat.
I'm not ready for this—to make this real in a way that goes beyond Giulia's growing belly and morning sickness. I’m not ready to confront the fact that there's an actual person growing inside her—a person I helped create, a person who's going to exist whether I'm ready for it or not.
"Lie back for me," Dr. Robinson instructs, and Giulia complies, lifting her dress to expose her stomach.
Dr. Robinson squirts gel onto Giulia's belly, and Giulia gasps at the cold sensation.
The doctor picks up the ultrasound wand and presses it against her skin, moving it slowly as she studies the monitor.
"There we go," she murmurs. "Let's see.. ."
The image on the screen is grainy and unclear to my untrained eye. Just shapes and shadows that don't make sense. And then Dr. Robinson adjusts something, and suddenly I can make out… something.
"There's your baby," Dr. Robinson says, her voice warm. "Measuring right on track. Everything looks good."
Giulia makes a sound, and her hand comes up to cover her mouth. I can't move or breathe. I can't do anything except stare at that tiny shape on the screen.
That's my child.
"And now for the heartbeat," Dr. Robinson says, adjusting a dial on the machine. The sound fills the room, rapid and fluttering. My vision blurs, and my throat closes. My hands are shaking, and I have to shove them in my pockets to hide them. The reaction feels sudden and startling.
That's my child's heartbeat. I'm going to be a father.