10. Contessa #2
Matteo glances up, a knowing look in his eyes. “Your nonna used to make it for you, I know. She made it for your father too when we were younger. Conrad mentioned it before.”
Of course he knows. Of course, my father told him about it. These two men have been in each other’s pockets for decades, sharing secrets and building empires.
I watch in silence as Matteo fills a pot with water and sets it on the stove to boil. His movements are efficient and practiced, like he’s done this a thousand times before. For some reason, I never pictured him cooking. In my mind, he was always being served, not serving.
“I didn’t know you could cook,” I say, leaning forward on my elbows.
He smirks without looking up from where he’s grating cheese. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Contessa.”
“Clearly,” I mutter, pulling the robe tighter around me.
I feel a sudden wave of unease wash over me.
What the hell am I doing here? This is my father’s best friend making me pasta in his kitchen while I’m wearing nothing but a robe that matches my hair.
A robe he bought specifically for me, which means he’s been planning this, waiting for me to end up here all along.
I should leave. I should have left the second I came out of that bathroom. Hell, I should have never come here in the first place. What was I thinking? He’s literally twice my age. He’s been to my fucking birthday parties when I was a kid. He probably helped my dad pick out my Sweet Sixteen gift.
And now he’s seen me naked, fucked me senseless, came all over me, and made me call him Daddy.
Well, he didn’t exactly make me call him Daddy. I did that of my own free will; all of this has been a disastrous use of my free will.
His back muscles flex beneath the robe as he stirs the pasta, and I hate that I can still appreciate how fucking hot he is even as panic rises in my throat.
“You’re overthinking,” Matteo says without turning around, like he can somehow read my mind. “I can hear the gears grinding from here.”
“You don’t know what I’m thinking,” I snap, defensive.
“Your face is an open book, stellina.” He glances over his shoulder, his hazel eyes seeing too much. “You’re wondering if you should make a run for it. You’re wondering what your father would think. You’re wondering if you’ve made a terrible mistake.”
Fuck him for being right. I cross my arms over my chest, feeling exposed in a way that has nothing to do with being nearly naked.
“Maybe I am. So what?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, focused on draining the pasta and combining it with the cheese and pepper sauce he’s prepared. The rich, comforting smell fills the kitchen, making my mouth water despite my inner turmoil.
“So nothing,” he finally says, plating the pasta with the precision of a chef. “Your thoughts are your own. But your body—” he looks up, his eyes darkening as they sweep over me “—that belongs to me now. Whether you run or not.”
A shiver runs down my spine at his words.
Matteo sets a steaming plate in front of me, the pasta perfectly coated in a creamy cheese sauce, black pepper scattered across the top like delicate confetti. Next to it, he places a wine glass filled not with wine, but with ice-cold water, condensation already forming on the crystal.
“Fuel and hydration,” he says, nodding at the plate and glass. “Eat.”
It’s not a request. It’s a command, delivered in that same tone he used when he ordered me to spread my legs for him.
I want to flip him off and leave the pasta untouched, just to show him I don’t follow orders. But the smell is intoxicating, and my stomach is practically eating itself. Pride versus pasta—and pasta is winning this round.
The first bite hits my tongue and I can’t help the moan that escapes me. It’s damn near perfect. The pepper sharp against the salty richness of the cheese, the pasta cooked to that ideal al dente texture.
“Good?” Matteo asks, sliding onto the stool next to me with his own plate. His thigh presses against mine, warm through the thin silk of our robes.
“It’s adequate,” I lie, already shoving another forkful into my mouth.
He chuckles, a deep rumble that I feel more than hear. “Your face says otherwise.”
I ignore him, focusing on the food instead. Each bite is better than the last, and I find myself making little appreciative sounds that I can’t quite control. It’s been so long since I’ve had a home-cooked meal. Most nights it’s takeout at my desk as I work on designs or business plans.
Matteo eats more slowly, methodically, his eyes never leaving me. It should be uncomfortable being watched like this, but after everything we’ve done tonight, being observed eating pasta seems pretty tame.
I scrape the last bit of cheese sauce from my plate, embarrassed at how quickly I’ve devoured the food but too satisfied to really care. My body feels better already. Still pleasantly sore from our fucking, but no longer weak from hunger.
Matteo finishes his own plate more sedately, then takes both empty dishes to the sink. He rinses them quickly before turning back to me, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed.
“You have two choices,” he says, his voice calm and matter-of-fact. “We can go upstairs, climb into my big bed and sleep, or you can get dressed and I can drive you home.”
I blink at him, surprised by the ultimatum. The fact that he’s giving me an out makes me instantly suspicious.
“That’s it? No third option where you bend me over this fancy island?”
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t take the bait.
The silence between us stretches, becoming its own presence in the room. The clock on the wall ticks steadily, marking each passing moment. One minute. Five. Ten.
Matteo doesn’t push. Doesn’t try to convince me one way or the other. He just waits, giving me space to think even as his presence fills the entire kitchen.
My mind races through all the reasons I should leave—my father, the age gap, the power imbalance, the fact that he’s my fucking investor. But then I think about going back to my empty apartment, crawling into my cold bed alone, and waking up tomorrow pretending none of this happened.
Fuck it. If I’m going to make bad decisions, I might as well commit fully.
“I’ll stay,” I finally say, looking up to meet his eyes. “For the night.”
His face remains neutral, but something flashes in his eyes—satisfaction, maybe. He nods once. “Good.”
“Good?” I repeat, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes, good,” he says, pushing away from the counter. “I would have hated to have to drug you just to get to sleep next to you.”
I freeze, my mouth falling open. “What the fuck did you just say?”
Matteo’s lips twitch into that infuriating smirk. “You heard me.”
“Are you—” I stare at him, trying to process what he’s saying. “That’s not fucking funny.”
“It wasn’t meant to be funny,” he says calmly, approaching me like I’m a skittish animal. “It was meant to be honest.”
Jesus Christ. I don’t know whether to be horrified or...fuck, is it weird that part of me finds this twisted possessiveness almost sweet? Like he wants me so badly he’d resort to desperate measures?
No. No, that’s fucked up. That’s Stockholm Syndrome talking. Or maybe just my pussy, which apparently has terrible judgment when it comes to this man.
“You’re a psychopath,” I tell him, but there’s less heat in my voice than there should be.
“You have to be to work for the mob,” he says, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. He said the quiet part out loud, and that’s more shocking than the drugging comment. “I’m a man who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to get it.”
“By drugging women?” I challenge, though I don’t pull away from his touch.
“I didn’t drug you,” he points out, his fingers lingering on my cheek. “You chose to stay.”
Ugh, I hate his logic and the fact that I’m kind of into the psychopath.