16. Contessa
Contessa
I’m running fifteen minutes late to brunch because Rocco refused to go over the speed limit once we got out of the traffic jam we were stuck in. Natalia hasn’t messaged me yet, so hopefully she’s too busy flirting to notice my absence just yet.
Rocco double-parks directly in front of the restaurant, ignores the cued-up BMW behind us, and gets out to open my door like I’m the fucking pope.
I shoot him a look but Rocco only grins and holds out his hand.
He’s fifty and built like a block of granite, and for a second I imagine what it would be like to have him as a bodyguard instead of a mafia chauffeur who’s probably seen more murders than I’ve had orgasms.
“Thank you, Rocco,” I say, careful not to let my sarcasm show. “I’ll only be two hours.”
He does a little bow and says, “Text Signor Marino when you’re ready, Miss Gallo.” Then he slides back into the car and just sits there, engine running, like a weirdly wholesome stalker. I swear, Matteo’s guys don’t know how to be subtle.
Natalia clocks me from the curb. She’s balancing a coffee in one hand and scrolling her phone with the other, legs crossed like a sniper poised for a kill shot.
Natalia’s always been the only person on earth who can make day-old sweats look like runway couture, and today she’s in skin-tight leggings and an off-white T-shirt that says NO GODS, NO MASTERS, ONLY VIBES.
Her hair is up in a messy ballerina bun, which on her somehow looks like a French twist.
She eyes where Rocco just was, and her eyebrows are so high I’m pretty sure they disappear into her hairline. “Since when do you use your dad’s drivers? I haven’t seen you with one since you turned eighteen.”
I walk the thirty feet to her and push my sunglasses up into my hair. “That wasn’t a Gallo driver. Matteo has had him driving me all week. I actually don’t hate it.”
Natalia’s eyes go wide. “A whole week? Are you, like, in that deep?” She says it like she’s fishing for dirt, but also like she’s genuinely worried I’m about to show up to brunch in a full latex suit with “Property of Marino” stitched across my ass.
“Relax,” I say, rolling my eyes. “There’s no cage in his basement, if that’s what you’re picturing.
I got sick last weekend and almost passed out.
Matteo’s been acting like I’m made of glass ever since.
” I don’t mention that I woke up in his bed every morning, or that I haven’t spent a night alone since.
Natalia snorts. “You? Sick? I thought you were immortal, Tessa. Or at least too stubborn to admit when you’re dying.”
“I’m not dying. I just had food poisoning, probably.
Or a stomach bug. I puked in front of a gelato shop, which is possibly the lowest point of my life.
” I pause for dramatic effect. “He held my hair, Nat. Like a fucking boyfriend. He took me home, changed my clothes, made me brush my teeth and then tried to do my skin-care routine for me.”
She looks at me sideways, mouth twisting like she’s trying to decide if this is tragic or the start of a romcom that ends in a body bag. “Honestly, that’s kind of hot.”
“It was horrifically embarrassing, but sure, let’s go with hot,” I mutter.
Nat pushes us through to the hostess, who’s so bored I think she might be dead inside.
“Reservation for Gallo,” Natalia says, not missing a beat. “Table for two.”
The hostess glances at Natalia’s shirt, then at me, and for a second I imagine she’s about to call security, but then she just nods, grabs two menus, and leads us through the jungle of brunch zombies.
We get seated at a window table, half in the sun, which is probably bad for my complexion but good for my mood. Natalia slides in across from me.
Coffee is in front of us without even having to order. The smell is so good, and I feel my stomach grumble, demanding food to go with it.
She cocks her head. “So you’re—what, dating him now? Or just being kidnapped in style?”
“Eh. Fifty-fifty,” I say. “Is being held in a massive seaside estate against my will still considered kidnapping if the sex is, like, five-star Michelin rated?”
She nearly spits out her coffee. “Bitch, what? Okay. Start talking. Last I heard you were ‘never ever calling that man again unless it was to dispose of his corpse.’ Now you’re letting him assign you a driver and shacking up with him?”
I stir my coffee, watching the brown swirl with the cream, a little cyclone of anxiety. “Let’s just say I’ve revised my previous position. Matteo is—” I break off, searching for a word that doesn’t make me sound like I’m one of those girls who gets off on Stockholm syndrome. “He’s very persuasive.”
Natalia leans in, eyebrows cocked so high they’re about to launch into orbit. “Uh huh. Persuasive like, ‘I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll forget your own name’ persuasive, or, ‘I’ve bugged your apartment and have a sniper on the roof’ persuasive?”
I consider, then shrug. “Honestly, both.”
She does a little celebratory chair wiggle, slurps her coffee, and grins like she’s already planning a bridal shower for me and my new cult leader. “I mean, if you’re gonna spiral into a toxic relationship, at least do it with someone who looks like a Marvel villain and has a six-figure mattress.”
I stare at her. “He does not look like a Marvel villain. He looks like someone’s—” I stop, because I don’t actually want to admit that Matteo is the exact flavor of lethal, salt-and-pepper hot that would make every therapist in the tri-state area salivate. “Nevermind.”
“Say it,” Natalia says, wagging her finger. “You were about to say ‘daddy’ and then you choked.”
I choke on my coffee, nearly spitting it back into the cup. “Jesus, Nat. Have some boundaries.”
She just laughs, then drops her voice into a fake-masculine rasp, “That’s Daddy to you, little brat.”
I groan. “You’re going to get us kicked out.”
She leans across the table, conspiratorial. “He’s fine as hell. Also, I support you living your best forbidden romance life. Do you get, like, a monogrammed collar? Or is it just public humiliation?”
The memory of Matteo at Portofino, the panties, the way he made me strip them off in public and then fingered the lace has my thighs clenching under the table.
I try to play it off. “No collar. No leash. He’s just a control freak. It’s a kink thing, not a lifestyle thing.”
She raises her coffee cup in a little toast. “Honestly, I’m just happy you’re getting primo Daddy Dom dick.”
I glare, but it’s not like she’s wrong. “Matteo is not—” I start, but Natalia cuts me off with a snort.
“Matteo is not what, babe? A Daddy Dom? Please. The man’s rearranging your guts and you are living for it.”
I want to argue, but the image of Matteo’s hand on my throat and his voice in my ear makes my cheeks hot, so I take a vicious gulp of coffee and try to change the subject. “How’s work? Any new partnerships?”
She shrugs. “Things are slow right now, and the most excitement I’ve had all week was fantasizing about choking him out with the Medusa prototype you gave me.
” She gives me a wicked grin. “By the way, the new models? Top fucking notch, bitch. I took the Ares for a spin last night and I think I saw God.”
I snort, relieved I’m not the only one who can’t listen to her own internalized monologue without wanting to crawl under the table. “The Ares is a beast.”
“Understatement of the year. I squirted so hard I almost had to call an ambulance.” She leans in, hands cupping her face as if she’s reliving the moment.
“I literally had a vision. I was floating above my body, watching myself get absolutely ruined by a sex toy with your name on it. Bravo, babe. You’re going to make millions. ”
The waiter drops a tiny mountain of breakfast tapas in the middle of the table: deviled eggs with caviar, mini pancakes drowning in honey, a bowl of whipped feta glistening with olive oil, and a single avocado slice toast that’s half the size of my phone.
There’s also a cast-iron skillet of “Italian Eggs Benedict,” which is just eggs and prosciutto on polenta instead of a muffin.
Natalia goes feral, immediately forking one of the eggs and dragging it through the caviar.
We load up our plates, and for a blissed-out minute it’s just coffee, carbs, and the kind of silence that only happens when two best friends are inhaling food instead of trauma-dumping. I’m halfway through my first run at the polenta when my stomach does a full 180 and decides to mutiny.
It starts as a weird, icy flip—like someone just poured a bucket of slush straight into my guts.
“So, you’re staying with him officially now? Or just letting him parent you for a bit?” She waggles a forkful of eggs at me. “I’m not judging, just curious if I can borrow your apartment this weekend for some lifestyle content.”
I try to breathe through my nose and focus on her question, but the smell of hollandaise threatens to finish me.
“I mean, technically, yes. But it’s not…I don’t know. He’s just being extra. Keeps acting like I’m going to faint if left unsupervised.” Even as I say it, I feel sweat break out along my hairline.
Natalia doesn’t notice my distress. She’s too busy demolishing her eggs. “He’s obsessed, Tessa. It’s hot. Also, you look a little pale. You good?”
She narrows her eyes and takes a sip of her own coffee. “You’re sweating.”
I wipe my forehead and try to laugh it off. “Is it that obvious?”
She leans in, voice dropping. “Are you hungover?”
I shake my head, trying to ignore the weird tunnel vision creeping in at the corners.
“No. I swear. I didn’t even drink last night.
Matteo’s got me on this insane health kick—vitamins, hydration, no more tequila shots at two a.m.” I try to laugh, but it comes out hollow, like a wet cough.
“Honestly, I think my body is still recovering from the food poisoning.”