16. Contessa #2
Natalia eyes me, all the mirth sucked out of her face, and for a second I think she’s about to go full Dr. House on me. Sometimes she gets like this—dead serious, hyper-focused, as if she can will the truth out of your bones with nothing but a stare.
“Contessa.”
My spine stiffens. She hasn’t called me by my full name since college, when I nearly overdosed on energy drinks and passed out in the middle of a final.
“How late are you?”
I blink. “Late for what?”
Natalia puts down her fork, wipes her mouth, and leans over the table so close her bun almost dips into the hollandaise. “Your period, Tessa. When was your last one?”
I reach for my phone, scroll to my cycle tracker app, and see the little red dot blinking, overdue.
I drop the phone. My mouth is suddenly filled with cotton. “Oh.”
Natalia’s eyes narrow, then widen, and she claps a hand over her mouth. “Wait. No. Are you really—?”
“No!” I snap, panic rising in my chest like a tsunami. “No, Nat, I’m not. I can’t be.”
My hands are shaking as I stare at the app, at that blinking red dot mocking me.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “It’s just stress. And the food poisoning, or whatever it was. That can mess with your cycle, right? Plus, I’ve been taking my pill religiously. Every day, same time.”
Natalia reaches across the table and grabs my hand, her eyes boring into mine. “Tessa, honey, the pill isn’t 100% effective. Especially if you’re fucking an older mobster who’s obsessed with you.”
I think back to the night at the gelato shop, to all the mornings I’ve spent hunched over Matteo’s pristine toilet. I hadn’t even considered...
“I—maybe? I don’t know.” My voice sounds distant, like it’s coming from someone else. “But I’m not pregnant. I can’t be. Matteo would...”
I trail off, suddenly remembering the way he watches me when I sleep. The way his hand always finds its way to my stomach. The way he whispers filthy things about filling me up, breeding me, making me his.
Oh god.
My heart is hammering so hard I think it might crack a rib. The restaurant suddenly feels too hot, too loud, too everything.
“Tessa, breathe,” Natalia says, squeezing my hand. “Just breathe.”
I try, but it feels like someone’s sitting on my chest. “I can’t be pregnant,” I repeat, as if saying it enough will make it true.
“So what? Immaculate conception?” Natalia cuts in. “Bitch, you’ve been fucking a man who looks at you like he wants to breed you into next Tuesday, and now you’re late and puking at brunch. Connect the dots.”
“I’m not,” I insist, but my voice cracks. “I can’t be.”
I’m sitting on the cold tile of my bathroom floor now, knees pulled to my chest, staring at a row of plastic sticks lined up on the counter like tiny dominoes of doom. Six of them. Because apparently I thought one or two or even five wouldn’t be definitive enough.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I whisper, rocking slightly.
I bolted from the restaurant like my ass was on fire, leaving Natalia with the bill and a half-eaten plate of food. I didn’t even call for Rocco. Just threw cash at a cab driver and raced home, ordering pregnancy tests on the app before I’d even unlocked my apartment door.
The delivery guy looked at me like I was buying crack when he handed over the bag. I tipped him twenty bucks to never speak of this again.
Now I’m waiting. Three minutes feels like three years.
I haven’t looked at my phone since I got home. It’s been buzzing non-stop—probably Natalia, and definitely Matteo. I can’t deal with either of them right now. Not until I know.
The timer on my phone goes off, a cheerful little chime that makes me want to vomit again. Pulling my thumb away from my mouth, I notice I’ve bitten my nail down to the skin.
“It’s fine,” I tell myself, squeezing my eyes shut. “You’re not pregnant. You can’t be pregnant. It’s food poisoning or stress or maybe you have a fucking tapeworm.”
I’m lying to myself, and I know it. I’ve been nauseous every morning for a week. My tits are so sore that even Matteo’s gentlest touches make me wince. And I’m late—not a little late, but the kind of late that makes rational women buy six pregnancy tests and hide in their bathrooms crying.
I open my eyes and force myself to look.
Six tests. Six pink lines. Six little fuck-yous from the universe.
“No,” I breathe, scrambling to my knees. “No, no, no.”
I grab the first test, squinting at the result window like it might change if I glare hard enough. Two pink lines stare back, unwavering.
“This is wrong,” I mutter, grabbing the second test. Two more pink lines. “These are defective.”
I check the third one. The fourth. The fifth. The sixth. All positive. All mocking me with their pink certainty.
“FUCK!” I hurl one against the wall, watching it bounce off and clatter to the floor. The plastic doesn’t even have the decency to break.
I sit back on my heels, heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. Pregnant. I’m fucking pregnant. With Matteo Marino’s baby.
The room spins a little, and I grab the counter to steady myself.
How did this happen? I’ve been taking my pills religiously. Every day, same time, no misses. Matteo’s been coming inside me like it’s his goddamn mission in life to hit a bullseye.
What the fuck am I going to do and how the hell am I going to deal if my dad finds out?
I am so fucking fucked.