17. Matteo
Matteo
I’m gonna fucking kill someone if she’s not okay. I’m flexible on who takes the bullet if my woman is hurt.
The elevator ride to Contessa’s floor feels like it’s taking a goddamn century.
I keep checking my watch, grinding my teeth hard enough to crack enamel, and fighting the urge to punch the mirrored wall.
Three fucking hours without contact. No texts.
No calls. Nothing since Rocco dropped her at brunch with her friend.
I was in the middle of negotiating a seven-figure shipment when Rocco called. The second I heard his voice—”Sir, it’s been three hours, and I just walked in to check on Miss Gallo just in case and she’s gone”—I was out the door. The Bulgarians can fucking wait. My pregnant woman can’t.
The doors finally slide open, and I stride down the hallway like death itself. I nod at the doorman, who doesn’t even blink as I pass. He knows better than to stop me. I’ve been coming and going from this building as if I own the place for weeks now.
I pull out my key and slide it into the lock. The door swings open silently.
“Stellina?” I call out, stepping into the apartment. The living room is empty, the lights off. “Contessa!”
No answer. My heart rate kicks up a notch. I scan the room for signs of disturbance—forced entry, broken glass, blood—but everything looks normal. Too fucking normal.
I move through the apartment, checking the kitchen and the office, before heading toward the bedroom.
The bathroom door is ajar, light spilling out into the hallway. I hear something—a sniffle, maybe a sob—and my blood turns to ice.
“Contessa,” I say, pushing the door open.
And there she is, my woman, crumpled on the bathroom floor like a broken doll.
Her hair is a mess, her mascara streaked down her face in black rivers.
Why the fuck is she crying? No one causes her tears; every one of them belongs to me.
She’s clutching something in her hand, knuckles white with tension.
“Get out,” she hisses, not looking up at me.
I ignore her, stepping into the bathroom. My eyes scan the counter, and I freeze.
Pregnancy tests.
My heart stops, then restarts at double speed. I don’t need to see the results. I know what they say. I’ve made sure of it.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” she demands, finally looking up at me. Her eyes are swollen, red-rimmed, furious.
I crouch down in front of her, close enough to touch but not reaching for her yet. She’s like a wounded animal right now—one wrong move and she’ll bolt.
“Where else would I be, amore?”
“This isn’t your place! I’m not your fucking property!”
She’s falling apart right in front of me, and every instinct I have says to grab her, pin her down, make her listen. My palm itches with the need to connect with her ass, to remind her who the fuck she belongs to. But I force myself to breathe, to think past the red haze of anger and possession.
“Contessa,” I say, keeping my voice level despite the rage building in my chest. “You disappeared. No call. No text. Rocco couldn’t find you. What the fuck was I supposed to do?”
“Leave me alone!” She hurls one of the pregnancy tests at my head. I catch it mid-air, glancing at the double pink lines before tossing it aside. “I can’t—I can’t do this right now. I can’t look at you.”
Her voice breaks on the last word, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. She looks so damn small sitting there on the cold tile, knees pulled to her chest like she’s trying to disappear.
“Tough shit,” I growl, but there’s no real heat behind it. I can’t be angry at her, not when she’s looking at me like I’ve destroyed her world.
I move closer, ignoring her weak attempts to push me away, and lower myself to the bathroom floor beside her. The tile is cold and hard against my ass, but I don’t give a fuck.
“What are you doing?” she asks, voice thick with tears and confusion.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” I reach for her, slowly, like I’m approaching a wild animal. “I’m sitting with you.”
She stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “On the bathroom floor? You? Mr. Ten-Thousand-Dollar-Suit is sitting on a bathroom floor?”
I let out a harsh laugh. “Yeah, well, my pregnant woman is on the bathroom floor, so that’s where I need to be.”
Her face crumples at the word ‘pregnant,’ fresh tears spilling over. “Don’t say that. Don’t fucking say that.”
“Why not? It’s true.” I slide closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She resists for a second, then collapses against me like her strings have been cut. “You’re carrying my baby, Contessa. That’s not something I’m going to pretend isn’t happening.”
“This is insane,” she sobs, fists clenching in my shirt. “You can’t—this isn’t—I take my fucking pill every day! Every goddamn day, Matteo!”
I stroke her hair, letting her rant. Let her get it all out now. She’ll calm down eventually, and then I can explain how things are going to go.
She pulls back to look at me, her eyes wild with panic. “I can’t be pregnant. I’m not ready. I’m not—my company is just getting off the ground. My dad will fucking kill me.”
I tense at the mention of Conrad, but keep my face neutral. Her father’s reaction isn’t my primary concern right now.
“This changes everything,” she continues, words spilling out faster. “I have deadlines. I’m about to launch a whole line. How the fuck am I supposed to do all that with a baby?” She shakes her head, running her hands through her hair. “I never thought I’d be a single parent. I never wanted—”
That’s fucking it.
I grab her chin, forcing her to look at me. My grip isn’t gentle, but I’m careful not to hurt her. Just firm enough to make her freeze, to make those big eyes lock with mine.
“If you think for one second you’re single or going to be a single fucking parent, then clearly I haven’t been clear enough.” My voice is low and dangerous. “You’re not alone in this, Contessa. You’re mine. This baby is mine. And I take care of what’s mine.”
Her pupils dilate, her breath catching. “Matteo—”
“No. You listen to me.” I pull her fully into my lap, arranging her so she’s straddling me. “You think I’m going to let you do this alone? You think I’d put a baby in you and then walk away? What kind of man do you think I am?”
She’s trembling, but her body is melting against mine despite her protests. “I don’t know what kind of man you are,” she whispers. “That’s the problem.”
I slide my hand to her throat, not squeezing, just resting there so she feels my presence, my control. “I’m the kind of man who takes responsibility. I’m the kind of man who protects what’s his. And make no mistake, Contessa—you are mine. This baby is mine. I’m not going anywhere.”
Her eyes search my face, looking for lies, for weakness. She won’t find any. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.
“I’m scared,” she admits, voice so small it makes my chest ache.
I stroke her cheek with my thumb. “Fear keeps you alert. But you don’t need to be afraid of me, or of doing this alone. Because you’re not alone.”
She leans into my touch despite herself. “My dad—”
“I’ll handle Conrad.” I cut her off before she can spiral again. “Your father and I have been friends for decades. He trusts me. He’ll understand.”
She lets out a bitter laugh. “Understand? You think he’ll understand that his best friend knocked up his daughter? That you’ve been fucking me behind his back?”
“If he doesn’t like it, he can take it out on me. Never you.”
I reach up and wipe the tears from her cheeks, thumbs gentle against her soft skin. Her mascara’s smeared to hell, black streaks painting her face like paint. Even crying, she’s fucking gorgeous.
“Can we get off this floor now?” I ask, voice gentler than I usually allow.
She stares at me for a long moment, those big eyes still swimming with tears, then lets out this broken sound—half hiccup, half laugh.
“Fine,” she whispers, uncurling from my lap. Her legs wobble as she stands, and I steady her with a hand at her hip.
I’m about to push myself up when I realize I’m eye-level with her stomach.
My child is in there—my seed growing inside her, making her mine in the most primal way possible.
Something possessive and fierce surges through me, and before I can think, I lean forward and press my lips against her belly through the thin material of her top.
She goes rigid under my touch, breath hitching. I linger there a moment, breathing her in, imagining the changes her body will undergo in the coming months. When I finally rise to my full height, I try to catch her eye, to make her see what this means to me.
But she turns her head away, pretending she didn’t notice the gesture, like she can ignore the significance if she just refuses to acknowledge it.
That’s cute, too bad it’s not fucking happening.
I catch her chin between my thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look at me. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” she asks, voice small.
“Pretend this isn’t happening. Pretend I’m not here.” I stroke her bottom lip with my thumb. “I know you’re scared. I know this isn’t what you planned. But I’m not going anywhere, and neither is this baby.”
Fresh tears well in her eyes. “I can’t think straight right now. I need—I don’t know what I need.”
“You need to eat something,” I decide, releasing her chin. “When’s the last time you had a full meal? And don’t lie to me.”
She shrugs, looking away again. “I had some brunch with Natalia before I...before I left.”
“And how much of that did you actually eat before you ran off?”
She has the grace to look guilty. “Not much.”
“That’s what I thought.” I take her hand, guiding her out of the bathroom. “Come on. Let’s get some food in you. And then I’ll get you out of that pretty ass head of yours.”