18. Contessa
Contessa
I’m sitting at Matteo’s kitchen island, staring at the gleaming black marble like it might open up and swallow me whole.
I barely remember how I got here—just flashes of his hand on my back, his voice in my ear as he ushered me from my bathroom floor to his car.
I spent the ride staring out the window, trying to disappear inside my own head while he made calls and barked orders into his phone.
Now he’s moving around his kitchen like some kind of domestic god, chopping and stirring and doing all the shit I never do because I’m too busy building a company that sells sex toys to women who don’t need men to get off. The fucking irony.
“Eat,” Matteo says, sliding a steaming bowl in front of me. The smell hits me—garlic, chicken broth, something lemony and bright—and my stomach does a weird flip that’s not quite nausea but definitely not hunger.
I stare down at the bowl. It’s some kind of soup with tiny pasta shaped like stars, tender chunks of chicken, spinach, and a sprinkle of Parmesan on top. It looks like something you’d feed a sick child, which I guess is appropriate since I’m apparently carrying one.
“What is this?” I ask, voice still raw from crying.
“Stelline in brodo,” he says, like I’m supposed to know what the fuck that means. When I just blink at him, he adds, “Little star soup. My mother used to make it when we were sick. It’s gentle on the stomach.”
The unspoken “and good for the baby” hangs in the air between us.
I pick up the spoon, more to have something to do with my hands than because I actually want to eat. “I didn’t know you could make soup.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, stellina.” He leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, watching me like I might bolt if he takes his eyes off me. “Eat.”
I take a small spoonful, letting the warm broth slide down my throat. It’s good—salty and rich and somehow exactly what my body wants, even if my brain is still screaming. I hate that he knows what I need before I do.
“Is this some traditional Italian pregnancy food or something?” I ask, taking another spoonful.
His mouth quirks up at the corner. “It’s Italian comfort food. The fact that it’s easy to digest and full of nutrients is just a bonus.”
I roll my eyes. “So you’re already on the ‘feeding the incubator’ train.”
“Don’t.” His voice drops, that dangerous edge creeping in. “Don’t talk about yourself that way.”
“Why not? That’s what I am now, right?”
“What do you want to be, Contessa? You are pregnant, yes. What are your alternatives? Hmm?”
I flinch, but something in me refuses to back down. I’ve spent my whole life trying not to be intimidated by anyone.
“Adoption,” I say, the word coming out before I’ve really thought it through.
“No.” He doesn’t raise his voice, which somehow makes it more terrifying. “If you don’t want to be a mother, then no one can make you. I will raise the baby. There will be no adoption.”
I scoff, nearly choking on my soup. “You? A single father? That’s your solution? Mr. Mafia who works eighteen-hour days and has people killed before breakfast?”
He doesn’t answer, just turns and ladles himself a bowl of soup like we’re discussing the weather.
“Well, there is one other option,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.
The look he gives me is so sharp. His eyes turn glacial, pupils shrinking to pinpoints. For one second, I deeply fear I may have pushed him to the extreme edge, because even hinting at an abortion to a man like Matteo is a death sentence damn near.
Now I’m just lashing out. I know I am, and I know it’s fucking childish but cut me a break. I wouldn’t do it; I couldn’t. Because even through my panic, my meltdown and spiral, I knew I had some connection to the little cluster of our merged cells.
“You’ll eat, then I’m taking you upstairs and bringing you out of your head. Non-negotiable.”
The way he says it has me pressing my thighs together. He’s using sex against me, and I want to be mad but the orgasms he gives me make me forget why I’m angry in the first place.
I finish the soup in silence, letting the warmth settle my stomach. Matteo stands at the sink with his back to me, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he rinses our bowls. The muscles in his forearms flex with each movement, and I catch myself staring at the way his veins pop against his olive skin.
It’s weird seeing him like this. Domestic. Human. Not the terrifying mafia fixer who makes grown men piss themselves, but just...a guy washing dishes. In his kitchen. After making me soup because I’m pregnant with his baby.
Jesus Christ, I’m pregnant with his baby.
I shake my head, trying to clear the fog. “Why are you doing that?” I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.
He glances over his shoulder. “Why am I doing what?”
“Why are you doing the dishes?” I gesture toward the sink. “I mean, like, why don’t you leave them for someone else to do. Like hire someone.”
He rolls his eyes before turning back to the sink. “Because doing dishes keeps me grounded and humble. I might have a, let’s say, unconventional job and more money than most, but I can cook and clean for myself on an average day.”
Something about what he says hits me in the chest, unexpected and warm. It crosses my mind that at least my baby won’t be a complete spoiled brat.
My baby. Our baby. Fuck.
I feel my eyes welling up again, and I hate myself for it. I’ve cried more today than I have in the last five years combined.
“Hey,” Matteo’s voice is closer now. He’s drying his hands on a dish towel, watching me with that laser focus. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
I shrug, trying to play it casual, even though my heart is racing. “Nothing. Just...processing.”
He tosses the towel onto the counter and moves toward me, slow and deliberate like I’m a skittish animal. When he reaches me, he slides between my legs, his big hands settling on my thighs.
“Tell me,” he commands, but his voice is soft.
I look down, focusing on the buttons of his shirt instead of his eyes. “It’s stupid.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” His thumb draws circles on my inner thigh, making my skin heat. “Talk to me, Contessa.”
I swallow hard. “I just…I was thinking that maybe our kid won’t be completely fucked up.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest. “That’s a low bar, stellina.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not exactly mother of the year material.” I pick at a non-existent thread on my shirt. “And you’re—”
“Unconventional.”
Yeah, let’s just call it that because I don’t know if I want to voice it.
“I just don’t know how to do this. Any of this,” I whisper, and my voice cracks again.
Matteo’s hands move to cup my face, forcing me to look at him. His eyes are dark, intense, focused solely on me. “You don’t have to know. That’s why I’m here.”
Before I can argue, he scoops me up as if I weigh nothing, one arm under my ass and the other supporting my back. I yelp, grabbing his shoulders to steady myself before wrapping my legs around his waist.
“What are you doing?” I demand, but my voice sounds weak even to my own ears.
“Taking care of you,” he says simply, already carrying me toward the staircase.
I want to fight, to tell him to put me the fuck down, that I can walk on my own, but my body betrays me. I melt against his chest, my head finding the spot between his neck and shoulder that seems made for me. He smells of expensive cologne and something earthy that’s just him.
He pushes open his bedroom door with his shoulder and carries me straight through to the en-suite bathroom.
Matteo sets me on my feet but keeps his hands on my waist, steadying me. “Arms up,” he commands.
I hesitate, then comply, letting him pull my shirt over my head. His fingers brush my skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He unclasps my bra next, sliding it down my arms and tossing it aside.
“Matteo, I don’t think—”
“That’s the problem,” he cuts me off, already working on the button of my jeans. “You’re thinking too much. Let me take care of everything.”
He slides my jeans and panties down my legs in one smooth motion, leaving me naked and shivering in the cool bathroom air. His eyes roam over my body, lingering on my breasts, my stomach, the apex of my thighs.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, and despite everything, heat blooms in my core.
He strips efficiently, unbuttoning his shirt and shrugging it off, then removing his pants and boxer briefs. His cock is already half-hard, thick and heavy between his legs. The sight makes my mouth water, even through my emotional exhaustion.
He steps into the shower and turns on the water, adjusting the temperature before holding out his hand to me. “Come.”
I place my hand in his, letting him guide me under the spray. The water hits my skin like a blessing, hot enough to turn my flesh pink but not scalding. I close my eyes and just stand there, letting it wash over me, baptizing me in steam and heat.
“Turn around,” Matteo says, his voice a low rumble.
I obey without thinking. His hands settle on my shoulders, kneading the tight muscles before sliding down my back. I hear the click of a bottle opening, and then his palms are gliding over my skin, slick with soap.
“Relax,” he murmurs, working his thumbs into the knots at the base of my neck. “Let go.”
My brain just…switches off. Like someone flipped a circuit breaker in my head, cutting power to all the parts that scream and worry and overthink. I sag against him, my forehead resting on the cool stone wall.
“That’s it,” he praises, his mouth at my ear. “Good girl. Let me take care of everything.”
I make a small noise in the back of my throat—not quite a moan, more like surrender. His fingers slide between my legs, cleaning me with gentle strokes.
I am exhausted. Physically, but also emotionally, and maybe I should just stop being a stubborn bitch and let someone take care of me.
Do I trust Matteo? Yes, with my life.
Can I trust him to take care of me? Take care of a baby? Absolutely.
My heart? Now, that’s the million-fucking-dollar question, because I’m not entirely sure.