24. Contessa
Contessa
I’m mid-bite of a croissant when Matteo’s phone buzzes for the third time in five minutes. He glances at the screen, his jaw tightening in that way that tells me something’s wrong.
“Mr. Del Mar,” he mutters, pushing back from the table. “I have to go address something with Armand outside for a moment.”
I roll my eyes and wave my butter knife at him. “Go, Mr. Mafia Man. Do your shady business. But I’m not promising your bacon will be here when you get back.”
His eyes darken as he leans down, his breath hot against my ear. “Touch my bacon and you’ll get a spanking, stellina.”
The promise in his voice sends a shiver down my spine, but I refuse to let him see it. “You’ll have to catch me first,” I whisper back.
He growls, nipping at my earlobe before straightening up. “Ten minutes. Behave yourself.”
I watch him weave through the crowded restaurant, his broad shoulders cutting an imposing path through the Sunday brunch crowd.
The hostess practically melts as he passes her, and I can’t blame her.
Matteo is in his casual Sunday best. Dark jeans and a charcoal Henley that hugs his shoulders and chest. It’s enough to make any woman’s panties evaporate.
Unfortunately for the rest of the population, I’m the only one whose panties disappear now when it comes to him.
The second he’s out of sight, I reach across the table and snag a strip of bacon from his plate. The crispy, salty perfection practically melts on my tongue. Worth every potential consequence.
I’m on my third piece when I hear it.
“Coco?”
My blood turns to ice. That voice is familiar, and absolutely not supposed to be here right now. I freeze mid-chew, a piece of stolen bacon halfway to my mouth, as my father appears at the edge of our table.
“Dad?” I manage, nearly choking on the evidence of my petty crime. “What are you doing here?”
He glances at the empty chair across from me, then at the plate with its decimated bacon. “Having brunch with Kat and Sofia. We were just leaving when I spotted you.” His eyes narrow. “Alone?”
I swallow hard, my mind racing. “Just eating with a friend.”
“Which friend?” He pulls out Matteo’s chair and sits down, making himself comfortable. My stomach drops to my toes.
“Natalia,” I lie, the name tumbling out before I can stop it. “She had to run, so I’m just enjoying the rest of my food.”
There’s no way I can say she’s running late. The second plate and glass gives that away.
My father nods, but his eyes are scanning the restaurant with that shrewd look I know too well. “Your mother used to love this place. Remember?”
I nod, memories of Sunday brunches with both my parents flooding back. “Yeah, the French toast was her favorite.”
“She’d be proud of you, you know.” His voice softens. “Building your own company from nothing.”
I feel a pang of guilt. If only he knew how much nothing actually cost, and who’s been footing the bill. “Thanks, Dad.”
He’s quiet for a moment, studying me in that way that always made me squirm as a teenager. “You look good, Coco. Different.”
“Different how?” I ask, my throat suddenly dry.
He tilts his head, studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve. “I can’t quite put my finger on it. You look…settled, content. Maybe even happy.”
My heart pounds against my ribs. If only he knew why. “I guess I am. Work is going well.”
“It’s not just work.” He leans forward, lowering his voice. “You’ve been avoiding me, Coco. And I want to know why.”
I shift in my seat, guilt gnawing at my insides. “I haven’t been avoiding you, Dad. I’ve just been busy.”
“Don’t give me the same shit you gave me on the phone.” His eyes narrow. “Something’s going on with you. I can feel it.”
I take a sip of water, buying time. “Nothing’s going on. I’ve just been focused on the business.”
“Bullshit.” The word comes out harsh, making me flinch. “I know when you’re lying to me. You’ve been doing it since you were five years old and you still haven’t gotten any better at it. Now I know you didn’t break a vase like when you were a child, so fess up.”
“Dad—”
“Don’t ‘Dad’ me.” He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re hiding something, and I want to know what it is.”
I glance toward the door, praying Matteo stays outside a little longer. “Can we talk about this another time? I really need to get going.”
“Without finishing the rest of the bacon?” He raises an eyebrow.
I need to end this conversation. Now. “Look, Dad, I have a lot to do today. Can we catch up properly next week? I promise I’ll call you and we’ll do dinner.”
He studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “Fine. But we’re not done with this conversation.”
Relief floods through me. “Great. Give Kat and Sofia my love.”
I reach for my phone, planning to text Matteo to stay the hell away until my father leaves. My fingers are trembling as I unlock the screen and open our message thread.
But before I can type a single word, I feel the shift in the air. My stomach drops as I look up to find him striding toward our table, his eyes locked on mine.
No. No, no, no.
I try to catch his eye, like abort mission, motherfucker. Do not come over here and act all MINE! with my dad right there. Please eight-pound, one-ounce baby Jesus do not act like you’re with me.
“Stellina,” he says as he reaches the table, completely ignoring my father’s presence. His eyes drop to his plate, then back to me. “I see you did indeed steal my bacon.”
The world stops spinning. Well, guess my prayers to the infant Jesus were not heard. My father’s head snaps up, his expression hardening as recognition dawns.
“Matteo?” His voice is dangerously quiet. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Matteo’s eyes finally shift to my father, and I watch as the realization hits him. For a split second, something flashes across his face before a mask of composure slides back into place.
“Funny running into you here,” Matteo says, his voice smooth as silk as he slides into the chair beside me. He reaches for his water glass and takes a leisurely sip, like we’re all just old friends catching up over brunch and not standing on the edge of a fucking volcano.
My father’s eyes narrow to dangerous slits. “I asked you a question, Marino.”
Matteo sets the glass down with deliberate calm. “I’m having brunch with Contessa. What does it look like?”
The tension is suffocating. I can practically see the gears turning in my father’s head, connecting dots that I’ve been desperately trying to keep separate.
“So I guess Natalia actually means,” my father turns to me, his voice dropping into a tone that used to make me confess to everything from sneaking out to breaking curfew, “Uncle Matteo, huh?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My throat has gone bone dry.
“Matteo,” my father repeats, testing the name like it tastes wrong in his mouth. “My Matteo. My best friend of twenty-five years.”
“Dad, it’s not—”
“Quiet, Contessa.” He doesn’t even look at me. His eyes are locked on Matteo like a predator sizing up prey. “I want to hear this from him.”
Matteo leans back in his chair, completely unbothered. “We were having brunch. That’s all.”
“That’s all?” My father’s laugh is cold and humorless. “You expect me to believe that? That you just happened to be having brunch with my daughter, alone, on a Sunday morning?”
I glance desperately between them, my heart hammering so hard I’m sure they can both hear it. Matteo is sipping his water again, the picture of casual indifference, while my father looks like he’s about to flip the fucking table.
“Conrad,” Matteo says, setting his glass down, “we’re both adults. Contessa and I—”
“Don’t.” My father holds up a hand, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping. “Don’t you dare sit there and act like this is normal. Like this is just two friends catching up over eggs benedict.”
The restaurant has gone quiet around us. I can feel curious stares burning into my back, but I can’t look away from the disaster unfolding at our table.
“Dad, please,” I whisper, “can we talk about this somewhere else?”
He finally turns to me, and the hurt in his eyes makes my stomach twist. “How long, Contessa?”
The question hangs in the air between us. I can’t answer. I can’t breathe.
“How long have you been fucking my best friend?”
The word hit me. My face burns with shame and anger and a thousand other emotions I can’t name.
“Conrad.” Matteo’s voice has an edge now, a warning. “Watch your language.”
“Watch my language?” My father’s voice rises, drawing more attention. “You want me to watch my language while you’re—what? Fucking her? Dating my daughter? What exactly is happening here?”
I grab my water glass with shaking hands, taking a desperate sip. The cool liquid does nothing to ease the heat spreading across my cheeks.
“Dad, lower your voice,” I hiss, acutely aware of the growing audience. “People are staring.”
“I don’t give a fuck who’s staring!” He slams his hand on the table, making the silverware jump. “I want answers, and I want them now!”
Matteo finally puts down his water glass and leans forward, his expression hardening.
“You want answers? Fine. Contessa and I have been seeing each other for several months. We’re together.
And before you say another word, I want you to remember that she’s an adult who can make her own decisions and that your wife is quite literally her age. Glass houses should not cast stones.”
My father stares at him, then at me, then back at him. The color drains from his face, replaced by something dark and dangerous.
“Several months,” he repeats, each word dripping with venom. “My best friend. And my daughter. Behind my back.”
“It’s not like that,” I try, my voice cracking. “We didn’t plan—”
“Didn’t plan what?” His eyes snap back to me. “Didn’t plan to fuck each other? Didn’t plan to lie to me? What exactly didn’t you plan, Contessa?”