25. Matteo
Matteo
I’ve faced down men who wanted me dead, negotiated with dons, and stared into the barrel of a loaded gun without blinking. But walking into this gym to talk with Conrad Gallo is the hardest thing I’ve ever done because of history.
I push through the heavy glass door of the boxing gym we’ve been members of for over two decades.
The smell hits me first—sweat, leather, and the metallic tang of blood.
It’s a place where men come to beat the shit out of each other in the name of fitness, where we’ve sparred hundreds of times, where we’ve bled together, laughed together, built a friendship that should have lasted until we were old men wheezing on park benches.
Conrad is already in the ring, his back to me, hands wrapped and ready. He’s wearing black shorts and a white tank that shows off the tattoos snaking down his arms. At forty-four, he’s still built like he could go twelve rounds with someone half his age.
I drop my gym bag by the ring and start wrapping my own hands. The ritual calms me—the familiar tightness of the tape, the methodical process that gives me time to think.
“You came,” Conrad says without turning around.
“Did you think I wouldn’t?”
He shrugs, still not looking at me. “I wasn’t sure you had the balls.”
I finish wrapping my right hand and move to the left. “You called, I came. That’s how this works.”
“Does it?” He finally turns, and the look in his eyes makes my gut clench. “I thought that was how our friendship worked. But apparently, I was wrong.”
I climb through the ropes, keeping my movements slow and deliberate. “We’re not here to talk about friendship.”
“No?” he raises an eyebrow. “What are we here for, then? To pretend everything’s fine? To spar like nothing’s changed?”
I stand across from him, my weight balanced evenly on both feet. “You called me here, Conrad. You tell me.”
His jaw works, the muscle jumping beneath his stubble. “My daughter. My twenty-three-year-old daughter. Six months pregnant. With your baby.”
There it is. The thing that’s been hanging between us since Sunday. The thing that’s been eating him alive for three days.
“Yes,” I say simply.
His fist comes out of nowhere—fast, precise, catching me on the jaw. The impact snaps my head to the side, but I don’t go down. I’ve taken worse hits from better fighters.
“That’s for lying to me,” he snarls, shaking out his hand.
I touch my jaw, checking for damage. Nothing broken. “I deserved that.”
“Damn right you did.” He circles me, his footwork still sharp despite his anger. “How long, Matteo? How long have you been fucking my little girl?”
I keep my guard up, watching his movements. “About nine months.”
“Nine months.” He laughs, the sound bitter and raw. “Nine months you’ve been sneaking around behind my back, sticking your dick in my daughter, and not once did you think to tell me?”
“I wanted to. She wasn’t ready.”
“Wasn’t ready?” He throws another punch; this one I block with my forearm. “My daughter wasn’t ready to tell me you knocked her up, so you just what? Kept fucking her? Kept getting her pregnant?”
The accusation lands harder than his fist. “She was already pregnant; you can’t keep getting someone pregnant. It wasn’t like that.”
“Then what was it like, Matteo?” He’s breathing hard now, not from exertion but from rage. “Enlighten me. Tell me how my best friend ended up balls-deep in my daughter without me having a fucking clue.”
I lower my guard, making myself vulnerable. “I love her, Conrad.”
The words hit him like a physical blow. He stumbles back, his face draining of color. “Don’t you dare say that to me. Don’t you fucking dare.”
“It’s the truth.” I keep my voice steady despite the storm brewing behind his eyes. “I love her. I’ve loved her for a while now.”
“You love her.” He repeats it like it’s the most absurd thing he’s ever heard. “My daughter. The girl you watched grow up. The girl you held as a baby. You love her.”
I nod, not breaking eye contact. “Yes.”
Another punch. This one catches me in the ribs, driving the air from my lungs. I double over, gasping, but straighten up before he can follow through.
“That’s for being a sick fuck,” he hisses.
I take a breath, feeling my ribs protest. “I understand you’re angry—”
“Angry?” His laugh is sharp enough to cut glass. “I’m not angry, Matteo. I’m fucking devastated. You were supposed to be the one person I could trust with anything. With anyone. And you—” His voice breaks, and that’s worse than any punch he could throw. “You took my daughter.”
“I didn’t take her.” I shake my head. “She came to me willingly. She’s not a child, Conrad. She’s a woman who made her own choice.”
“My choice would have been to stay the fuck away from her,” he spits. “But you couldn’t do that, could you? You saw something you wanted, and you took it, just like you always do.”
The accusation stings because there’s truth in it. I’ve never been a man who waits for what he wants. I’ve always taken it.
“Maybe,” I admit. “But she wanted me too. She still does.”
He lunges at me, but I sidestep, letting his momentum carry him past. He recovers quickly, turning to face me again.
“She’s twenty-three,” he says, his voice dropping to something dangerous. “You’re forty-five. Do the math, Matteo. That’s a twenty-two-year difference.”
“I’m aware of the age difference.” I circle him slowly. “But it doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change how I feel about her.”
“Feel about her,” Conrad scoffs, circling me like a shark. “You don’t feel shit for her. You want to fuck her. That’s what this is about.”
“You think I’d risk our friendship just to fuck someone?” I keep my voice level despite the anger building in my chest. “You think I’d knock up your daughter just for a quick lay?”
“I think you’re a greedy bastard who takes what he wants.” He throws a jab that I block easily. “Always have been.”
“That’s rich coming from a man who married a woman his daughter’s age.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, and I immediately regret them.
Conrad’s face darkens. “Don’t you dare bring Kat into this.”
“Why not? You want to talk about inappropriate age gaps? Look in your own fucking mirror.”
His fist connects with my jaw before I can react—a sucker punch that snaps my head back. I taste blood, copper and warm, pooling at the corner of my mouth.
“That’s for mentioning my wife,” he growls.
I straighten up slowly, feeling my split lip with my tongue. I wipe the blood away with my thumb, studying the crimson smear on my skin.
“That’s your one and only pass,” I say, my voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes men piss themselves. “You’d do well to remember just who the fuck I am, Gallo.”
The air between us shifts. Conrad steps back, huffing, still angry, but something in his eyes changes. Recognition. Respect. Fear, maybe. He nods once, a sharp jerk of his chin.
Friendship got him a lot—three solid hits, a split lip, bruised ribs—but that’s where it ends. As a high-ranking member of the Del Mar Family, weakness cannot be perceived by anyone. Not even my oldest friend.
“Now,” I continue, raising my guard, “you want to keep going? Or you want to actually talk like men?”
He studies me for a long moment, his chest heaving. The rage is still there, simmering beneath the surface, but something else has crept in. Resignation, maybe. Or acceptance of the new reality.
“Talk,” he finally says, dropping his hands to his sides. “But I’m not promising I won’t hit you again, but you’ll see it coming.”
I lower my guard but don’t relax completely. “Fair enough.”
He moves to the edge of the ring and sits on the canvas, his back against the ropes. I follow suit, settling across from him with enough distance between us that he can’t reach me without getting up first.
“She’s really pregnant?” he asks, his voice rough.
“Six months. The baby’s healthy. Strong.”
His jaw clenches. “And you’re together? Like, actually together?”
I nod. “She’s living with me. Has been for a while now.”
“Living with you.” He repeats it like he’s trying to make the words make sense. “My daughter is living with you. In your house. Sleeping in your bed.”
“Carrying my child,” I add, because I’m not going to sugarcoat this. “And I’m going to marry her.”
His head snaps up. “What did you just say?”
“You heard me.” I meet his gaze without flinching. “I’m going to make her my wife.”
He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “She won’t marry you. She’s too smart for that.”
“She will.” I’m certain of it. “And when she does, I want you there.”
“Fuck you, Matteo.” He runs a hand over his face. “You want me to walk my daughter down the aisle to you? After everything?”
“I want you to be part of our lives. Part of your grandchild’s life.” I pause, letting the words sink in. “She needs her father, Conrad. And your grandchild needs a grandfather.”
Something cracks in his expression—the hard shell of anger giving way to something raw and painful beneath. “You don’t get to use my grandchild as leverage.”
“I’m not.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “I’m telling you the truth. She misses you. She’s been crying herself to sleep every night since Sunday.”
The information hits him harder than my fist ever could. His shoulders slump, the fight draining out of him. “She’s been crying?”
“Like a fucking baby,” I say, not softening it. “She thinks you hate her.”
“I don’t hate her,” he whispers, and his voice breaks on the last word. “I could never hate her.”
“Then tell her that.” I keep my voice steady, despite the ache in my chest. “Call her. Go see her. Stop punishing her for something that’s not her fault.”
“Not her fault?” His eyes flash with renewed anger. “She was the one who—”
“She was the one who made her own choice,” I cut him off. “Just like you made yours when you married Kat. Just like I made mine when I fell in love with her.”
He stares at me for a long time, his expression unreadable. Then he lets out a long, shaky breath.