Page 56 of Tempting Tessa

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.”