“He must be mistaken,” I say smoothly, too smoothly.
“Funny,” Cesaro snaps back, “because he sounded pretty damn sure.”
Silence drops between us, thick and poisonous.
His tone is tight as he says, “Please tell me you haven’t jeopardized everything with Fran by trying to get that girl pregnant.”
But I don’t buy it for a moment. He’s trying to piss me off. And to call herthat girl. The cable in my neck pulls tight. Heat flares through me. Pure, territorial rage.
He has no right to ask. No right to speak Elizabeth’s name in the same breath as “jeopardize.”
I force myself to breathe once so I don’t say something that will give me away.
When I speak, my voice is low and lethal.
“Watch your tone, Cesaro.”
Because if he presses me or questions me again I’m not sure I’ll be able to hold the line between Don and man.
“You know I’m right,” he says quietly. “What good would it do for her to get pregnant now? Fran is having your child. Fran and that baby are your future.”
I close my eyes.
Because I fucking hate that there is a part of me, small and rational and buried under all the obsession, that knows he’s right.
But it doesn’t matter and it sure as fuck doesn’t touch the storm inside me. Because the rest of me wants Elizabeth carrying my child more than I’ve wanted anything in years.
If she were pregnant, she’d be tethered to me.
Claimed.
Untouchable.
Mine in a way no one could rewrite or erase.
She would belong to me in the oldest, most undeniable way.
And no one could take her from me.
“Call me when you have news,” I say, my voice clipped, stripped down to command.
I end the call before he can respond.
Before he can say anything else that makes too much sense.
I grab my jacket from the chair, the fabric whispering against my fingers like the prelude to a decision I’ve already made.
It’s time to go home to my girl. To the only person who feels like something real in a world built on alliances, expectations, and lies.
And God help anyone who tries to take her from me.
24
Birdie
I’m in love with Lorenzo Conti.
There’s no denying it anymore. No pretending it’s lust or loneliness or gratitude. No lying to myself that I can pull back before it’s too late. Three weeks into our month-long arrangement and I already know I won’t survive the end of it intact.
