“Sometimes,” he says, each word rougher than the last, “I let myself pretend this baby is mine.”
The room goes silent.
My breath catches so hard it hurts. There it is—that terrible tenderness again, the one that makes him look less like a ruthless man and more like someone standing too close to his own ruin.
“And what,” I ask, because it’s safer to be cruel than honest, “would a Mafia Don do with two babies?”
His mouth hardens, but he doesn’t look away.
I shake my head, forcing a brittle laugh. “You should be grateful it isn’t yours, Lorenzo. It would only make this mess worse.”
Something unreadable passes over his face then—pain, fury, longing, all of it tangled too tightly to separate.
And when he finally moves again, it’s with the kind of intensity that feels less like desire and more like punishment for daring to say it out loud.
When I shatter, it’s with his name on my lips and tears in myeyes. He follows a moment later, filling me. I reach for him to kiss him, but he pulls away, rolling to the side. I try like hell not to be hurt. This was just sex, and he thinks I’m pregnant by another man. That’s all.
I lie there staring up at the ceiling, my breathing still uneven and my skin still humming.
He turns his head and looks at me, one arm thrown over his eyes as if he can’t quite bear the sight of what we’ve done.
“That,” he says roughly, “was a terrible idea.”
A laugh slips out of me, breathless and tired and just a little hysterical. “You say that like you weren’t fully involved.”
He lowers his arm and fixes me with a dark look. He looks gorgeous. Far too much like a man I could love if I were stupid enough to keep making the same mistake. And since this is the third time we’ve ended up in bed together, maybe I am that stupid.
“When do you leave?” I ask.
Something shifts in his expression.
“As soon as I dress.”
I look away first, because that’s safer than letting him see the truth. Safer than letting him notice that I’m disappointed. Or worse—that some terrified part of me is already wondering what happens if he doesn’t come back.
I force my voice to stay even. “What do I do if something happens to you?”
“The guards know what to do.”
“And that is?”
He stands and reaches for his clothes, pulling them on with maddening calm, as if he hasn’t just turned my body inside out and left the rest of me to deal with the aftermath.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Lorenzo—”
He turns back so fast I barely have time to inhale before hismouth is on mine. The kiss is hard and sudden and full of everything we are both too proud to say. I kiss him back with equal desperation, pouring all of it into the contact—the fear, the anger, the need, the humiliating ache in my chest. Letting him feel everything I can’t bear to put into words.
Don’t go.
Come back.
Don’t make me miss you.
He pulls away just as quickly, like staying one second longer might ruin him.
“I’ll see you in a few days.”
