Chapter 29: The Scan
The clinic door swung shut, sealing you into a sudden, surreal quiet. The city sounds—horns, shouts, the rumble of traffic—seemed to belong to another planet. All you could still hear was that rapid, galloping rhythm from the speakers, a sound now etched into your bones.
Matteo hadn’t let go of your hand. His grip was almost painful, but you didn’t pull away. You could feel the fine tremor running through him.
“Okay,” he said, his voice rough. He cleared his throat. “Okay.” He said it like he was anchoring himself to the word.
Antonio was already pulling the SUV to the curb, his eyes scanning the street. There were a few people clustered near the clinic entrance, phones held aloft. “Five seconds,” Antonio said, his tone flat. “Straight in.”
Matteo nodded, his public mask sliding down—the easy smile, the confident set of his shoulders. But his hand, as he helped you from the car, was gentle, a protective cradle at your elbow. The clicks started immediately, a staccato insect chatter.
“Matteo! Over here!”
“Is it true? Are you expecting?”
He kept his body between you and the worst of it, a wall of muscle and designer fabric. “Grazie, ragazzi! Beautiful day!” he called out, not breaking stride. He didn’t confirm or deny. He just moved, a practiced dance of evasion and charm.
The door thudded shut, cutting off the shouts. The engine purred. Matteo’s smile vanished. He leaned forward, tapping the partition. “Drive. Anywhere. Just drive for a bit.”
The car pulled into the flow of traffic. He sank back, finally releasing your hand to run both of his over his face. He let out a long, shaky breath. “Dio mio.”
“You okay?”
He turned to look at you, his eyes wide, almost wild. “Okay? I have just heard… I have just seen…” He shook his head, words failing. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the black-and-white printout the technician had given them. He stared at it, his thumb brushing over the grainy, ghostly silhouette. “Alessio,” he whispered. Then he looked at you. “You felt that, yes? The heartbeat. In the room.”
“I felt it.”
“It was… it was like an engine. A tiny, perfect engine.” He carefully, reverently, slid the image back into his pocket, patting it once. “I need a coffee. Or a whiskey. Probably both.”
You laughed, the sound a release of your own coiled tension. “It’s ten-thirty in the morning.”
“So, coffee,” he said, a ghost of his usual grin returning. He tapped the partition again. “Luca’s place. The back entrance, Antonio.”
Fifteen minutes later, you were slipped through a rusted gate into a tiny, sun-drenched courtyard behind a nondescript espresso bar. The owner, a wizened man with a magnificent mustache, merely grunted at Matteo and began pulling shots without being asked.
They settled at a rickety iron table, hidden by a bougainvillea dripping magenta blooms. The normalcy of it was jarring. The scent of ground coffee beans, the clatter of cups, distant radio chatter in Italian. A world away from the gel-smeared screen and that profound, wrenching sound.
Matteo dumped two sugars into his tiny cup, stirred absently. He hadn’t mentioned the proposal, the frantic promises whispered against your cheek in the clinic’s hallway. The ‘house, ring, life’ hung between you, a tangible, unspoken weight.
He took a sip, winced at the heat, and set it down. “They will not leave us alone now,” he stated, matter-of-fact. “It is a scent of blood for them. A baby is a story that never ends.” He looked at you directly. “I meant what I said. Everything. We should start looking at houses. Outside the city. With a garden. A wall.”
“Matteo—”
“And the ring.” He said it quickly, as if pushing the words out. “I know it was not… romantic. In a hallway with antiseptic smell. But I meant it. I want you to have it. I want everyone to see it and know.” His knee was jiggling under the table, a nervous, endless motion.
You reached over, stilling it with your hand. “Breathe.”
He took a deliberate, deep breath. The jiggling stopped.
“The house with a garden sounds perfect,” you said slowly. “Practical. Necessary. The ring…” You watched his face, the hope and fear warring there. “The ring is a promise. We already have the promise. We don’t need a symbol to make it real for us.”
His brow furrowed. “You do not want it?”
“I didn’t say that.” You chose your words carefully, navigating the minefield of his intensity. “I just said the promise came first. In the tunnel after the game. Here, now. The ring can come when it’s not…” You gestured around the sunlit courtyard, at the echo of the clinic still haunting the air. “When it’s not part of the same conversation as ultrasound gel and paparazzi.”
He was silent for a long moment, studying you. The footballer calculating angles, the man searching for truth. “You think I am rushing. That this is the adrenaline. The emotion of the sound.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he admitted, without hesitation. “Of course I am. But the feeling underneath it… that is not rushing. That is the foundation. The adrenaline just… makes me want to build the whole house in one day.” He spun his espresso cup on its saucer. “I am scared if I wait, something will take it away. This feeling. This… rightness.”
His raw honesty was disarming. This wasn’t the confident star, but the boy from Naples who’d fought for everything and was terrified of losing what he couldn’t control.
“Nothing is going to take it away,” you said, your voice firm. “We have time. We have months. Let’s get through the next week first. The headlines. Your manager’s reaction. Let’s find a house. Let’s build the foundation for real, not just talk about it.”
A grudging smile touched his lips. “You are the practical one.”
“Someone has to be.”
He finished his coffee in one swift gulp. “Okay. No ring today.” He said it like a concession, but his shoulders seemed to loosen, as if a pressure valve had been released. “But the house. We start this week. And I will deal with Fabrizio.” He meant his manager. “He will shout. He will wave his arms. He will say I am jeopardizing my ‘marketability.’” He did a pitch-perfect imitation of the man’s nasal Milanese accent. “And I will tell him my marketability just got a lot more interesting.”
He stood up, dropping some euros on the table. He came around to your side, drawing you to your feet. His hands rested on your hips. In the dappled sunlight, he looked younger, the shadows under his eyes from sleepless nights momentarily banished.
“A garden,” he said, his voice soft. “For Alessio to run in. For you to sit in. For me to come home to.” He kissed you, a slow, sweet promise that tasted of bitter coffee and limitless hope. “This is the plan now. This is the only game.”
He took your hand, his fingers lacing through yours with a new, settled certainty. The printout of the ultrasound crinkled softly in his pocket as you walked back to the car, a secret held close between you, a blueprint for the future already in motion.
The printout of the ultrasound crinkled softly in his pocket as you walked back to the car, a secret held close between you, a blueprint for the future already in motion.
The penthouse was too quiet after Antonio left. Matteo paced the length of the living room, a restless energy coming off him in waves. He’d made two calls already, his voice a low, rapid Italian as he spoke to a real estate agent he trusted. “Yes, with land. Privacy is the first priority. Send the listings tonight.”
You left him to it, the emotional weight of the morning settling into a deep, physical fatigue. You retreated to the cool, dim bedroom and sank into the impossibly soft mattress. Sleep came instantly, a black tide pulling you under.
You woke up confused, the room swimming in late afternoon gold. A dull, deep ache pulled you to full consciousness. Your breasts felt heavy, unnaturally full and tender against the silk of your camisole. You shifted, and the friction sent a sharp twinge through you.
You sat up slowly, pressing a hand tentatively to your chest. The flesh was swollen, tight and hot even through the fabric. A low throb pulsed with every heartbeat. Curiosity, edged with a thread of anxiety, made you slip a hand inside the top.
You cupped the weight, hissing at the direct contact. Your fingers explored the sensitive curve, and a new sensation bloomed—a distinct, unfamiliar dampness. You withdrew your hand, staring at your glistening fingertips. Not sweat. Clear, with a milky opacity.
You pressed again, gently, beside the nipple. A bead welled up, pearled, and fell. Your breath caught. This was new. This was real.
The bedroom door opened silently. Matteo stood there, his phone forgotten in his hand. He’d been looking for you. His eyes tracked from your face, down to your hand at your chest, to the faint, wet spot on the silk.
“What is it?” he asked, his voice immediately wary. “Are you in pain?”
“It’s… they’re really sore,” you said, the words feeling inadequate. “And I think… my milk came in. Or it’s starting to.”
He crossed the room in three strides, sitting on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight. “Show me,” he said, not as a command, but a request. His footballer’s focus was entirely on you, analyzing this new development.
You guided his hand, letting his rough palm replace yours over the silk. He felt the heat, the swollen firmness. His thumb brushed over your nipple, and you flinched.
“Sorry,” he murmured, but he didn’t move his hand. He watched, fascinated, as another droplet seeped through the thin material, darkening it. “Dio,” he breathed. “Already?”
“The doctor said it could happen anytime.”
He looked from your breast to your face. His own was a mask of raw, undisguised hunger. Not just sexual, but something deeper, a primal fascination. “It’s for him,” Matteo said, voice thick. “Your body is already making what he needs.” He leaned in, his nose skimming the damp spot, breathing you in. “Can I taste it?”
The question was so blunt, so filthy in its simplicity, that a jolt went straight to your core. You nodded, unable to speak.
His fingers hooked the strap of your camisole, pulling it down with a deliberate slowness that made you shudder. The air was cool on your exposed skin, your nipple pebbling instantly. He didn’t touch you with his hands again. He just looked, his eyes dark as he watched another clear bead form.
Then he bent his head and took you into his mouth.
His tongue was hot, flat, and relentlessly specific. He lapped at the droplets, a low groan vibrating through his lips and into your flesh. “Fuck,” he muttered against you. “It’s sweet. So fucking sweet.” He suckled gently, his hand coming up to cradle the heavy weight, his thumb stroking the side as he drank.
The sensation was electric, a direct line between the aching fullness and a sudden, clenching heat between your legs. The relief was minimal, the stimulation intense. You arched into him, a moan tearing from your throat.
That sound undid him. The careful restraint snapped. He pulled back, his mouth wet, his eyes blazing. “Get on your knees,” he said, voice gravel. “Over the edge of the bed. Now.”
You moved, your body responding to the absolute certainty in his tone. You knelt on the floor, your upper body braced on the mattress. The position thrust your ass into the air, made you feel exposed and utterly his. You heard the rip of his zipper, the rustle of his jeans being shoved down.
His hand smoothed over the curve of your hip, possessive. “You’re already so wet for me,” he growled, his fingers pushing your underwear aside and sliding through your slick folds. “Sore tits and a dripping cunt. My perfect girl.”
He notched the broad, blunt head of his cock at your entrance. He was already leaking, his precum mixing with your arousal. He didn’t push in. He just rubbed himself through your wetness, teasing both of you.
“Matteo, please—”
“Please what?” He delivered a sharp, stinging slap to your ass cheek. The shock made you cry out, made your internal muscles clench around nothing. “Tell me what you want.”
“Fuck me. Just fuck me hard.”
He drove into you with one brutal, complete thrust. The burn of the stretch, the immediate, shocking fullness stole your breath. He didn’t wait for you to adjust. He set a punishing, deep rhythm, each pump of his hips slamming your sensitive breasts against the bedding.
The friction was overwhelming. Your soreness was eclipsed by a sharper, more demanding need. “Yes, god, right there,” you panted, your words mangled.
One of his hands fisted in your hair, pulling your head back. The other reached around, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing rough, tight circles. “This is mine,” he grunted, his breath hot on your neck. “This fucking perfect cunt, these tits full of milk for my son. All of it. You come on my cock. Do it.”
The command, the crude, possessive words, the unrelenting pressure of his fingers and his dick—it built a frenzy in you. Your orgasm ripped through you without warning, a silent, shuddering convulsion that clamped down on him like a vise.
He swore, a vicious string of Italian as your body milked him. His rhythm fractured. He fucked you through it, his own release roaring up to meet yours. He buried himself to the hilt, his body bowing over yours as he came, a hot, flooding pulse deep inside you. He muttered your name, again and again, a broken litany against your shoulder.
He stayed there, lodged within you, both of you breathing in ragged, shattered sync. Slowly, he softened, slipped out. He turned you, gathering you into his arms before you could crumple to the floor. He carried you to the bathroom, his strength effortless.
He set you on the counter, ran a warm cloth over your thighs, your stomach, with a tenderness that contradicted everything that had just happened. He wiped gently between your legs, then blotted the dampness from your chest.
He looked at you, his expression quiet, sated, awe-struck. He bent and placed a soft, closed-mouth kiss on each tender nipple. “My life,” he whispered.
Then he lifted you again, carrying you back to the disheveled bed. He pulled the covers over you, spooning his big body around yours, one hand resting possessively over the slight, firm curve of your belly. The steady, familiar thud of his heart beat against your back, a slower, deeper echo of the one you’d heard that morning, still crinkled in his discarded jeans across the room.