Chapter 30: The Penthouse Morning
The city’s dawn was a slow bruise of pink and grey beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. You woke to the solid, familiar heat of Matteo at your back, his arm a heavy band across your waist. His morning erection pressed insistently against the curve of your ass, a persistent, dull throb even through the sheets.
He stirred, his lips finding the sensitive skin beneath your ear. A sleepy murmur, more vibration than word. His hand slid down from your waist, his palm closing over your breast, still full and tender from the day before. His touch was instinctively gentle, a contrast to the hard line of his body behind you.
“Every day,” he rasped, his voice thick with sleep. “I want to wake up like this every fucking day.”
He rolled you onto your back, his weight settling over you. The sheets were tangled at your hips. The light was soft, painting the sweat-damp planes of his chest in pale gold. He didn’t kiss you. He just looked, his eyes tracing your face as if memorizing it. His hips nudged your thighs apart.
He entered you in one slow, inexorable push. You were still soft and open from sleep, from him, and he filled you with a deep, stretching completeness that made your breath hitch. He sank all the way in, then stilled, buried to the hilt.
“Tell me,” he said, his voice low and rough. His forearms framed your head. The room was silent except for both of your breathing. “Tell me you’ll stay.”
You wrapped your legs around his waist, your heels digging into the small of his back. “I’m here.”
“That’s not what I asked.” He began to move, a deliberate, rolling rhythm that was somehow more intimate than any frantic pounding. It was a claiming, a confirmation. Each slow withdrawal was a question, each deep stroke an answer. “Tell me you’re mine. This is mine.” He shifted his angle, hitting a spot that made your toes curl. “Say it.”
“I’m yours.” The words were a sigh, torn from you as the pleasure built, a deep, coiling heat. “It’s all yours.”
A primal noise escaped him. His control frayed. The pace quickened, his hips driving into you with sharper, more urgent thrusts. The headboard began a soft, rhythmic tap against the wall. His mouth found yours, the kiss messy and deep, all tongue and desperate heat.
You came suddenly, a silent, shattering release that clenched around him in wave after wave. Your nails scored down his back. He swallowed your cry, his own climax following instantly, triggered by the violent clasp of your body. He shoved in deep and held, a guttural, broken groan against your throat as he pulsed inside you.
He collapsed, his full weight a welcome anchor. You could feel his heart hammering against your own. For long minutes, there was only the sound of ragged breathing slowing.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand, a persistent, angry insect. He ignored it, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. It stopped. Thirty seconds later, it started again.
“Fabrizio,” he muttered into your skin.
“You should answer.”
“I know what he will say.” He rolled off you, but kept an arm draped over your stomach. He snatched the phone. “Pronto.” He listened, his face hardening. “Sì. I saw them… No, we are not issuing a statement… What ‘narrative’? That a man is having a child with the woman he loves? What a scandal.”
He swung his legs out of bed, pacing naked to the window. The morning light outlined his tense form. “My personal life is not a sponsorship opportunity… I don’t care what the clause says. You negotiate it… No. We are looking at houses today. Yes, today.”
He ended the call and flung the phone onto a chair. He stood with his back to you, hands on his hips, staring at the waking city. The muscles in his shoulders were taut cords.
“He’s furious,” you said.
“He’s scared,” Matteo corrected, not turning around. “The baby is a variable he cannot control. He thinks it makes me look ‘settled.’ Less marketable to the fantasy.” He turned then, a wry, tired smile on his face. “He does not understand that the fantasy is dead. This,” he gestured between you, to the rumpled bed, “this is the only real thing.”
He walked back to the bed, kneeling on it to place both hands on your belly. He leaned down and pressed a kiss just below your navel. “Ciao, Alessio. Your Papa is fighting idiots for you already. Get used to it.”
The real estate agent sent a car. Her name was Elena, a woman in her fifties with a razor-sharp bob and eyes that missed nothing. She greeted Matteo with a professional warmth that cooled slightly when she saw you, your presence confirming every tabloid headline. The drive north out of the city was tense and quiet.
The first house was a monstrosity, all glass and chrome, perched on a cliff like a spaceship about to launch. “Maximum privacy,” Elena said, gesturing at the twelve-foot walls.
“It feels like a museum,” you whispered to Matteo in the vast, echoey living room.
“Or a prison,” he muttered back. “Next.”
The second was a restored farmhouse nestled in rolling hills. Vineyards stretched in neat rows to a line of cypress trees. The air smelled of earth and sun-warmed stone. The moment you stepped into the courtyard, a quiet settled over you. You could hear birds, the buzz of insects, the wind in the leaves.
Matteo watched you. He saw your shoulders drop, the way your hand absently rested on your stomach as you looked at the wild roses climbing a trellis. “Show us the inside,” he said to Elena, his voice quieter.
It was warm and lived-in, with exposed beams and terra-cotta floors. The kitchen was large, with a worn oak table. A french door led to a overgrown garden. “It needs work,” Elena cautioned. “The plumbing, the electrical…”
“It has good bones,” Matteo interrupted. He was looking at you, not the house. “Could you see him here? Running through that grass?”
You could. Vividly. The image was so potent it ached. You nodded.
“We’ll take it.”
Elena blinked. “Signor Rossi, you haven’t seen the upstairs, the land reports, the—”
“I have seen everything I need to see,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He pulled out his phone. “Antonio. The farmhouse on the Bianchi listing. Yes. Draw up the offer. Full asking price. Contingent on a swift close.” He listened for a moment. “I don’t care. Make it work.”
He hung up. Elena looked stunned, then meticulously professional. “I will handle the details immediately.”
On the drive back, Matteo held your hand. He seemed lighter, the confrontation with Fabrizio temporarily forgotten. “You liked it,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“I loved it.”
“Good. Then it’s done.”
But the city waited, a hungry beast. As Antonio navigated the afternoon traffic, Matteo scrolled through his phone, his jaw tightening. “They have a name,” he said flatly. “They got it from the clinic. Someone sold the registry log.” He turned the screen to you. A gossip site headline screamed: “ROSSI’S BABY BUMP! Inside His Secret Romance & The Heir Named ALESSIO!”
The grainy photo was from outside the clinic, your face thankfully turned away, but Matteo’s protective posture was unmistakable. The article was a mess of speculation, but they had the name right. Alessio.
A cold nausea washed over you. That secret, sacred sound from the dark room, was now a commodity, typed out in a garish font for millions to consume.
Matteo’s phone rang again. Fabrizio. He rejected the call. It rang again immediately. He answered, his voice dangerously calm. “What.”
You could hear the manager’s tinny, frantic shouting through the receiver. Matteo listened for a full minute, his expression glacial. Then he spoke.
“You listen to me,” he said, each word a shard of ice. “You work for me. My child’s name is not a talking point for your brand meetings. If I hear one more word from you about ‘damage control,’ our contract is over. You are to release a statement. One sentence. ‘Matteo Rossi and his partner are delighted to confirm they are expecting their first child this autumn. They ask for privacy during this private time.’ That’s it. Do it now.”
He hung up. The car was silent. He was breathing hard, a tremor of pure rage in his hands. He looked out the window, at the blur of streets and strangers.
“They don’t get to have him,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. “They don’t get to have any part of this.” He turned to you, his eyes haunted. The confidence, the easy charm, was gone. Stripped away by vulnerability. “How do we keep him safe from this?”
You took his shaking hand and brought it to your lips, then placed it firmly over your womb, where the tiny, fierce heartbeat continued its unseen work. “Like this,” you said. “We just hold on.”
His fingers spread, pressing into your flesh as if he could reach through and shield the life within. He closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cool window glass, holding onto you both as the city swallowed the car whole.