Chapter 4 - The Heat on the Edge
Matteo’s hand stayed fixed against the lower curve of her abdomen.
Elena’s breath hitched in her throat. She froze, her pulse thumping violently against her ribs like a panicked drum.
Matteo was a man who lived in a world of physical details—a man who could tell if a bodyguard was wearing an extra holster under his jacket by the slump of a shoulder, a man who noticed the weight of a bribe by the thickness of an envelope.
Through the soft fabric of her sweater, his palm felt the subtle, firm warmth beneath her ribs.
His hazel eyes dropped from her face down to his own hand resting against her belly.
“Elena,” Matteo said, his voice suddenly dropping all trace of rage, replaced by a quiet, dangerous gravity that made her blood run cold. “What is this?”
Elena slapped his hand away with all the strength she had, stepping sideways toward the kitchen counter. “It’s none of your business!”
Matteo didn't move away. He turned slowly, his eyes locked onto her waist, taking in the loose fit of her sweater, the faint flush in her cheeks, the way her hand instinctively hovered over her midsection in a protective gesture.
His mind—sharp, ruthless, and terrifyingly fast—calculated the timeline in two seconds flat.
Three weeks ago. The night of the charity gala in Brooklyn. The only night in six months he had come into her bedroom, drunk on victory and whiskey, and pulled her into his arms until dawn.
“You’re pregnant,” Matteo whispered.
The word hung in the air of the small studio like a live grenade.
“No,” Elena lied, her voice cracking. “I’m not.”
Matteo stepped forward, his eyes burning with an unholy light—a terrifying combination of shock, possessive fury, and something raw that looked almost like awe.
“Do not lie to me, Elena,” he commanded, his voice shaking. “Look at me and tell me that is not my child.”
Elena pressed her back against the kitchen counter, tears overflowing her eyelashes and running down her cheeks. She couldn't say it. She couldn't look him in the eye and deny the life growing inside her.
“It’s my child,” Elena said through her tears, lifting her chin with fierce defiance. “Mine. You don't get to claim this baby, Matteo. You gave up your right to a family when you spent three years treating me like an ornament on your arm!”
Matteo stared at her, his broad chest heaving under his suit jacket.
For the first time in his life, the ruthless Don of the Bellini syndicate looked completely stripped of his armor. He looked at her wet eyes, her trembling lips, and the small, sacred secret she had tried to carry away from him into the snow.
Slowly, deliberately, Matteo dropped to one knee on the worn wooden floorboards of her small studio.
Elena gasped, taking a step back in sheer shock.
Matteo Bellini—a man who had never bowed his head to the Commission, a man who had never knelt before God or government— sat on his knee at her feet, looking up at her with eyes filled with a fierce, terrifying vow.
He reached out, his hand gently taking her small, cold hand in his.
“I treated you like a debt,” Matteo admitted softly, his voice rough with an emotion he had buried for thirty-six years. “Because I was afraid that if I let myself love you, my enemies would see it and use you to break me.”
He brought her knuckles to his lips, kissing her skin with a reverence that made her entire body tremble.
“I was a coward, Elena,” he whispered against her hand. “I built a wall of glass around you, and I watched you drown inside it. But I will not let you take my child and run into the dark.”
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Before Elena could answer, a loud, metallic crash exploded from the hallway outside.
A gunshot shattered the silence, followed by the heavy thud of a body hitting the wall.
