Married to the Bad Boy(72)
My heart stalls. I knew it—I knew he’d be like this, but it’s still like a spike to my heart.
“I’m sor—”
“I don’t want this!” he explodes. “What kind of fucking father can I be? I’m not fit to be one at all.”
Tears spill down my cheeks. “That’s not true.”
“How the fuck would you know?”
He looks at me with the air of someone being clubbed on the head. He’s right, isn’t he? He’s a Mafioso. I’m just waiting to die, he said.
“You’re a good man. I know you don’t like to believe it—”
Wild, strangled laughter cuts me off. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but you are dead wrong about that. You don’t know me. You don’t know a thing about the life I lead.”
“Actually, I do. My dad was a boss, remember?”
That shit-eating grin is back on his face as he pins me against the wall, nudging my thighs open with his leg. I always feel so small when he surrounds me like that. It’s not just his size. It’s his presence: overwhelming and intoxicating at the same time. The energy between us shifts as he takes my waist in his hands, as his knee grinds my pussy. It’s electric. My heart pounds, and I can’t breathe as he leans in closer.
“Yeah, I know all about you Mafia princesses. Daddy would have never showed you the dark side of his business. You only saw the clothes, the jewelry, the charity gala dinners—”
“I’m not an idiot, Tony. I read the papers, and I was smart enough not to swallow every lie he tried to feed us.”
“Reading about it in the paper,” he sneers. “Last night, I spent eight hours torturing some poor fuck with his head trapped in a vise. Do you know what happens to someone’s head when it’s crushed? The eyes pop out.”
A cruel mask slides over Tony’s face, and it occurs to me that he might be right. That I might not know this man at all. Darkness swirls in his eyes, but they’re the same ones that dented with pain when told me that he never wanted this life for himself.
“Why are you trying to scare me?” My voice grows stronger. “What exactly are you trying to accomplish, here? The baby’s coming whether you like it or not.”
“I’m trying to make you understand that I’m not a good man. I shouldn’t be in any kid’s life. I’m nothing but a bad influence.”
“You don’t have to be in its life.”
The thigh nudges me again, and a ripple of desire moves up my body. The things he says makes my stomach cave in. Pressure builds up behind my eyes, and I’m pissed off, too. I don’t believe that he’d be a bad influence. He’s the one who saved me without asking for a single dime in return.
“I’m going to be in the kid’s life. I just don’t know for how long.” He touches my face gently as another tear rolls down my cheek. His other hand curls around my waist, smoothing over my belly. His gaze softens for a moment. Then suddenly he pulls my arm and I scramble after him in the streets.
“Tony, where are we going?”
We stop in front of his car and he opens the door, pointing inside.
“Get in.”
During the car ride home, Tony keeps a stoic silence that I think is a front for his barely constrained panic. I study the tic in his jaw, the way his eyes focus on the streets without ever once glancing at me, and I wonder what the hell he’s thinking. I wonder if he’ll just end things between us.
Can I blame him?
When we get home, Tony dissolves into nervous energy. I show him the test results from the doctor, the missing pills from my birth control, and it all crashes on his head. The paper trembles in his hand. I can’t tell whether he’s furious or terrified.
“It’s really mine?”
My arms wrap around my middle as he looks at me under his dark locks. “I’m positive.”
He lets out a long exhale and collapses into a chair in the kitchen. The test results sit on the kitchen table, and he stares at the paper as if it’ll magically turn negative if he looks at it long enough. I can’t stand the sight of him like this.
Shaking, I leave the kitchen to sit on the sofa in the living room. I try to imagine raising a kid in this place, and then in my mind’s image I see Tony’s face, contorted with rage as a shrill cry wakes him up from sleep. He didn’t ask for this. Is it fair to expect him to take responsibility? Should I do everything because it’s my fault? Is it my fault?
Heavy footsteps creak over the floorboards and finally come to a rest where I sit. His hand drops on my head, smoothing my face. I turn, and he grips a fistful of hair. It’s painful.