Stitch: Crime Family Values Book 1

by Nia Farrell

  She needed to feel Matteo out and try to learn his plans. If he was only here for Italian Fest, he’d be off to hunt monsters as soon as the event ended. If he was going to linger longer, she’d like to know what to expect. Where did he intend to stay? If it was at his home, how often should she plan to see him here? Would he be spending the night, or leaving once they’d finished?

  Beth had no illusions that this was anything but what it was. Sex on demand. Matteo expected her to submit, but there would come a time when she would have to say no. It was inevitable. Their baby’s needs came before anyone else’s, including his. If he had trouble accepting that, they were going to have some serious problems.

  Dante finished nursing, but he showed no signs of going back to sleep. The rest of the house was dark and quiet. The only other discernible noise was the hum of the furnace when it kicked on to offset the unseasonably cool temperature outside.

  Beth decided to give Dante a bath. If she was lucky, the warm water would help lull him back to sleep.

  “Come on, little man. I know it’s early, but I’m up and you’re up, so we’re going to get you all clean for Daddy. That’s right! You get to take a bath!”

  Dante smiled and wriggled with excitement.

  “I know! I know!” she crooned. “You love the water, don’t you? One of these days, we’ll find a swimming pool and get you in it. You can be one of those babies who swim before they can walk. What do you think, Dante? Do you want to try out a pool?”

  Beth strapped him in his pumpkin seat to stay safe while she got things ready in the en-suite. Turning on the overhead radiant light, she gathered what they would need: a hooded towel, two washcloths, baby bath soap, no-tears shampoo, a basin of warm water, and a cup to rinse him with. Once the room was toasty warm and everything that she needed was within reach, she filled the baby tub, set it on the heated bathroom floor, stripped the baby, and slipped Dante into the water.

  She sat cross-legged on the warm, stone tiles beside him. Wetting one washcloth, she draped it over his abdomen, less for modesty and more because he tended to let loose with things when he was relaxed. She wet the second cloth and went to work, cleaning his face with plain water before adding the hypoallergenic soap that she would use on the rest of him.

  She had learned to watch her posture. Keeping her spine straight and leaning forward from the hips helped minimize backaches. While she worked, she told Dante the story that he’d heard countless times before and warmed up the washcloth over his belly.

  “And now you’ve met Daddy. I told you he was handsome. The picture’s nice but it doesn’t do him justice, does it? One of these days, you’ll be just as good looking as he is. You’ll have to be careful not to break girls’ hearts. They’re all going to want you, especially once you learn to drive. We’ve got a few years before that happens, but, trust me, it will be here before you know it.”

  Tears stung her eyes, blurring her vision. Blinking them away, she prayed that she was here to see it.

  She washed his hair and bundled him in a hooded towel, fitting the layered corner over his head like a cap. She dried him off while they were still in the en-suite’s warmth and kept him wrapped in the towel when she took him into the other room.

  She half-expected to see Matteo there. She felt a tiny sting of disappointment that he wasn’t. Oh, well. Hopefully, he was getting the sleep that she was missing.

  Once she had Dante diapered and dressed, she added a baby cap to keep his head warm and sat down to nurse. This time, he gave up, yielding to sleep and finally letting her get back to bed.

  Matteo watched her come in, his dark eyes assessing. There was an unmistakable tent pitched in his sheet-covered lap.

  “Good morning.” Unable to help herself, she yawned widely behind her hand. “He’s had his bath and breakfast. Hopefully, he’ll sleep for a while. What can I fix you? We have eggs. Bacon. Veggies. Cheeses. I suck at folding omelets, but I’m decent with scrambles and frittatas. Do you have any allergies? I usually add ground chia and flax seeds for extra nutrition now that I’m eating for two.”

  The corners of his mouth turned down. “Shouldn’t Constanza be doing that?”

  Beth yawned again. “Not today. It’s Friday. My day in the kitchen.”

  “Your day?”

  “Yes. My day. We alternate. Constanza has Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. I do Monday, Wednesday, Friday.”

  He rubbed the scruff on his jaw. If he thought that she’d be at his beck and call when she wasn’t with Dante, he was in for a rude awakening.

  “What about Sunday?”

  “On Sunday, we take a break. We eat out or order in. Cooking helps me feel less like a milk machine and more of a contributor to the household. Maybe they hide it well, but I haven’t heard them complain about what goes on the table when it’s my turn.”

  Matteo said nothing, but his mind was working behind those dark eyes of his. To keep his thoughts from going south, she shared the system that they used.

  “Constanza and I draw up a daily menu for the month, subject to change if something comes on sale or is in short supply. Twice a week, Bernardo drives us to get groceries. It’s a bitch to switch the car seat, so he drives my car—and by my car, I mean the blacked out SUV that your father insists that I use. Constanza sits up front with Bernardo, and I sit in the back with Dante.”

  He seemed okay with that. He didn’t object, anyway.

  “What were you planning to fix for breakfast? Before I came,” he added.

  “A frittata with vegetables, pancetta, and cheese. I usually have fresh fruit on the table at meals. Bernardo likes his bread—preferably garlic, even for breakfast.”

  Matteo kicked down the covers and rolled out of bed. “Come on. Shower first, then breakfast.”

  Beth didn’t argue. They both needed to clean up after last night’s sexual marathon. She’d thought about taking a bath in Dante’s en-suite but didn’t want to wake the baby—which is the same reason she had planned to take one in hers later, to let Matteo sleep.

  Admiring the view of his sculpted backside and long, hair-dusted legs, she slipped off her robe and followed him into the bathroom. The en-suite boasted a generous shower with body jets, a handheld spray head, and an overhead rain showerhead that felt like heaven when she didn’t have time for a bath.

  The spa-sized soaker tub was a treasure. Huge. Deep. It was surrounded by wood and stone with niches for candles and New-Agey things that called to her. Crystals in clusters, cut shapes, and wands. An abalone shell filled with tumbled stones, small seashells, and tiny starfish. Small statues of Kwan Yin and Saraswati shared space with the Virgin Mary, added after she’d converted during her pregnancy.

  When Giovanni Visconti had said that he wanted his grandchild born Catholic, she wasn’t about to argue. Her spirituality wasn’t going to change because of a religious label, but she’d wear it if it meant being allowed to live and raise her child.

  Matteo reached into the shower, turned on the taps, and adjusted the water temperature. “Grab some towels for us.” Tossing the words over his shoulder, he watched long enough to see where they were kept before he disappeared inside.

  Beth pulled two bath sheets and two washcloths from the linen closet and set the towels on the teakwood stool that she kept outside the shower. These days, she used it more for holding clothes or getting dressed than inside for shaving her legs. Thankfully, she had taken care of her neglect before their dinner at Giovanni’s. Now that Matteo was here, she’d have to keep it up.

  Sigh.

  She opened the shower door to the sight of Matteo standing in the steamy mist, wetting himself in the spray from the body jets. The rain head was turned off, to keep his hair dry, she supposed.

  Or hers…?

  Maybe he was that thoughtful. He had taken down her hair at one point last night. She’d braided it during another, to keep from waking up to a tangled mess.

  The trouble was, she needed to wash out all that hairspray from
yesterday.

  Matteo looked at her selection of mostly-scented soaps and shook his head. Popping the top of the fragrance-free baby wash, he lathered himself in hypoallergenic suds and washed while she did the same.

  He’d awakened with morning wood that he’d lost as they talked. When he cleaned his genitals, he plumped up again. Watching her wash her breasts inspired him to new heights. His cock looked hard as steel. The swollen head was as purple as a plum.

  Tearing his gaze away, he raised it to meet hers.

  The heat in his eyes was searing. Beth took a step back. Another brought her into contact with the water-warmed tiles.

  Fisting himself, Matteo followed, planting his palm on the wall by her head and trapping her against it with his body. He let go of his cock and shoved his hand between her legs to cup her sex.

  The moisture he felt wasn’t just from their shower.

  He pushed a finger inside her vagina. Lowering his mouth to the notch in her shoulder, he scored her neck with his teeth. “Turn around,” he ordered gruffly, slipping his hand free of her pussy.

  He was going to take her from behind. Again. Like every other time that he’d used her, bent over the bed, lying on her stomach, or spooning on her side. Did her scar turn him off that much? Did he find it ugly? Repulsive? Would he ever look at her—all of her—with pure lust burning in the depths of his dark eyes?

  She turned, but not before he’d seen her tears.

  “Hey.” He stepped closer, blanketing her back with his body. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she sniffed.

  Matteo swore beneath his breath. “God dammit, don’t give me that shit. Tell me.”

  “It’s just…you always make me turn around…like you don’t want to see me.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Taking hold of her shoulders, he turned her to face him, grabbed her jaw in the vise of his hand, and made her look at him. “I got hard looking at your front,” he grated. “Doesn’t that tell you anything, bella?”

  She blushed furiously and sadly shook her head. “You were looking at my tits.”

  “Among other things. Did you stop to think that I don’t want to hurt you? Your incision is still healing. Your breasts get tender when they’re full. Right now, I’m trying to go easy on you. Eventually, you’ll need to handle whatever I give you, but rough sex can wait. This can’t….”

  15

  Beth followed Matteo’s gaze as it lowered to the fingers that he wrapped around his erection. Stroking it with one hand, he reached down with the other, skimming the curve of her hip and tracing her flank.

  Nothing Matteo did should shock her, but she still gasped when he hooked her knee on his other forearm and opened her wide for his possession. Tracing her seam with his cock, he parted her folds, found her opening, seated his head, and thrust inside.

  She whimpered when he hit bottom.

  His hips snapped. He thrust in again, just as hard but not quite as deep. Her walls stretched to accommodate him.

  “Better?” he asked, hips churning as he worked his length in and out of her.

  “Yes,” she breathed, able to enjoy it now that he wasn’t ramming her cervix. “You’re a lot to handle. You’re so big.”

  “And you’re as tight as I remember. I thought about you, on the road. I don’t have many regrets, but I hated that you were the one that I’d picked. You didn’t deserve to die.”

  “I still don’t,” she whispered, hoping like hell that he agreed. She wanted to be the one who raised Dante. Otherwise, he’d be growing up with only his mob boss grandfather and crime family members for role models.

  With or without her, the Viscontis would eventually turn him into a killer. She hoped to give him half a conscience like Val seemed to have.

  “No, you don’t,” he grated, banging her harder now. Reaching between them, he found her clit and brought her to the brink of orgasm at warp speed.

  The heated mist of the shower and her rising passion made it hard to breathe. She inhaled sharply and exhaled, air soughing between her clenched teeth.

  She was close. So close. She felt her body stiffen with its approach.

  He did, too.

  “Come on, angel. Give it to me. Come on my cock. Come on, now. Come for me.”

  Two more strokes and she was there, her body convulsing, her walls spasming and juices bursting, bathing his length. He fucked her until the waves subsided, then pulled out to finish. Fisting himself, he pointed his cock at her abdomen and ejaculated, shooting ropes of white onto her belly and painting her scar with his seed.

  Tears smacked her eyes when she saw what he’d done. He had shown that he accepted her, scars and all. That he didn’t find her ugly.

  Matteo had marked her as his.

  When they finally made it to the kitchen to start breakfast, she pointed out the baby monitor on the counter. “The house has them in every room that I normally use, plus one for Constanza. If I’m working in the kitchen, I can hear him when he wakes. Why don’t you have a seat, and I’ll get breakfast started.”

  Matteo shook his dark, shaggy head. “No, bella. You’re going to get everything out that you’d normally use, then you’re going to sit while I make breakfast.”

  Watching him get started, she realized that he didn’t just own Giovanni’s. Matteo could actually cook. He didn’t ask what temperature to set the oven. He knew. Using a chef’s knife and a mandolin, he sliced and diced vegetables like a seasoned chef, adding them to the pancetta once it had browned.

  Matteo brewed coffee and made the frittata, starting it on the stove and finishing it in the oven. While it baked, he made grilled garlic bread for Bernardo, cutting it into slices when he was done.

  Beth watched him work, admiring his form, studying his technique, and greatly enjoying the novelty of having a man cook for her. While he checked the frittata to see if the eggs were set, she put the fruit in a decorative ceramic colander that sat on a matching plate. Turning toward the breakfast table in the corner of the kitchen, she noticed Bernardo and Constanza, framed by the doorway to the hall.

  They’d been watching Matteo work, too.

  “Come on in,” she called. “It’s almost ready.”

  Too late, Beth realized that she should have discussed eating arrangements with Matteo. She had invited Bernardo and Constanza to join her, welcoming their company, but the Viscontis might frown on sharing a table with the help.

  She went to the stove, where Matteo was cutting the frittata. “We usually eat together. Do you mind?”

  Matteo paused mid-stroke. Glancing over his shoulder, he weighed the options. “They can eat in here. We’ll eat in the dining room.”

  It was what was certain to be the first of many changes.

  Beth had Constanza set the two tables. Beth split the colander of fruit, adding a bowl to the kitchen table and carrying the plated colander into the dining room. She put the bread in two baskets, leaving one well within reach of where Bernardo normally sat in the kitchen. She took the other to the dining room.

  Four glasses of water, three cups of coffee and a highball glass of cranberry juice for Beth completed the menu.

  Matteo used a wedge-shaped server to add pieces of the frittata to Bernardo and Constanza’s plates. The rest of the skillet came with him to the dining room. He set it on a trivet that Beth had placed on the table to protect it from the heat.

  Beth covered her lap with the paper dinner napkin, caught her lower lip between her teeth, and slid a glance at Matteo, who was arranging his napkin as well. Worried about this one last thing, she forged ahead anyway. “Bernardo usually says grace. Do you want to do it?”

  Matteo’s momentary hesitation wasn’t lost on her. “You can,” he said smoothly.

  “Okay.” Beth folded her hands, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the aromatic smells of the breakfast that he’d made. “Holy One, thank you for Matteo’s safe return. Thank you for our health, for our friends, our families, and our so
n. We ask that You bless the food that we are about to eat for the nourishment of our bodies. In the name of All That Is Holy, Amen.”

  Matteo crossed himself. “Amen.”

  He slid a wedge of frittata onto her plate, then served himself. Like Bernardo, he enjoyed bread but limited himself to one slice. He took his coffee black, letting it cool a little before drinking it.

  She took one bite and closed her eyes, savoring the moment. It was all in the seasoning, but it tasted so much better than hers.

  “Oh, Matteo. This is wonderful. Where did you learn to cook?”

  He sat a little straighter and canted his lips. If she hadn’t seen the video of him, she’d never know that he was capable of smiling, he was so serious most of the time.

  “My mother,” he said. “Her uncle was a chef. He owned a restaurant and catered on the side. When she was young, she helped in the kitchen. When she was old enough, she served at events. She watched. Learned. Eventually, she got to be better than he was. But she was in America by then.”

  Pausing, he focused on the landscaped backyard that was visible through the dining room window. Surrounded by a tall privacy fence, it would provide a safe space for Dante to play when he was older.

  “My father took one taste of her cooking and offered for her on the spot. They had twenty-five years together before she died. Breast cancer.”

  “I’m sorry,” Beth said, feeling the ache of his loss. Her brother’s death and her father’s suicide had been hard enough. She couldn’t fathom watching a mother die by degrees.

  She prayed that she’d never have to.

  “Thanks,” he murmured, shifting uncomfortably. “We added the 5K fitness walk and pink ribbon run to Italian Fest while she was still fighting it. We’ll need to be there early tomorrow. Plan to bring enough for the day, and layer up. The morning will start out cool but it’s supposed to hit ninety in the afternoon.

  The forecast concerned Beth. “I don’t know how well Dante will take the heat,” she told him. “If it’s too much, we may have to find a place to cool down, even if it’s just to nurse.”