Chapter 6 - THE CONFESSION IN THE STEAM
Sophia kept her lips tightly sealed, pressing her back against the edge of the counter behind her. The cold laminate edge dug into her hip, but she welcomed the physical grounding. She couldn't afford to break. She couldn't afford to show him the vulnerability he used to control.
“Sophia,” Dante repeated, his tone dropping half an octave, carrying the heavy weight of an order that expected immediate compliance. “Answer me.”
“Don't,” Sophia finally managed to whisper, her voice trembling, so soft it was almost lost to the hum of the diner. “Don't do this here, Dante. Please.”
Dante didn't listen. He didn't care about the diner. He didn't care about the terrified owner hiding in the back or the truck driver holding his breath in the corner booth. To Dante Moretti, the world had shrunk down to this worn linoleum floor, the smell of burnt coffee, and the woman who had stolen herself away from him.
He took another half-step forward, his dark suit jacket brushing against the counter edge. His jaw tightened so hard the muscles along his cheek pulled taut. His eyes scanned every inch of her face, reading the fear, the fatigue, and the undeniable truth written across her body.
He did the math again. The timeline was seamless. Flawless. Absolute.
A terrifying, dark smile—devoid of any humor—flickered briefly at the corner of his lips before vanishing into an expression of intense, possessive certainty.
He leaned down slightly, bringing his face closer to hers, his dark eyes burning into hers with a light that sent a wave of heat straight to her core.
“Seven months,” he said softly, almost talking to himself, his voice thick with a sudden, overwhelming realization.
He lifted his right hand—the heavy silver watch gleaming under the fluorescent bulb—and reached out toward her.
Sophia instinctively recoiled, trying to push herself further back against the stainless steel register, but there was nowhere to go.
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Dante didn't grab her. Instead, his long, manicured fingers hovered less than an inch away from the pink cotton covering her stomach, feeling the radiating warmth of her body through the air.
“You left me,” Dante whispered, his voice shaking with a dangerous mixture of hurt and lethal possession. “You ran in the middle of the night... carrying my child.”
