Page 98 of Modern Romance September 2026 Books 5-8

The real issue was, I wasn’t thinking. Not about my plan, not about anything. I was…touched by the things that he shared with me. And it meant something for me to share with him. I was being small and silly, and letting myself get caught up in the fine things. The comfortable things. Letting myself get bowled over by the impact of him. I’ve never had a crush on a man before.

There’s no way you can have a crush on a mobster, is there? Crushes are for a cute barista at a café or the guy with the lopsided grin in your econ class, not for dangerous killers.

Still, there’s something.

Maybe it’s a biological imperative because I’m pregnant with his baby.

Which kind of doesn’t make sense because a sexual drive like that should be tied to the desire to reproduce, and we’re already doing that.

But it makes sense in the way that it seems somewhat reasonable that my body would crave the father of my child, almost as protection against me being with other men, in spite of the fact that I’ve never even been with one.

I don’t know what to do with this aching need inside of me, and I feel stupid about how painful it feels to have caused him the kind of upset that I did earlier. When I came out of the cabana—and I made him wait about twenty minutes because I didn’t want to leave right away, partly because I didn’t want to give him what he wanted—he was so filled with icy rage that I was struck mute, which never happens.

And I’ve been obsessing about it since. He didn’t threaten to lock me in the room again, so I suppose there’s that. He also isn’t the one who brought me dinner.

I’m sulking about that, as stupid as that seems.

I should be grateful for the break from his arrogant gangster ass.

I pace back and forth, wearing the robe that I put on after I took my shower after the beach, and nothing more.

I don’t just want to manipulate him.

I want him. But…

I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what the endgame is of any of this. I’m pregnant with his baby, and I’m not equipped to raise a child. I really don’t believe he is either. But if he were trying to tell me that I couldn’t have a child that I wanted…

Empathy is not my first port of call. It’s never added anything to my life. Caring about the problems of others, making them have equal weight to mine, is a fool’s game. Especially when my life is so volatile.

So I don’t let myself. I really don’t try.

But right now I feel choked with it. And not only that, regret. Not only that, but need. Today was upsetting in multiple ways. Because it’s true. I’ve never been to the beach. I haven’t done these exceedingly normal things. I don’t have real friends. I don’t have real connections, and it is absurd to me how much in common I have with this man. This man who was raised by wolves, where I was raised by a different pack, with the same results.

He and I both don’t know how to rely on people. Don’t know how to connect.

And we almost did. For a brief moment earlier. And I destroyed it because I needed to put distance between us.

That’s the real truth. I didn’t suddenly decide to twist the knife. Didn’t suddenly try to reveal my plan—it’s just that his kiss felt too good, and I couldn’t accept it. It’s just that his kiss felt too good, and I was afraid to want it.

Wanting makes me mean, apparently. As does kindness I don’t know what to do with. I’m completely thrown off by the fact that he and I are alike. That we can connect the way that we did, and that’s with all sexual attraction set aside.

I’ve never known another person who understood me like he does.

That’s an indictment of my life, for sure.

It’s hard to be too salty about that when it’s also one of the more amazing things I’ve ever experienced. But…

I feel like I’m being torn into pieces. Part of me wants to lean into this. I want him, and that’s never happened for me before. I like him, when I don’t hate him, and that’s something extraordinary too.

Guilt pricks me and I feel so irritated by that guilt. What I did was justified. But the sad reality is…

I want the connection with him more than I want justification. Which is completely unasked-for character development on my part.

I chew my thumbnail and scowl.

I decide then and there that I’m going to explain myself to him. Tell him that I was trying to manipulate him, but I regret it. That I actually just want to have a conversation with him about the fact that I’m afraid. I’m wringing my hands, trying to get around that descriptor. I’m afraid.

This entire situation is out of my control, and I’ve been trying to wrest it back into my control from the moment Vittoria disappeared, actually.