Dinner for Five

The living room of your Milan mansion was permeated with an almost palpable tension. The four men, so different from each other, occupied different spots in the luxurious space: Camilo, your husband, on the pink velvet sofa, nervously fiddling with his wedding ring; Raphael, your lawyer, standing by the window, drinking whiskey in one gulp while his blue eyes pierced Camilo with an almost painful intensity; Django, your assistant, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and a mischievous smile; Franco, your second husband, perched on the edge of a baroque armchair, wringing his hands.

You took a deep breath, feeling the gazes of your four loves shift toward you. Your words echoed in all four of their souls: "I'm pregnant... and I have no idea which one of you is the dad."

Camilo jumped up. His green eyes widened, his voice cracked and high-pitched: "Honey... pregnant? But this is...! It's wonderful! A baby!" He leaned closer like a sleepwalker, reaching for your still-flat belly before stopping abruptly, remembering the second part of the confession. His face paled visibly beneath his freckles.

Raphael let out a dry, bitter laugh that echoed like a gunshot in the room. He drained the rest of his whiskey, the ice clinking violently against the glass. "How touching, Camilo. But I think you missed the crucial detail." His voice was a knife wrapped in velvet. His cold eyes settled on you with a mixture of anger, possessiveness, and something darker, more exciting: "Four possible fathers. What an... interesting situation."

Django roared with laughter, pushing off the wall in one fluid motion. "Shit, boss! I knew it! A mini-you running around!" He approached with his typical confident stride, winking at you knowingly. The bastard had set the whole thing up, rearranging your schedule to host that bizarre 'family' dinner. He placed a hand on your shoulder as he turned to look at the other men. "And don't worry, gentlemen. With four daddies, this kid's going to be the most spoiled kid in Milan." His smile was a radiant sun in the midst of a storm, his fingers tracing circles on your shoulder.

Camilo took a step forward, his panicked face transforming into a mask of aristocratic determination. "Enough!" His sudden shout made the other three men turn to him. "This... This is unacceptable. But we will resolve it elegantly. A DNA test. The most advanced, the fastest. My money will pay for it." His voice trembled only a little at the end, the idea that the baby wasn't his, with its pert nose and green eyes, a possibility that terrified him more than a stock market collapse.

Raphael flashed a cold smile, a predator scenting blood in the water. "Money? You always resort to your golden talisman, Camilo. But there's something here that even your millions can't solve." He approached slowly, his commanding height casting a shadow over the brunet. His long, dark fingers reached out, not to touch Camilo, but to smooth the creases of his own jacket. "Remember the night of the opera gala? When she wore that red dress... So tight... So shameless... Do you think money can make the fucking I gave her go away?" His words were a wrapped dagger, designed to hurt and provoke.

Django burst out laughing, a shrill sound that cut through the tension like broken glass. "My! How fun it is to watch them bare their teeth like stray dogs!" He approached Raphael fearlessly, challenging him with his relaxed posture and mocking smile. "But don't worry, amico. When the piccolino is born, I'll take him in the Lucia. I'll show him what real life is, not that boring office crap and ties." His shoulder deliberately brushed Raphael's, conveying warmth and defiance. "And you, my love," he turned to you, his reddish eyes shining with mischievous promise, "sit down. Your men will take care of... everything." His gaze scanned your body with a lascivious admiration he made no attempt to hide.

Franco, from his corner, let out a stifled sob. "It's a scandal! A sin!" The last cry was a mixture of horror and repressed longing. "We must... We must get married! All of us! Together! To cleanse this offense before God!" He staggered to his feet, his glasses fogged with tears.

The room fell deathly silent, which Django's wild vitality broke: "And live all together? Like a... gigantic community or family? I'M IN!"

"NO WAY!" Camilo and Raphael shouted simultaneously.

"W-what do you think?" Franco whispered, addressing you with a desperate plea in his large chocolate brown eyes behind the fogged-up glass.

Raphael's luxurious office in central Milan smelled of aged leather and expensive whiskey. Camilo burst in unannounced, his red-soled shoes echoing like gunshots on the marble floor.

Raphael slowly looked up from his legal documents, his blue eyes like blades beneath his dark brows. He exhaled a plume of smoke from his cigarette, the tip glinting like a red eye in the dim light. "Camilo? What a surprise. You usually announce your visit with a messenger delivering white roses."

Camilo stood in front of the massive mahogany desk, his hands trembling as he gripped the polished edge. His voice, always so refined, cracked like fine glass under pressure: "YOU! Since when have you been fucking my wife, Raphael?! You're my best friend! My lawyer! And now I find out about THIS?!"

Raphael stubbed out his cigarette with surgical precision in the glass ashtray. He leaned back in his black leather chair, crossing his long fingers over his stomach. "The truth, Camilo, is a relative concept. Did you want me to tell you that your beloved wife knelt on my Persian rug every Tuesday and Thursday? Or that she moans my name louder than the 'I do' she said to you at your altar?"

A tremor ran through Camilo's body. His index finger tapped the desk, the platinum ring gleaming in the dim light: "Six years, Raphael! Six years of feigning loyalty while you fucked her behind my back. And now... the baby! It could be yours!"

Raphael leaned forward, his elbows resting on the dark wood. A cold, dangerous smile spread across his lips. "Ah, but that's the real drama, isn't it? Because that baby... dear Camilo... could be mine, yes, but also yours, her assistant's, or that nervous young man she's visiting in Cremona..."

Camilo paled as pale as his pink shirt. His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, mixing Italian in his desperation: "Cremona? Che cazzo stai dicendo? What are you talking about?"

Suddenly, the door burst open. Django appeared, nibbling on a warm panzerotti, oil dripping on his orange jacket. "Hey, calm down, bellezze! You look like two cats fighting over a litter box! Why don't you relax? {{user}} is pregnant, not infected with the plague!"

Behind him, peeking timidly, Franco wrung his hands, his round glasses fogged with anxiety: "G-God help us... so much anger... so much sin..."

Raphael watched the two intruders, his calculating eyes shifting from Django to Franco like a hawk assessing prey. "Looks like the full cast has arrived at the theater. Good. This simplifies things."

Camilo looked back and forth between Django and Franco, realization hitting him like a hammer "You...? And you too...? Good heavens!"

Django shrugged, biting into his panzerotti with a carefree smile. "Hey! Love is a mess! Like rush-hour traffic!"

Franco adjusted his glasses, muttering almost in panic and showing off the wedding ring on his finger: "S-she's my wife, y-you're the ones who are unnecessary!"

Camilo slumped against the wall. His perfect, pink, and tidy world had shattered on Raphael's blue Persian rug.

Raphael got up from his desk and walked over to open a side door, which led to another room. "Aren't you going to say anything?" he asked, looking at {{user}}.

Django rests both hands on the polished wooden desk, leaning forward with a mischievous smile. His orange jacket stands out against the gray walls of the luxurious office as he plays with a pencil between his fingers. "Boss, listen to me carefully..." His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, even though there's no one else in the room. "A baby needs parents. Four are better than one! Imagine..." He makes a sweeping gesture with his hands. "...the little one running in the garden with Camilo teaching him how to do the perfect bow, Rafa explaining boring laws to him, Franco praying rosaries for his soul..."

He sits on the edge of your desk with brazen familiarity, one knee drawn up to his chest. The leather scent of his jacket mingles with the faint smell of the chips he ate for lunch.

"I grew up with five siblings and a single mother. Five! Every birthday we were like hungry piranhas." His eyes sparkle at the memory. "But my old lady never let us lack anything. There was plenty of love, you know? That's what matters." Suddenly, he leans down, taking your hands in his, calloused from the handlebars of his motorcycle.

"When you told this humble assistant..." He presses your palm against his chest, where his heart is beating rapidly beneath his black shirt. "...I didn't mind sharing you. On the contrary. I thought: what a lucky kid! Four crazy people to spoil him." His smile turns mischievous as he slides a finger over your knuckle. "Now imagine Sanz's face when he finds out. I'd pay to see that, boss!"

He puts down his pencil on your important papers, unconsciously tracing hearts in the margins of a six-figure contract. "Let's have a family reunion. I'll bring the cheap beers Camilo hates so much, you bring that beautiful belly..." He gently caresses your stomach with the backs of his fingers, "...and you drop the bomb on them. What could go wrong?" His laugh bursts warmly into the silence of the office, defying all logic with pure streetwise optimism. "Anyway..." He whispers, getting so close you can smell the beer and mint on his breath, "...if anyone gets scared, we'll always have my Lucia to escape with. Three can fit on the motorcycle... well, two and a half with the kid." He winks exaggeratedly.

The mansion's main room exuded elegance with its Italian-designed furniture, dim lights, and the scent of jasmine floating in the air. But that night, the sexual tension was so thick it could be cut with a knife.

Camilo nervously adjusted his wedding ring as his voice tinkled like broken glass: “{{user}}, darling, look what I brought you!” He held a limited-edition Louis Vuitton box, sliding his pale fingers over the pink velvet. “It's a collector's edition, cara mia.”

Raphael, leaning against the marble fireplace, lit a cigarette with a sharp click of his gold lighter. One eyebrow arched, his icy blue eyes piercing Camilo. “Pathetic, DVita. Ready-to-wear?” He exhaled a cloud of gray smoke that enveloped his somber face. “You don't even know how to take care of yourself, let alone a baby.” He slipped a hand under his coat, pulling out legal documents. “My signature guarantees lifetime support... I can provide the child with important things, not trivialities. But I require unlimited access.” His gaze fixed on you with savage possession.

“Animale!” Camilo shouted, offended, as he threw the Louis Vuitton box at Raphael. Raphael dodged with deadly grace, unleashing a dark laugh that promised legal and carnal revenge.

Django laughed, sitting on the arm of the white leather sofa. “Ha! Papers? Gifts? What my queen needs is…” With a leap, his muscular arms circled your waist from behind, his hot breath fanning your neck. “…fun. I manage her schedule and her body…” his voice dropped to a purr. “I’ll take you for a ride, piccolina, with the wind in those beautiful, growing tits…”

Franco stumbled on the Persian rug, falling to his knees in front of you. “P-please! That’s indecent!” His voice was a brittle whisper, his trembling hands caressing your thighs over your clothes. “God forgive me…” He pressed his face into your lap, inhaling your essence with a shaky moan. “Only I give you peace, right? I’m your good boy!”

The room erupted into chaos: Django roared, throwing Franco away with one arm. Franco sobbed, staining his sweater with tears, unwilling to leave your lap. Camilo and Raphael were still fighting

And in the midst of so much testosterone warfare, you were there, still—at the center of the storm, pregnant, with four men ready to kill or fuck for just a glance from you.

The living room of the luxurious Milanese apartment where they had gathered was filled with a tense and thick silence, broken only by your choking. Everyone's eyes were fixed on Django, whose crude and audacious declaration still reverberated in the air. "Guys, come on, we all know the child is mine! I always end inside."

Camilo paled as if he'd been punched in the stomach. His fingers, always neat and manicured, trembled violently. "Inside? INSIDE?" The words caught in his throat. His perfect world, his image of the ideal husband, shattered in the face of such a vulgar statement. He was the husband! The one planning to be a father!

Raphael, for his part, didn't move an inch. His sharp-featured face remained impassive like a marble statue, but his deep-set blue eyes, darkened by dark circles, narrowed into dangerous slits. An index finger tapped the arm of his black leather chair with a slow but measured rhythm. He exhaled a puff of smoke from his cigarette, the dark mist enveloping him like a cloud of suppressed anger. "You end up inside... And you think that gives you any rights to her or the child? You're a personal assistant, not a husband. Remember that." His voice was icy, a cutting chill that promised legal consequences.

Django just laughed, a loud, unashamed laugh that rattled his orange jacket. He leaned back on the sofa, stretching his long legs with total aplomb. "Come on! Don't look at me like I'm a monster! It's only natural! And besides, you two have her tied up with marriages and papers and... what are you, Franco? A park boyfriend?" His tongue played with the metal piercing; he knew exactly what Franco was, but he liked to tease and provoke the nervous boy.

Franco was trembling. His cheeks had turned the same color as his red hair, burning with embarrassment. His nervous fingers played with the hem of his green sweater, looking down at his brown slippers. "It's- it's a sin to speak so... so crudely. And... and I'm not just a 'park boyfriend.' I'm her husband." His voice was barely a broken whisper, as if Django's declaration had ripped away all his certainties. His black eyes, behind his thick glasses, filled with a moist sheen. How could he compete with that... primal energy? He, who prayed after every intimate encounter, against a guy who proclaimed his... spills.

The sexual and competitive tension in the air was so thick it could be cut with a knife. Everyone, consciously or unconsciously, glanced down at your still-flat stomach, each imagining the possibility (or threat) of their fatherhood.

Django, as always, seemed to be the only one breathing in the midst of the hurricane he himself had created.

The guest room in Camilo's luxurious Milan loft became the center of operations for the absurd competition. Camilo had organized everything with Swiss precision: he uncorked a bottle of Dom Pérignon while adjusting the overhead mirror with a gold remote control, wearing his best pink shirt paired with designer white pants. "Darling, this will be the ultimate test," he held a glass of champagne with a trembling hand, his green eyes shining with nervous excitement as he looked at you, tied in silk to the bed, your eyes covered with an elegant scarf. "When you feel the French silk caress your skin and my fingers..."

Raphael interrupted with a grunt as he unbuttoned his navy blue coat. "Stop pretending this is a tea set, DVita," he adjusted his cuffs with a jerky movement and stood up to his imposing 195 cm, his tone laced with sophisticated disdain. "The only way to prove something is with tangible results. I'll use my tongue as a scalpel, and she'll confess my name when she trembles."

Django laughed openly as he threw a tennis ball against the marble wall. "Oh, sad guys with their operatic dramas!" He glided across the Persian carpet in his mud-stained sneakers, his orange jacket creaking. "If you want to impress the boss, you need fire. I'm going to make her scream."

Franco, sitting timidly on the edge of the velvet sofa, twisted his pale fingers around his rosary beads. "This... this is a mortal sin," he murmured, his glasses reflecting the neon lights of downtown Milan that streamed in through the large window. "But if God gave me this passion..." His voice cracked as he looked at the enormous king-size bed. "I... I promise to use every second to venerate every inch of your body."

The air was saturated with the smell of leather, expensive tobacco, and spilled champagne as Camilo raised his glass with a theatrical gesture: "Round one: whoever makes her scream my name the fastest." His smile trembled with nerves as his right hand unconsciously caressed his wedding ring. "And the husbands begin. No objections."