Page 26 of The Don’s Omega

A full-body tremor runs through him. His hands drop to his sides. “I assumed as much,” he says hoarsely.

I release him, feeling oddly annoyed. “There’s no need for games, Elio. We’re sexually attracted to each other. You don’t have to pretend otherwise. I know you want me just like I want you.”

He avoids my gaze. “I’m overwhelmed, Marcello. I don’t know what I want right now.”

I don’t love that answer, but I step back from him. “How about you get some rest. Maybe take a hot shower. Dinner will be at 6:00 p.m. down in the dining room. My sisters and mother can be a lot to handle, but they’re excited to meet you.”

“They know the truth about us, right?” he asks.

“Yes. Contacting Kessler was my mother’s idea.”

His eyes flicker with surprise. “Oh. I’m glad I don’t have to put on a show for your family at least.”

“You definitely don’t. Just be yourself.” I head to the door. “I’ll see you downstairs.” I leave his room and close the door, resting against it.

His stress is giving me a knot in my stomach. I’m not sure why his anxiety is transferring over to me. I don’t want to worry about his feelings. I’d rather just focus on my needs. That was the whole point of taking an omega like Elio. No complications was the selling point.

I suppose it was short-sighted to think he wouldn’t struggle at all under these circumstances. He’s not a machine, he’s a flesh and blood omega. If he gets too stressed out, he might have trouble conceiving. That would be a disaster. I need that damn heir.

It’s probably in my best interests to woo him a little more than I’ve been doing. Because of the unique arrangement we have, I haven’t really bothered. I’ve treated him more as an asset than a person. That was the wrong approach. I know how to charm an omega when I want to. Perhaps I should put that effort into Elio. By helping him, I’ll be helping myself.

And helping myself is my most favorite thing.

Chapter Four

Elio

I take a short nap and then a shower. I stand in the shower with the water as hot as I can take it and I try to organize my thoughts. I wasn’t kidding when I told Marcello I feel overwhelmed. None of this has been easy to accept. I’d do it all again for Fabio, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t difficult to grapple with what’s happening. With how strange my life is going to be for the next three years.

Marrying the head of a powerful mafia family was never on my bucket list. Of course, I won’t actually even be Marcello’s husband in the true sense of the word. I’m basically a rented receptacle for his heir. Sure, I’ll love the child. I don’t think I’ll be able not to. But ultimately, the baby will be his. He’ll have control over how the kid is raised way more than me. The situation is a nightmare and the strangest part is, I signed up for all of this willingly.

Because I really had no choice.

I turn the water off and stand there dripping, staring at the marble tile. The bathroom alone is absurd. A soaking tub deep enough to swim in, brass fixtures that look like they belong in a museum, towels so thick and soft they put to shame every scratchy towel I’ve ever owned. I grab one and dry off and catch my reflection in the mirror. The guy looking back at me seems lost. Which is fair. I am lost.

I think about calling Fabio. He’s twenty minutes away at Harbor View Medical, probably watching TV in his luxurious hospital room. He doesn’t know I’m getting married on Saturday. He thinks we’re here for his surgery. Which we are, but there’s a whole other dimension to this that I haven’t told him. I know I have to tell him eventually. Obviously. I can’t hide that I’m married to a mobster for three years. But I wasn’t about to drop a bomb like that on him right before his heart surgery. He can’t have any additional stress. Finding out that I sold myself to pay for his surgery will gut him. He can’t find out until he’s stronger. Healthier.

I get dressed. I brought almost nothing with me. I knew that Marcello would hate most of my clothes. He’s controlling. I knew that within five minutes of meeting him. He’ll want to dress me the way he thinks his omega should be dressed. So I left most of my clothes behind and just brought a few essentials. I dress in jeans and a light blue shirt with long sleeves. Right now, I don’t give a damn about what I look like. I’m nervous about meeting Marcello’s family. I’m sure when they meet me, they’ll think he could have done much better choosing a mate. But for some reason, I’m the one he picked, so here we are.

Once I’m dressed, I sit on the edge of the bed. Downstairs, I can hear voices and the faint clink of dishes being set. Dinner is at six. I check the time. Ten minutes to six. I look at myself in the mirror over the dresser. God, I look terrified. Well, I am terrified. I’m completely out of my depth. I just want to go home, but that isn’t home anymore.

I stall a little longer, then force myself to stand on shaking legs and leave my room. The dining room is on the ground floor, through the foyer and past the living room. I remember the way from the tour Marcello gave me, which is a small miracle considering the size of this place. I could easily get lost and they’d find me three days later in a broom closet.

I hear them before I see them. Laughter, warm and overlapping. A woman’s voice saying something in Italian, another voice responding with mock outrage. It sounds like a family. A real family. That throws me for a minute. I kept picturing his family like something in the movies. Cold-eyed mafia types dressed all in black, only concerned with planning hits and making money. But these people sound happy. Warm. Almost normal.

I stop in the doorway. The table is set for six, but the table itself seats far more. Candles are lit. Wine is poured. Ornella is placing a dish on the table, a platter of something that smells incredible.

Marcello is already seated at the head of the table. He’s changed out of the suit he was wearing earlier and into a black dress shirt, open at the collar, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He looks relaxed in a way I haven’t seen before, the severity in his face softened by the candlelight and the presence of his family. It feels weird seeing his eyes and mouth soft with affection for his loved ones.

His mother is seated to his right. She’s smaller than I expected, petite and elegant, with silver hair pinned up. She has the kind of face that must have been stunning when she was young. Frankly, she’s still beautiful. She glances up and notices me in the doorway. Her expression is openly curious as she smiles.

A pretty, young girl of around twenty notices me and says softly, “Oh, there he is.”

There’s a slightly older dark-haired young woman across from Marcello’s mother. She’s got a glass of wine in her hand and she’s leaning back in her chair with easy confidence. Her dark eyes flick to me when the younger girl speaks.

The younger girl continues to watch me with wide brown eyes and a shy smile.

“Come in, Elio.” Marcello’s mother stands, waving me toward the table. “Sit here, next to me. Marcello, pour him some wine. He looks like he could use a glass.”