Page 45 of The Don’s Omega

Fabio looks at me. His blue eyes are bright with something I haven’t seen in months. Hope. Not the careful, rationed kind he performs to keep me from worrying. The real thing, raw and unguarded.

“So I just have to stay strong and focused for the next three weeks,” he says softly.

I smile at him. “Then this is behind us.”

Dr. Ashworth goes over the pre-op schedule, answers a few more questions, and leaves. Fabio is in a much better mood once Dr. Ashworth has delivered his news. We play cards and he shows me a bunch of TikTok videos he thinks are hilarious.

Some nurses come in to check his vitals and to chat. They seem to dote on him. I’m not sure if that’s because they really like him, or if that’s part of what you pay for here at this fancy hospital.

When I eventually leave, I kiss the top of his head. “I’ll come see you again tomorrow.”

“Okay.” His eyes are bright. “I feel so much better after talking to the doctor.”

“Me too.” I ruffle his hair and he scowls because he hates that. “I love you, bro.”

“Love you too,” he grumbles, trying to swat my hand away.

“Ha, ha, little brother. You’re too slow,” I tease, moving toward the door.

He laughs, flipping me off.

Grinning, I take the elevator down to the lobby with Dante. As promised, he stayed out of sight so that Fabio didn’t see him.

“Would you mind if we stopped somewhere so I could do some shopping?” I ask, as he opens my door for me. “I desperately need clothes.”

“I’m at your disposal,” he says smoothly. “Where would you like to go?”

I grimace. “I don’t know the area. Nowhere fancy. Just somewhere with normal clothes.”

“I think I know where to take you, Mr. Foschini.” He closes my door.

That’s the first time anyone has called me Mr. Foschini and it’s a shock hearing it. To me, Mr. Foschini is Marcello, not me. But I guess, since we’re married, technically that’s my title now. We never discussed if I’d take his name, but I’m sure Marcello would insist I do. It’s all part of the act.

Dante drives me to a shopping district in the older part of downtown. It’s a wide street canopied by mature trees, their branches knitting together overhead. The shops are a mix of old and new, family-run boutiques next to sleeker storefronts with striped awnings. Flower boxes spill geraniums from second-story windows above the shops, and outdoor cafe tables dot the sidewalk.

Dante parks and follows me on foot at a careful distance. Close enough to protect me. Far enough to let me pretend I’m a normal person shopping for clothes. I’m distracted by my new surroundings, so it takes me a minute to realize people are staring at me. Not casual glances either. These are lingering looks.

I first notice when a woman arranging a window display freezes when I pass, then elbows her coworker. Next I see two older men at a cafe lower their voices and watch me over their cups. It becomes impossible to ignore when a shop owner straightens behind his counter the moment I walk in, his face rearranging from boredom into alert, uneasy attentiveness.

I’m surprised to realize they know who I am. Not me, really. Not Elio Conti from Millhaven. They somehow know that I’m Marcello Foschini’s omega. His new husband. The wedding was only yesterday, but they already know who I am. I guess it should have occurred to me that in a place where the Foschini name is stitched into the fabric of the city, the new omega of the boss is apparently a big deal.

The attention makes me uncomfortable. I try to focus on the clothing on the racks, but it’s impossible not to feel self-conscious. But I need clothes so I grab a few things that catch my eye. Dress shirts, T-shirts, a few pairs of jeans, socks, and a decent pair of boots. When I bring my haul to the register, the woman behind the counter smiles nervously. Marcello gave me a credit card to use for anything I need, but when I try to give it to her, she pushes my card back across the counter.

“For Don Foschini’s new husband, there’s no charge,” she says. “It’s an honor that you came into our store.”

I frown. “That’s very kind of you, but I want to pay for the clothes.”

She looks taken aback. “Oh, no, sir, I simply couldn’t take your money.”

I shift uneasily. “You deserve to be paid for these items. Why would I get them for free? Please let me pay.”

Her cheeks are pink and she looks genuinely distressed, like she has no idea what to do. “There’s no need for you to pay, Mr. Foschini. Please, I… I insist. Casa Bellucci wants to gift you these items. It’s our pleasure.”

Dante materializes at my shoulder. “Let her,” he says quietly.

I meet his steely gaze, feeling annoyed. “But why? The store had to buy the clothes. They should be compensated. They’re here to make a profit, not to give clothes away.”

“You’re making it worse for her,” he says under his breath. “Just let her gift you the clothes. She’ll be humiliated if you don’t.”