Page 67 of The Don’s Omega

But he doesn’t say no. He shrugs. “Sure, that sounds fine.”

Ridiculous warmth spreads through my chest. I ignore it and say gruffly, “Be sure to bring sunglasses.”

“I forgot to pack sunglasses.” He looks embarrassed.

“That’s okay. I have some extras.” I smile at him, happy he’s coming with me. “This will be fun.”

“Beats hanging around the house all day, I guess.”

Ignoring his lack of enthusiasm, I say, “Let’s go get you that shirt and some sunglasses.”

A half hour later, we’re pulling up to the country club. The club is situated on the western edge of Sorrento Bay, perched on a bluff above the water. The drive in winds through a tunnel of mature elms before opening onto broad, manicured lawns.

The main building is white colonnaded stone, sprawling and low. Clay tennis courts sit beyond a clipped hedge to one side, each one enclosed by dark green fencing and shaded spectator benches. Farther out, the golf course rolls in immaculate green waves, broken by sand traps and oak trees. Below the veranda, a long pool throws back the sun in hard silver flashes, surrounded by blue striped loungers and white umbrellas.

Elio’s expression is tense as my driver Anthony pulls up to the entrance to the country club. “So this is where mafia types go to hang out and relax,” Elio murmurs, taking it all in.

“Yes. It’s neutral ground. Business gets done here, but mostly people come to let loose and get some exercise.” I adjust my gold watch on my wrist. “Even mafia types need a little R&R.”

Elio’s jaw is clenched as he stares at the club. “Maybe this was a bad idea. I’m just a regular guy. I don’t feel like I belong here, Marcello.”

“Don’t be silly.” I reach over and straighten the collar of the light green polo shirt I loaned him. I ignore his subtle flinch. “You belong here because you’re with me. You’re my husband, remember?”

“Your fake husband,” he mumbles, giving a wary glance toward my driver. Only Carlo, Kessler, and my family know our union was arranged.

Anthony puts the SUV in park and gets out of the car, allowing me to speak freely. “Elio, we may have a contract, but you actually are my husband. My omega. Don’t forget that.”

He presses his lips together, but stays quiet.

“You need to embrace the role. If you act timid, these people will eat you alive.”

He scowls. “I don’t know how to talk to these people. I haven’t accomplished anything in life worth bragging about, and that’s all those people do.”

“You don’t have to brag,” I say quietly. “You’re my husband. That is the brag to these people. As far as they know, I chose you because I’m head over heels for you. Act the part of my cherished omega and they’ll go along with it. I’m telling you, I know these people. If you act like you belong, they’ll accept that at face value.”

“All right. I’ll do my best.” He meets my gaze, anxiety shimmering. “You won’t leave me alone with them, right?”

“No.” My heart twinges oddly because, while he’s acting like a surly teenager, underneath it all he’s really just worried about not being accepted. Something about Elio makes me want to protect him in a way I never felt the need to do with Sandro. “I’m not going to abandon you. I brought you here because I want to spend some quality time with you.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “You brought me here to parade me around like a show pony, don’t try and sugarcoat it.”

“Can’t I do both?” I laugh. “Stay close to me. I’ll have your back. If you could get through the wedding, you can get through this. Some of these people you’ve already met at the wedding, and the ones you didn’t weren’t important enough to be invited to our wedding.”

“Okay.”

“Breathe, Elio. You’ve got this.” Anthony opens my door and I exit the SUV.

Inside the club the air is cool and smells like lilies and lemon polish. The lobby is all dark wood and marble, with a staircase curving up to the dining rooms and a wall of arched windows framing the water beyond.

Portraits of dead club presidents hang in heavy gilt frames, watching everyone come and go with snooty expressions. A massive arrangement of white flowers sits on a center table. We don’t make it ten steps before we’re intercepted.

“Marcello Foschini!” Zino Pulisi, the club’s owner, bustles toward us in a yellow polo, round face shining with perspiration. He opens both arms as though he means to embrace me, then seems to remember who I am and stops just short.

“We had no idea you’d grace us today,” he says, his smile trembling at the edges. “What an honor. What an absolute honor.”

“Hello, Zino.” I smile graciously. Zino comes across like a lamb, but he’s ruthless with his staff. That’s one reason the club runs so well. He doesn’t suffer fools and won’t tolerate fuck-ups. We’re a lot alike in that way, minus the flop sweat.

His bright eyes flick to Elio. “This is the new husband. I’ve been dying to meet him.” He seizes Elio’s hand in both of his and pumps. “Welcome, welcome. You are even more striking than they said, and they said plenty, believe me. You’re all anyone is talking about. Nobody can believe Marcello Foschini finally took an omega. Congratulations on your marriage, young man.”