His Tesoro: An Arranged Marriage Age Gap Mafia Romance (Empire of Royals Book 1)
His Tesoro: Chapter 16

I’d struggled to sleep all night, which was why I was certain my husband never came home. I’d waited for him with dinner. I was used to eating around seven but knew Italians ate late, so I’d stayed hopeful. Once it neared eleven p.m., I gave up and ate while sitting on the kitchen floor, blasting music as loud as my phone would play it.

If I was living essentially alone, I might as well break all the etiquette rules that had been drilled into me.

Pain in my hips had kept me tossing and turning, desperate to replace a tolerable position. That, in combination with my loneliness and lack of sleep, had put me in a bad mood. I’d gotten out of bed in the early morning hours, needing something to distract myself. I used the fancy Italian espresso machine to make myself a latte and then explored the rest of the apartment, doing my best to navigate with my bulky wheelchair.

The apartment had an air of neglect, like no one really lived here, but it was beautiful—the perfect combination of historic architecture and modern touches. Large windows let the light of the rising sun stream in, and it bounced off the white walls and dark wood moulding. It was nothing like the cold opulence of the Pakhan’s house that was meant to intimidate everyone who entered with its extravagance and wealth. There were four bedrooms—I hadn’t dared enter Matteo’s, but the rest were decorated simply and tastefully—five bathrooms, a formal dining room, living room, and the gym, but my favorite room by far was the library.

That’s where I decided to curl up—on the large leather couch in the library with my second cup of coffee as I watched the sunrise. Floor-to-ceiling shelves were filled with books—beautiful, old tomes that looked gorgeous but made for terrible reading. Actually, there didn’t seem to be anything actually remotely readable in the whole house. Figured. I guessed the Don didn’t replace much time for leisure. Well, except for his nights. Seemed like he found plenty of time for extracurriculars then. Images of Matteo with other women had flitted in and out of my dreams until I was on the verge of screaming.

I leaned my head back on the couch with a groan. It didn’t do any good to dwell on life’s disappointments.

I was trying to get the energy to get up and make breakfast when there was a knock at the front door. At first I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly, but there it was again. For a moment, my heart lurched when I thought Matteo was back, but then I realized he wouldn’t have knocked.

I got in my chair, breathing in sharply at the pain shooting through my joints, and rolled out of the library. “Come in!” I called out once I got to the living room.

The door slowly opened, revealing a smiling Angelo. “Morning, bella. I was worried I might have woken you.”

I pasted on a smile. I was happy to see him, but I couldn’t quite stop my heart from aching at my husband’s absence.

“I’ve been up for a while.” I grimaced when I realized I was still in my pajamas—hot pink silk pajamas with flamingos on them, courtesy of my mother.

“Those are cute,” Angelo said.

I shook my head and rolled into the kitchen. “Can I get you something? Coffee? I was trying to decide what to make for breakfast.”

“I wouldn’t say no to some coffee. What did you end up making last night?”

“Chocolate chip cookies and mushroom risotto.” Angelo’s face lit up, and I eyed him with amusement. “There are leftovers if you want some?”

“I would love some.” He rubbed his hands together.

I laughed. “At eight in the morning? Rather odd breakfast.” The risotto had been delicious, but eating alone just wasn’t the same.

I started maneuvering over to the fridge, but Angelo quickly stopped me. “Let me get it,” he said, eyeing my wheelchair with concern.

“I can move around the kitchen, Angelo.”

“But why do that when I’m here, Mrs. Rossi?”

I wrinkled my nose. I wasn’t sure how long it would take to get used to being called Mrs.

I grabbed a granola bar as Angelo pulled out a container of leftover risotto from the fridge.

“So, are you just here to raid the fridge?”

Angelo grinned at my prickly tone as he popped the container in the microwave. “Nah, that’s just a bonus. I’m here to collect you. The Boss scheduled an appointment for you.”

“Oh,” I said, sitting up straighter. “Is he coming back?”

Angelo’s expression fell slightly, and he busied himself with the leftovers. “No, he’s busy.”

A lump formed in my throat, and I felt beyond stupid. Why should I be upset that my husband stayed out all night, obviously in the company of more interesting women? He had made it clear we were nothing to each other. I just thought he might wait at least a week after our wedding to take a mistress.

I’d allowed myself to be too hopeful, to believe in romantic fairytales.

I swallowed hard before speaking and was pleased at how steady my voice sounded. “What kind of appointment?”

“A wheelchair assessment to be fitted for a custom chair.”

My lips parted, and all I could do was blink as Angelo took the risotto out of the microwave and took an appreciative bite.

“This is really good,” he said. “I don’t even like mushrooms.”

“Thank you. But what do you mean, a wheelchair appointment? I already have a wheelchair.”

“Boss said it’s no good,” Angelo said with a shrug. “He was very insistent that you deserve the best.”

My eyes were unfocused as I tried to make sense of my enigma of a husband—cold, harsh, and absent at one moment, and seemingly caring in the next.

“He’s a confusing man,” I finally said.

“Not half as confusing as women,” Angelo said.

I rolled my eyes, scooting forward so I could snag the container of cookies out of his hand. “Sexists don’t get cookies.”

“No, bella, please don’t be like that.” His lip jutted out in a pout. It was such a ridiculous expression on this huge, muscular man that I couldn’t stop myself from laughing.

He snagged the box out of my hand and shoved a cookie in his mouth before I could say anything.

“You’re ridiculous,” I said. “I have to go get ready. Don’t eat all the cookies.”

I fidgeted with the car radio, turning it to a pop station. Mila and I had spent hours passing the time listening to the radio when we were little, before we smuggled a TV into our wing of the house.

“So, Angelo, tell me more about yourself.”

We were stuck in Manhattan morning traffic.

“Uhh, what do you want to know?”

“I don’t know. Anything. What do you like to do in your free time?”

The light changed and we inched forward again.

“Don’t have many hobbies… I do attend a weekly poker night, if that counts.”

“Oh, that’s cool. I’ve never played. Mila and I had a deck of cards, but we didn’t know any games, so we just made stuff up. Are you any good?”

A smile tugged at Angelo’s lips. “I’m decent.”

“Can you teach me? Maybe I can come to poker night if I get good.”

He shot me an incredulous look. “A woman at poker night?” But at my scowl, he cleared his throat and quickly added, “It’s about time.”

I crossed my arms.

“Don’t take the cookies away from me,” he pleaded.

“Maybe I’ll forgive you if you teach me how to play.” I knew Angelo was only here with me because that’s what the Boss commanded, but I was desperate for a friend. “Oh!” I said. “Do you have a gun range you use to practice?”

Angelo took a right turn and parallel parked on a busy street in Midtown. “Why?”

“I thought maybe we could go sometime. I need to keep my skills sharp.”

My bodyguard snorted. “Your skills?”

“What, you don’t believe me? My brother taught me to shoot when I was younger.”

Dimitri had taught both Mila and me, determined that we needed to know how to protect ourselves. Every time he visited, we all snuck out together to the range to practice shooting. Mila had been hopeless, but Dimi said I was a natural. The last time he visited, six months ago, we’d practiced shooting from my chair.

“Not sure the Boss will go for that,” Angelo said before getting out of the car. I waited for him to get my chair out of the back. I grimaced as I got out, my hips aching. I needed to use a heating pad once we got back.

Angelo pulled open a large glass door with the sign Mobility Center on it, and I rolled into a massive space lined with all sorts of wheelchairs.

“You must be Mrs. Rossi.” A middle-aged woman with pretty eyes and a brown ponytail came out from behind the reception desk to greet us. “I’m Sandra. I’m the physical therapist doing your eval today.” She shook my hand and then Angelo’s before introducing us to two male staff members working with her—Ted and DiMarco.

“We’ll do a variety of assessments today to make sure we have everything we need to get you your custom chair, which is a good thing because I can already see that one is not right for you,” Sandra said with a calculating expression. “The assessment will include asking you a lot of questions about your mobility and what your goals are, and we’ll do some physical evaluations as well. Any questions before we begin?”

I shook my head, still a little dazed that this was happening. It was disorienting to be around people who wanted me to be comfortable in a wheelchair after having to hide the severity of my disability for so long.

And the fact that my husband had set up the appointment made it all the sweeter.