Page 101 of His Tesoro

“Bah, let your wife sit at the other end, Don Rossi. That way, us men can have a real conversation.”

Your wife? Classic. How quickly he’d removed any reminder of his relationship to me.

“My wife sits beside me,” Matteo said, his voice like ice.

“Well, she’s certainly not standing beside you,” Yulia said in Russian, her voice just loud enough to ensure I heard her.

I gave her a sickeningly sweet smile and responded in Russian. “Bold words from a woman whose husband can’t get away from her fast enough. You arrived last night? That means he must have found at least three women to fuck already.”

It was a low blow and I felt a little guilty, but Yulia’s furious expression gave me some pleasure, too.

Matteo met my gaze, and I shook my head slightly. I could hold my own against the Bratva women. He took my hand and helped me into my chair before standing behind me, his hands on my shoulders as he stared my father down, daring him to say something.

The Pakhan burst out laughing. “Young love! How we all remember those days.”

None of his men cracked a smile. I doubted they would know what love was if it smacked them in the face.

Everyone took their seats, the Bratva wives relegated to the opposite end of the table. One of the new guards sat beside me, which I was thankful for. It was bad enough to have to look at the Pakhan and Bogdan, I didn’t think I could tolerate sitting next to them.

Dinner crawled by, filled with polite, bland conversation. Matteo’s hand never left my skin—either resting on my leg under the table or holding my hand on top of it. A few times, I caught my father’s gaze flitting to where my husband and I were touching, and I felt a sick sense of satisfaction. He had sold me to the Italians with no concern for my well-being, and it had backfired spectacularly. Angelo caught my eye over my father’s shoulder and winked. Warmth curled in my stomach. I finally had a real family who freely gave their care and protection.

My mama stayed silent, but she eyed my plate of food. Her expression was so clear I could practically hear her scolding words about my weight gain. I took another large bite of fettuccine, staring her down the entire time. She looked away, disgust twisting her lips.

As we neared the end of dinner, servings of tiramisu and Sambuca appeared. Angelo rubbed his stomach as he eyed the large trays of dessert from his position by the wall. I needed to make sure he got some later.

My father stood up and announced that the men needed to try the vodka he’d brought. They moved to the side of the restaurant with a fireplace and large leather chairs. This time, I squeezed Matteo’s hand and gave him an encouraging look. He needed to go with the rest of the men to appease my father. He leaned over and brushed a kiss on my cheek. “Behave yourself.”

I rolled my eyes. “You behave yourself,” I hissed back.

His dark expression told me he was imagining spanking me. He jerked his head at Angelo who was immediately at my side, escorting me to where the other women were sitting on couches. But I only had eyes for my mama. Her dress clung to her stick-thin frame and her eyes looked even more blank since the last time I saw her. I reached out and clutched her hand. Her skin was cold to the touch.

“Mama, are you okay?” My feelings about my mother were endlessly complicated. She had failed Mila and me over and over, and there was no kindness in her. But I also knew she was a victim of the Pakhan, and I held onto the desperate hope that she could break out of this fog someday.

She met my concerned gaze with blankness.

“Mama, please,” I whispered, wishing the other wives weren’t within hearing distance. This would be gossip fodder for the Bratva inner circles, I was sure. “Talk to me.”

“What could she possibly have to say when you show up in that?” Yulia said, voice scathing as she gestured at my wheelchair.

I dropped my mom’s hand and swallowed hard. I refused to be ashamed. Feeling accepted by my new family was slowly helping me accept myself. How dare these women try to make me feel bad for using a wheelchair?

“Isn’t it wonderful? My husband got it for me.”

“As if that makes it better,” she sneered.

Mama sat silently. I wished I knew how to reach her.

“Tell us, Sofiya, how are things with your new husband?” Liliya asked. “He’s certainly handsome enough.”

I raised an eyebrow. “They’re wonderful. And you’re newly married?” She was twirling her ring around her finger.

“To Arkadi,” she said, gesturing at the black-haired guard currently standing behind the Pakhan, her smile turning tight. “Another handsome man.”

I inclined my head.

The other young woman I didn’t know spoke up. “Is that your ring?” Her voice was filled with pretend outrage.

I looked down at my gold band, so plain, especially compared to the Bratva wives’ ornate diamond rings with their three entwined bands. This was the ring my husband had given me when he didn’t want me. I wondered what it would be like to have a ring that was attached to a happier memory.

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