Page 3 of His Tesoro

I waved my hand. “We have years to figure something out. What’s important now is stopping the Albanians.” The growing tension with the Bratva had demanded too much of our manpower, distracting us from Arben’s threat.

Romeo leaned back in the leather office chair, watching me closely. A slow smile spread across his face as he crossed his arms.

“What?” I asked, scowling.

“Just interested to see how this goes. The unshakeable Matteo Rossi living with his pretty little roommate.”

My irritation grew the longer he smiled. “Fuck off. This is a business decision, nothing more.”

“Whatever you say.” He got up. “I’ll let them know we can set the date.”

“Small wedding,” I said. “Let’s get this done quickly.”

Romeo nodded and then reached for the file.

“Leave it,” I barked.

He just hummed as he left my office.

2

SOFIYA

Mila snuggled closer to me like she had so many times growing up. She’d spent more nights in my bed than out of it. Our house was always cold—both in temperature and emotion—so we soaked up all the warmth we could get.

“Are you really going to marry him?” she whispered, sounding younger than her nineteen years.

My throat and chest were tight. My father had just delivered the news. His exact words were, “When you marry Matteo Rossi and cement this alliance with the Italians, you’ll finally be useful to me.” My mama had stood silently beside him.

“I guess so,” I whispered back.

“Do you know anything about him?”

“He’s head of the New York Mafia.”

Mila snorted as she smacked my arm. “Sofiya, be serious.”

“But that’s all I know,” I protested. My lip jutted out in a pout as I rubbed my arm.

“That didn’t even hurt,” she said, rolling her eyes as she grabbed our shared secret phone. “I’m going to look him up.”

I opened my mouth to tell her not to, but then stopped myself. Why shouldn’t I find out everything I could about this man I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with?

Mila typed on the phone and then gasped. “He’s so hot.”

I grabbed the phone, biting my lip as I looked at the picture underneath an article headline that read, “NYC’s Hottest Billionaire Leaves New Year’s Eve Party Early.” It was a candid of Matteo outside a hotel. He was scowling in his perfectly tailored black tux, which stretched across his broad shoulders. His dark hair fell messily in his face, and there was a firm set to his square jaw.

I felt a tiny flutter in my stomach. “I guess he’s… fine.”

“Oh, he is fine,” Mila said, grinning widely. She’d always been boy-crazy. I couldn’t count the number of times I’d covered for her as she snuck out the window to hook up with her boyfriend of the month, whereas I’d gone to one single party last year and never wanted to repeat the experience. I shuddered as I pushed aside the memory and focused again on the picture.

“How old is he?” I asked. He was obviously older than me, since he was already the head of the Mafia. The man in the picture wasn’t quite silver fox level, but he had a maturity to him that I might have found just a little bit sexy.

Mila took the phone, her frown deepening when her searches yielded no new information. After thirty minutes, we finally had to give up. It was impossible to find personal information about Matteo Rossi.

Mila set down the phone with a huff. She turned so she was lying on her side, facing me. “At least we know your fiancé is hot.”

“I wonder if he’s nice,” I murmured. God, I felt so stupid even saying the words out loud. I’d never seen a kind husband or happy marriage in the Bratva, but I clung to the hope that Matteo wasn’t as awful as my father. Maybe things were different with the Italians. Maybe they treated their women better.

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