Page 5 of His Tesoro

An elderly woman working at the church ushered us to the front, where the priest waited. Half my men filed into the empty pews on the groom’s side while the others were stationed around the perimeter. The pews to my right were sparsely filled with the bride’s guests. I was surprised at how few people there were after Rustik’s insistence on having the wedding in his city. The Pakhan was seated in the front pew and tipped his head at me. I didn’t return the gesture. I had expected him to walk his daughter down the aisle, but maybe the Russians did it differently.

Rustik’s wife sat next to him. The woman was thin and there was a blankness in her eyes, although her dress made me blink twice. Loud was the only word to describe it—bright orange with ruffles around the neck. Beside her was a pretty girl with dark brown hair—Sofiya’s sister, I assumed. She met my gaze and held it unflinchingly.

Interesting.

The music started and the back doors of the church opened. The sun shone through the stained glass window, creating a halo of light around a young woman sitting in a wheelchair.

I kept my face blank, refusing to look at Rustik, who had clearly withheld this information about his daughter. What else was the bastard hiding? Did he think I would have rejected the marriage proposal if I’d known? I felt Romeo’s presence beside me, and I could almost hear him saying, “Maybe this is why you should have met her beforehand.”

Sofiya wheeled herself down the aisle, her lace veil trailing behind her and a tight expression on her face. She’d been beautiful in her picture, but in person, she was breathtaking. Her hair was like gold as it framed her delicate features, and I couldn’t stop my eyes from flitting down to her full lips. When her blue eyes met mine, I felt a weird jolt of electricity so strong it almost broke through my blank mask.

Sofiya’s dress ballooned around her lap, making it hard for her to maneuver her wheelchair. A strange, uncomfortable feeling formed in my chest at seeing her struggle down the aisle alone. I told myself it was because she was a Mafia queen now and needed to look strong in front of my men.

Sofiya finally made her way to the front of the aisle, and I made room for her beside me. She gave me a shy glance before looking at the priest, and I had the strange urge to demand she put her eyes back on me.

The priest had been told to keep the ceremony as short as possible, so it wasn’t long before we were at the vows. He cleared his throat, giving me an anxious look before looking at his paper. “Matteo Rossi and Sofiya Ivanova, have you come here to enter into marriage without coercion, freely and wholeheartedly?”

“I have,” I said.

“I have,” Sofiya said. Her voice was gentle and sweet, and I felt a strange twinge in my chest.

“Are you prepared, as you follow the path of marriage, to love and honor each other for as long as you both shall live?” the priest continued.

“I am,” I said, and Sofiya echoed my response.

“And are you prepared to accept children lovingly from God and to bring them up according to the law of Christ and his Church?”

When I ascended as Don thirteen years ago, I’d known producing heirs was part of my responsibility. But the prospect of children had never felt so real as it did now, with my pretty little bride beside me.

Sofiya and I responded affirmatively.

The vows were next. When the priest asked Sofiya if she vowed to “love, honor, and obey” me, her jaw clenched tight. Her eyes flitted to her father and then up at me. I could see the rebellion play out, her eyes so expressive I could practically hear her thoughts.

The priest cleared his throat, and she gave an annoyed huff before saying, “I do.”

Fuck, that was… cute.

It was almost enough to make me smile.

4

SOFIYA

“Ido.”

That was it. No going back now.

It was time to exchange rings. I briefly panicked since I hadn’t been given a ring for Matteo, but he produced bands for both of us. I gave him a grateful smile, and something in his jaw ticked. My smile fell and a sick feeling twisted my stomach. Did my husband hate me already?

The priest blessed the rings and then Matteo slipped the plain gold band onto my finger. A brief flash of disappointment went through me before I stuffed it down. I’d spent hours as a child circling my favorite rings in the jewelry catalogs I fished out of the trash after my mama was done with them. I’d dreamed of an art deco-style ring with a large diamond in the middle and smaller stones surrounding it. But nothing about this wedding was like the one I’d imagined when I was younger. Not the dress, which my mother had chosen, even though it would make moving around in my wheelchair a nightmare. Not the guest list, which mainly consisted of old, powerful Bratva men. And not the groom.

To be fair, I couldn’t have picked a more attractive husband even if I’d had a choice. The pictures Mila and I found hadn’t done him justice. Matteo was devastatingly handsome. His dark hair was casually messy, contrasting with his otherwise stern, put-together demeanor. His suit—not a tux—was impeccably tailored and showed off his tall, muscular body. But I’d always imagined getting married to someone who loved me. Or at least liked me. I swallowed the lump in my throat as I slipped the plain gold band on his finger, his rough fingertips brushing against my skin.

I signed the marriage certificate with a hand that was steadier than I felt. I braved another glance up at my new husband, but he was staring straight ahead with the same flat expression he’d worn since I entered the church. I’d never been able to control my face, to the immense disappointment of my father. According to him, I was too easy to read, too vulnerable, too pathetic. I didn’t know if I should be impressed or terrified by Matteo’s ability to cover his emotions.

“I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride,” the priest said, closing out the ceremony.

I froze.

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