Page 29 of His Tesoro

SOFIYA

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 find 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 find 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?”

---