Page 16 of The Don’s Omega

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When Saturday rolls around I’m a nervous wreck. I don’t know what to wear to meet a rich alpha who wants to hire me to have his baby. That’s not a situation I ever thought I’d have to dress for. I settle on jeans and a button-down because it’s a diner, not a gala, and if he doesn’t like a guy in jeans then this isn’t going to work anyway.

Mike’s Waffles and Stuff is right off the highway. It’s the kind of place truckers swear by. I predict the inside décor will consist of Formica tables, red vinyl booths, and maybe a pie case by the register. I’ve driven past it many times and never stopped. I pull into the lot at two-fifty and sit in my car trying to calm my racing pulse.

The parking lot is mostly empty since it’s after lunch and not yet dinnertime. There’s a black Mercedes SUV in the parking lot with tinted windows. It doesn’t belong anywhere near this diner. I suspect it has to be my date’s ride. There’s a driver behind the wheel, a tough burly bodyguard driver type. I’m pretty sure he’s not the alpha I’m meeting. So that means the guy I’m meeting needs a driver slash bodyguard?

That’s not intimidating at all.

I get out of my car and walk inside. Sure enough the décor is exactly what I expected, pastry case and all. I glance around the quiet restaurant and spot him immediately. Even if it had been crowded inside, he’d have stood out to me. He’s impossible to miss.

He’s in a booth in the back corner, facing the door like Wild Bill Hickok. He’s wearing a dark suit and red tie and he looks completely at ease yet simultaneously out of place. Mike’s Waffles and Stuff has paper placemats with word searches on them. Yet this man is sitting there in what looks like a hand-tailored Italian suit, completely unruffled by the greasy-spoon ambiance.

He’s big and very good-looking. That’s the first thing I register. Tall and broad, the kind of build that isn’t just gym-sculpted, but like he was built to take a punch. Dark hair, cut short and neat. A jaw that could have been carved with a chisel. Dark eyes lift from the menu to me the moment I step inside.

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t wave. He just looks at me, and something about the way he looks at me makes my skin prickle. It’s not threatening, exactly. It’s assessing. Like he’s running calculations behind those dark eyes and I’m one of the variables.

I walk to the booth on shaky legs. I want to project confidence, but that’s the last thing I’m actually feeling. It occurs to me I don’t know the name of the alpha I’m supposed to meet. Unsure of what else to do, I ask, “Hi, um… do you know Kessler?”

“Yes. I’m Marcello. Sit down.” His voice is deep and quiet, but there’s a thread of authority that doesn’t need volume.

I slide into the booth, my heart racing. Up close, he’s even more striking. His features are severe, almost harsh, but arranged in a way that works. The top few buttons of his shirt are undone, and I see tattoos peeking out. Something about him reminds me of a thunderstorm: beautiful, dangerous, impossible to ignore. One thing is immediately clear. He’s no ordinary businessman.

“I’m Elio.”

“Nice to meet you, Elio.” He watches me for a moment without speaking. His eyes move over my face, unhurried, cataloging. Something about the way his eyes linger on my mouth has heat creeping up my face. I’m sure he can see my physical reaction. My fair skin blushes easily. But it’s impossible not to react to the interest in his eyes. I get the feeling he likes what he sees.

“You look younger than I expected,” he says.

“I’m twenty-eight. My age was on my paperwork.”

His lips twitch. “I know how old you are. I said you look younger.”

“Oh.” I frown. “Is that a problem?”

“No. It’s merely an observation.”

I clear my throat. “You’re… uh… thirty-five?”

“That’s right.” His amusement grows. “Do I look younger?”

I hesitate. “Not really. You don’t look older though, either. You’re very handsome, but I’m sure you know that. You look more intimidating than I thought you’d be.” I’m babbling. I need to shut up.

He surprises me when he smiles. It’s not really a warm smile but it makes him even more attractive. His teeth are white and straight, and little laugh lines crinkle around his dark eyes. My pulse flutters as we hold each other’s gaze. I should be relieved he’s so attractive. I mean, if I’m going to have his kid, I should find him attractive. But I also feel like he’s out of my league, which makes me tongue-tied and awkward. I don’t think I’ve ever met an alpha who made me feel so… inadequate.

Thankfully, a waitress appears. That gives me an excuse to pull my gaze from Marcello’s. She’s middle-aged, tired-looking, and she stares at Marcello like she’s trying to figure out if he’s famous. He orders black coffee and a cinnamon roll without looking at her. I order the same because while I’d prefer a hot chocolate with my cinnamon roll, I don’t want to look uncultured.

“Kessler tells me you need money for your brother’s surgery,” Marcello says once she’s gone.

Right to it. No small talk. “Yes.”

“He didn’t give me exact details, just that something is wrong with your brother’s heart. What exactly is wrong with him?” His dark eyes study me.

“He has a condition called HOCM.” I grimace. “The muscle of his heart has thickened and it’s blocking blood flow. Without the surgery, he’ll die.”

Marcello’s expression doesn’t change. “How old is your brother?”

“Nineteen.”