Page 14 of The New Godfather

He stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Viola? Salvatore’s wife?”

“Salvatore is dead. She is his widow,” I correct, annoyance sharpening my tone.

He sets his spoon down slowly, worry creasing his brow. “Will this be accepted by the other families?”

I lean back, letting a slow smile curve my lips. “I can’t wait for them to try and stop me. My new position means I can do whatever the fuck I want. Hell, I almost wish someone would object so I get the chance to lay down some ground rules for my reign.”

Leonardo’s quiet for a long moment, swirling his wine, clearly nervous but trying to hide it. “I want you to be happy, man. I do. But I don’t know how happy you’ll be with a woman you’ve described to me as colder than ice.”

“It was a farce,” I say, shrugging. “At least… I hope it was.”

He doesn’t understand. I can see it in his eyes. I decide to enlighten him.

“When Viola first came to live in Salvatore’s house, one of the servants had brought in a dog and hid it in the stables. It made the mistake of barking at Salvatore. He shot it and left it to die in the stables. But Viola… she waited until he was gone and then rushed it to the vet and nursed the creature back to health with her own hands. She got the handyman to build a little kennel at the edge of the property and filled it with cushions that she snuck out of the house. She could have looked away. Anyone else would have. But she refused. She isn’t ice cold—she just has to pretend to be. She’s surrounded by vipers.”

I see Leonardo listening, really listening, the worry easing from his face as I keep going. “I’ve watched her for years.” I laugh softly. “I’ve wanted her for years. You know that. That’s why I’m sure I’m making the right decision. She’s… everything to me, Leonardo. Everything.”

He’s convinced. I see it in the way his shoulders relax, the small nod he gives. “Then I wish you the best, brother. When’s the wedding?”

“I’ll let you know. Be flexible.”

He claps me on the shoulder with enough force to make the table rattle. “I’ll be there. Count on it. Now… for fuck’s sake, eat your pasta before it goes cold.”

I dig in. It’s fantastic. I make a note to bring Viola here. I’m sure she will love this dish. Eventually, Leonardo heads back to the kitchen, leaving me alone with the wine and the quiet hum of the restaurant—soft jazz playing low, the clink of silverware from the main room.

I pull out my phone and make a call to my personal assistant. He picks up on the first ring. “Go to Salvatore’s house and tell Viola to pack her things. She should be ready to leave in the morning.”

“Got it. Anything else, Boss?”

I pause. “Wait. Just get me her phone number. I’ll do it myself.”

Chapter Thirteen

VIOLA

I'm seated on the floor of my walk-in closet, clutching my phone, my legs tucked beneath me on the thick cream carpet. Light spills in from the half-open door. I look at the rows of clothes hanging above me like silent judges. Tailored designer outfits I never chose. Underneath, heels lined up in perfect formation like soldiers ready for battle. All mine, yet none of it belongs to me. It's all borrowed armor from a life that was never mine to begin with.

Is this a dream?

Salvatore’s murder was extraordinary enough without Ricci’s shocking and unbelievable offer of marriage. I don't quite know how to process it. My mind replays the scene in the library—the low rumble of Ricci's voice saying, “What I want is you,” and the way his eyes held mine without flinching, the heat of his body. It loops and loops until I feel quite dizzy.

Was it real?

Yeah, it was real.

I need to tell someone. The only person who comes to mind is my sister, even though I know Fabiola will not understand. She'll probably think it is inappropriate and worry about how it will look to our community. Deep in my heart I know it's the only way, and I don’t need anyone to try and talk me out of my decision, but I have to tell someone, and there is no one else I can call. My thumb presses on the familiar number. The ringtone feels too loud in the quiet closet, echoing off the walls.

My sister’s voice is bright but edged with worry. “Viola? God, I've been waiting to hear from you. How was the funeral?”

“It was okay,” I say.

“What do you mean by okay?”

The words taste like ash on my tongue. “It was long and full of the usual crowd.”

“You should have let me come,” Fabiola chides softly. “I should have been there for you. I know you say you don’t need the support, but it couldn’t have hurt. People will have noticed and think we are no longer on good terms.”

“No.” The word comes out sharper than I intend, and I wince at how it lands. “I have to keep our family away from all of them. You know that. It's safer this way.”