Page 3 of The New Godfather

Dio, just thinking her name sends a jolt through me.

I picture her as I've seen her so many times—riding that sleek Arabian mare across the estate's fields, her hair whipping in the wind like golden silk, her slim buttocks and legs gripping the stallion's flanks with a grace that makes my blood run hot. I'm rock hard just from that one memory.

Desire twists like a cut snake in my gut.

Aground, she's breathtaking, a cool beauty that could bring men to their knees, but on horseback... Christ, she's wild, untamed, a fierce goddess. It is almost as if she would kill for that freedom, or so it seems in those stolen moments I've watched from afar. Our eyes have met sometimes. Across rooms, across dinner events, but she only looks at me the same way she does everyone else: like there's an impenetrable wall of ice between her and the world. No flicker of any emotion, certainly no warmth. She never shows any reaction.

I've never seen that wall crack, not once. Ever.

Tomorrow, at her dead husband's funeral, it'll be the same, I am certain. No tears staining those green eyes, no tremble to those tightly held lips. I'll watch her surreptitiously, stealing glances amid the sea of black veils and gloomy faces. I've always been careful—Salvatore was suspicious of everything and everyone. His paranoia was like a shadow that choked the air in every room he was in. But now, he’s gone, and I'm the boss. I can have my fill of her sight, drink in every detail without his beady eyes noticing. So many times, I've wanted to talk to her, to comfort her, to shatter that facade and see the woman beneath.

But I knew. I would not be risking my neck, but hers as well.

So, she remained under ice. Never breaking free. Not even when she had that miscarriage six months ago. I'd been sure it would break her, that even her iron control would snap. But my spies reported: nothing. Not a single tear, no sign of sadness, just... the same impassive stare. Blank as a marble statue.

I've never seen her laugh, either—not a real one, not the kind that lights up a face and echoes in one’s soul. Does she even know how to? I wonder. She must have smiled before the cold, ugly bastard sucked all the life out of her, leaving only this shell. Maybe now that Salvatore is gone, I’ll finally get to see the real her.

A shaft of fear pierces my chest.

It is sharper than any fear I’ve felt before. As the new Godfather, protecting her won't be easy. Everyone knows Salvatore bought her from her father and kept her almost a prisoner. It was clear the cool beauty did not love him, and she's now fair game and available for the taking. A prized ornament that can be claimed to decorate their own lives as Salvatore had done before them. They will believe it will be first come, first-served.

And tomorrow as her husband is buried... the wolves will start circling.

And many want her.

The worst is Mario, Salvatore’s eldest son from his first marriage. I’ve seen the greedy gleam in his eyes when he thinks no one's watching. He devours her with his gaze. It’s lust and no heart. He is a brute, and I detest him. Spoiled and selfish, filled with his father's cruelty, but none of the cunning. Given half the chance, he will brutalize her.

There are others, too—dodgy men without conscience, lieutenants, and rivals.

My fists clench at my sides, and the glass fogs under my heated breath. I swear to myself, right there with the city lights flickering to life below, that none of them will lay a finger on her.

No one touches what's mine—and she's been mine since the very first glance. But… she’ll have to come to me. She’ll have to reach out first. I’ll have to find a way to make her need me.

Chapter Three

VIOLA

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M_kTSBqQkME

-my love-

The air hangs heavy with the scent of fresh earth and the cloyingly sweet perfume of an overabundance of white lilies. I stand at the edge of the graveside gathering in Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx, where old-money mobsters like Salvatore get their eternal plots amid marble angels, ornate stone crypts, and manicured lawns. Gray clouds scud across the sky, threatening rain but holding back for now, casting a muted light that makes everything feel washed out, unreal.

I've pulled on oversized dark sunglasses so no one can see my eyes. It seems appropriate to hide my total lack of grief. Also, it lets me scan the crowd without them knowing. And God, what a circus it is. You’d think the governor died, not some paranoid kingpin. Rows of black-clad mourners stretch out—the bosses in tailored Brioni suits, their wives dripping in diamonds, and everyone whispering deals behind fake solemn nods. They're here to pay respects, sure, but really to connect, to curry favor with whoever's next in line. No one gives a damn about the mahogany coffin waiting to be lowered into that yawning hole. What a farce? I don't care, though. May he rot in hell. I’m celebrating the thought that this is the last time, the absolute last, I’ll have to perform as his dutiful wife.

The ceremony kicks off officially when the priest steps forward in his black robes and starts intoning the final rites in droning Latin. A hush falls over the crowd as everyone turns their focus to the gleaming coffin. Then comes the time for Salvatore to be lowered into the earth. I step forward on numb legs, and scoop up a fistful of cool, dry earth. I can feel the grit between my fingers as I let it fall. Goodbye, you piece of shit. The words feel satisfyingly revengeful in my mind.

A tiny smile tugs at my lips, but I hide it quickly, pressing my mouth into a thin line. Why shouldn’t I be happy? The noose around my neck has finally been untied. One by one, the rest of Salvatore’s family steps up—his horrible son, his sobbing mother, distant cousins, lieutenants. They all toss in handfuls of soil, the dirt pattering down like rain. The ceremony drags on a bit longer, more prayers, before it finally winds down. The crowd shifts restlessly as the priest closes his book.

I keep my expression icy, so no one approaches me. I don’t need any condolences or curious glances beyond the obligatory nods. I just want to go back to the estate, shed this suffocating dress, and figure out what comes next.

I spot Maria, our housekeeper, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, her plump face streaked with genuine tears. She's been with the family forever, loyal to a fault, so I understand her pain. I fall into step beside her, and together we begin to head toward the line of sleek black limousines idling on the winding cemetery road, their engines purring softly.

We're almost there when a voice calls out, "Mrs. Greco."

Ugh… that name. I turn. It's the family lawyer, Bonafanti—short and balding, in a pinstriped suit that reveals his old-school Italian roots. His gold pinky ring glints as he hurries over.

Maria glances at me, then at him, and murmurs something about waiting in the car before slipping away, leaving us alone amid the scattering crowd. A mix of dread and anticipation twists in my chest. I've been avoiding this conversation all week—everything from this moment hinges on what he says.