Page 54 of The New Godfather

I stare at the mess. Thinking.

The pimp’s DNA is all over her, and there’s no way to clean that. Irritation spikes hot and sharp in my chest, mixing with something darker: disgust, exhaustion, the growing weight of every fucking decision I have to make. This kind of sloppy, careless shit is exactly what I’ve warned them about for years.

I crouch down in front of the pimp, elbows resting on my knees, the floor cold and sticky under my shoe. I look him dead in the eye. “Haven’t you been told to control yourself?”

He just swallows hard, eyes darting between me and the bodies, sweat beading on his forehead and sliding down his temple.

I stand slowly, rolling my shoulders once to ease the tension coiled there.

“Call Michael. Tell him to scrub the place clean. As for the bodies…” A fresh thought occurs to me, and for once I see a silver lining in this mess. “Take them away but don’t dispose of them. Store them in the freezer till further instructions. Whatever complaints there are, as long as there’s no trace or evidence, it never happened.”

I turn on my heel before anyone can say another word. The door shuts behind me with a quiet click, and I walk back down the dim hallway. On my way I pull my phone out of my pocket and call Leonardo.

Chapter Fifty

VIOLA

Ilie in the dark, staring at the faint glow of the city lights bleeding through the curtains, my mind spinning in tight, restless circles. The brunch with the wives is tomorrow. Just the thought of it makes my stomach twist. I don’t know what to say to them. I don’t even care what they think, not really, but the idea of sitting there while they all stare, poke, and prod at the story of how I ended up married to Ricci so fast feels uncomfortable.

Exposed.

I roll over, punch the pillow, and try to force my eyes shut, but sleep won’t come. The sheets feel too warm, too tangled around my legs. Every time I start to drift, my thoughts jerk me awake again. Annie’s bright voice on the phone, the gossip I know is already swirling. I’ll have to sit at their stupid brunch and pretend I’m not the woman who traded one powerful man for another before her first husband was even cold in the ground.

Damn it. I give up.

Tea. I need a cup of tea. I push the covers back and slip out of bed, the wood floor cool under my bare feet. The penthouse is quiet with that deep middle-of-the-night hush that makes every small sound feel louder. I pad downstairs in an oversized t-shirt.

The kitchen is dark except for the soft under-cabinet lights I flick on. I fill the kettle and set it on the stove, the blue flame clicking to life beneath it. While the water heats, I lean against the counter, arms wrapped around myself, my thoughts running wild.

I suppose I could ditch it.

Just send a polite excuse and stay here, safe in this quiet bubble Ricci and I are building. After all, I really don’t want to be pulled back into that other world again. The whispers, the judgments, the constant performance. But I know Ricci is in it. Deeply. And even if I only let myself admit it in small, careful pieces, I care about him. Enough to try and smooth things over, at least a little. Enough to keep some of the rumors from turning into something that could hurt him.

I decide on a story. Simple. Clean.

I’ll tell them that I married because I was lonely. Let them think it was a rebound situation. People do that all the time. It makes sense. It has to be enough to squelch the worst of the gossip. The kettle starts to whistle, soft at first, then sharper. I reach for it just as a low voice cuts through the dark behind me.

“Can’t sleep?”

I jump hard, heart slamming against my ribs.

The kettle slips in my grip, tilting dangerously. Hot steam rushes up in a sudden cloud and scalds the side of my hand. A sharp, burning sting that makes me suck in a harsh breath through my teeth. I yank my hand back on instinct, the metal handle almost sliding completely from my fingers. For one terrifying second, I’m sure I’m going to drop the whole thing, boiling water splashing everywhere.

“Shit—”

But Ricci is there in an instant.

Two long strides and he’s behind me, his presence filling the space so completely it steals what little breath I have left. His hand closes gently around my wrist before I can even process that he has moved. In that instant, a protective grip that somehow calms the panic even while my pulse is still racing covers my hand.

“Easy,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep but steady.

He guides my hand under the cold tap with his other hand, turning the faucet on in one smooth motion. Cool water rushes over the burn, soothing the sting immediately, the contrast between the hot scald and the icy stream sharp enough to make me shiver.

I stand there, chest still heaving, trying to catch my breath. He’s so close behind me. Shirtless. The heat of his bare skin presses against my back through the thin fabric of my t-shirt, solid and warm, the hard line of his chest rising and falling with each steady breath. I can feel every inch of him, and the faint scrape of stubble when his jaw brushes my temple. I can smell the clean, sleepy scent of him wrapping around me like cedar and warm skin and something that’s just Ricci. My pulse stutters for an entirely different reason now, and the burn on my hand suddenly becomes the least important thing in the room.

It takes a little while for my breathing to settle. His fingers stay wrapped around my wrist, gentle but firm, holding me under the cool stream while his thumb brushes slow, absent circles over the inside of my arm. The touch is so soft, so careful, it makes something in my chest sob with what I cannot say to him. I watch the water run over my skin, clear and cold, and try not to think about how good his touch feels. How safe. How much I want to lean back into him and let him hold me like this for the rest of the night.

“Be careful,” he says, worry thick in his voice. His breath fans across my ear. “Are you okay?”