Page 1 of The New Godfather

Chapter One

VIOLA

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0-4RLPSwNtc

-laciatemi Cantare-

The wind whips through my hair as I urge Bella faster across the sprawling fields of the estate. The rhythmic thunder of her hooves echoes the wild beat of my heart. Bella’s muscles flex beneath me, powerful and sure, making me seem one with her. This is the only time I feel truly alive—free, untethered from the invisible chains that bind me every other moment.

No walls, no watchful eyes, just the world rushing by, and the honest scent of earth and horse sweat filling my lungs. No unnamed vague worry gnawing at the edges of my mind, making me feel as if I'm living on the edge. Everything could be fine, and in the next moment I will be knocked off balance and left to lie broken on the ground.

The little lake comes into view, its surface shimmering in the late-afternoon light like a sheet of polished glass. I pull Bella to a gentle halt at the edge and slide down from the saddle. Heat radiates from her neck as she dips her head eagerly to drink, her muzzle breaking the water with soft ripples. I let my gaze wander over the distant line of oak trees that mark the legal boundaries of my husband, Salvatore's world. Mine is smaller, confined to these stolen rides and the silent rooms of the house.

The sound of approaching hooves pulls me from my thoughts. I turn warily and spot Gino, the stable hand, galloping toward me on his old bay gelding. He is older than most of the men around here, shorter and rounder too, with a face weathered by years under the sun. I watch as he reins in, his chubby frame shifting awkwardly in the saddle. Dismounting is always a struggle for him. He plants one foot in the stirrup, huffs a bit, then swings the other leg over with a grunt that almost makes me smile.

Almost.

I bite it back, hiding it away like I do everything else. No one in this house gets to see inside me, not even Gino, whom I've known since I was dragged here four years ago. In his patient, gruff way, he taught me to ride, but letting my guard down is a luxury I can't afford. Not while I’m a prisoner in a gilded cage. Every kindness could be a potential betrayal.

"Senora," he says, dusting his hands on his worn jeans, his voice carrying that familiar Italian lilt softened by decades in America.

I cringe inwardly at the word, its implication and formality. In my head, I will never be Senora Greco. My name's Viola.

There is pity in his dark eyes, and it sets my teeth on edge. Pity? From him? Why? Fear bubbles up, hot and quick. "What is it?"

"I think you're going to want to go back home."

I stare at him curiously. This is new—he's never interrupted my rides before, never pulled me back early. "What's happened? Is my husband back?" Salvatore, home in the early afternoon? That's unheard of. He usually slinks in late at night, reeking of cigars, perfume, and whatever dirty deals he's sealed in the shadows.

Gino shrugs. "I was just asked to tell you to return immediately."

He won't say more—I see it in the set of his jaw, the way he avoids my eyes. Panic flickers to life in my gut, a cold twist that makes my hands clench around Bella's reins. What could be so urgent? I nod stiffly, but instead of mounting up, I decide to walk. The longer it takes to get back, the better. Thirty minutes of delay, maybe more, to steel myself for whatever waits. I hand Bella's reins to Gino without a word, and he leads the horses away.

I start down the dirt path.

The walk gives me time to think. About this time, Salvatore is usually at his favorite fruit shop in the city—a little hole-in-the-wall shop in Little Italy that the men call The Store. The air smells of ripe fruit, and the owner greets him like an old friend. This thing he has with The Store is the most peculiar thing about Salvatore. It is the only thing that ever piqued my curiosity in our loveless marriage. He smokes like a chimney, drinks grappa neat until his bloodshot eyes glaze over, but he has this odd obsession with fresh smoothies from that shop, blended right there with fruits he picks himself.

As I trudge along, I wish, and not for the first time, that one of these days he'll go out and never come back. But the wish seems to be backfiring lately. He's coming home earlier and earlier, his ugly and unfounded suspicions clinging to him like a bad smell. It worries me, this new shift in his attention. This new jealousy. I keep out of all his affairs, the dark underbelly of deals and violence. In this world, I'm always last in anyone's mind, the decorative wife who can be discarded the moment the winds change. I could be gunned down at any moment, and no one would blink.

The house looms ahead, a grand Italianate villa with manicured lawns and wrought-iron gates. It brings to mind that old saying, ‘money can’t buy taste’. A few of Salvatore's men linger outside, their black suits sharp against the white stone steps, cigarettes dangling from their lips. Made men, all of them, with that hard-edged stare that makes my skin crawl. But something feels off today. Eerie, like the air before a storm. The usual low mutter of conversation is completely absent. One of them, Tony, I think—tall and gaunt with a scar across his cheek—nods at me politely and gestures for me to go inside with him.

He leads me through the foyer. The silence in the house has a different quality. Our footsteps echo on the marble floor, as we go past the crystal chandelier throwing rainbows across the walls. We enter the study, a regal room with dark wood paneling, leather-bound books that no one reads lining the shelves, and the massive oak desk that Salvatore rules from.

"Have a seat, Senora," Tony says, his voice flat.

I hate being ordered around by Salvatore’s staff, but a strong feeling of unease tugs at me. Something is very wrong. The ride, Tony’s strange demeanor, the gnawing unease I feel. I sink quickly into one of the high-backed chairs.

His eyes meet mine, and he comes straight to the point. “I’m sorry to inform you, Senora, that your husband is dead. He was shot while he was at The Store.”

The Godfather of the Greco Mafia clan is dead!

The shock is such that at first, the words bounce off me like a bad joke. My mind blanks, unable to process them. But of course, it’s not a joke. I try my best to react with the right expression, not let even a flicker of my real emotion show on my face. Inside, questions swirl. How? Salvatore, with his army of guards, shot? Just like that? It seems impossible.

"How... how is that possible?” I ask slowly.

"The boss went to the back to take a piss. A junkie came out of nowhere, pulled a fucking gun on him and tried to rob him. You know how the boss is. He refused to hand over his wallet, and the stupid junkie fired. Only one shot, but he got the boss right in the chest. By the time our guys got there, he’d run out through the back door.”

Even though my face is schooled into a dull sadness, I feel nothing for the dead man. No grief, no love, but I do experience a detached sort of wonderment and curiosity. "And the guards? Why weren’t they with him?”