Page 11 of The New Godfather

The touch is electric—her slim hand wrapping around my forearm through the sleeve of my suit. A jolt straight to my cock. I won. I fucking won. I turn my head and let my gaze drop down to her fingers. They look so pale against the dark wool of my suit. She lets go, like she’s been scalded, hand jerking back to her side.

The room suddenly feels charged, buzzing with sexual tension that crackles between us like a live wire. A crazy thought flashes into my head. How easy it would be to take her right here. To back her against one of the bookshelves, the wood cool against her spine while I slide my hands under that black dress, hike it up over her hips, and finally put my mouth on her naked pussy. Exactly the way I’ve fantasized about for years. Her legs will wrap around me. Once she is mine, I will protect her and take care of her the way no one else ever has. I’d burn this entire empire down before I let anyone hurt her again.

She crosses her arms over her chest defensively, but the movement—unintentional—pushes her breasts together, the soft swell straining against the silk of her dress. My cock is so hard it is throbbing furiously.

“What exactly are you promising me in exchange?” she asks, voice quiet, almost sad. “Make the terms clear. The others offered me a roof and money. What about you?”

I hold her gaze as the heat between us coils tighter. “I’m offering my name, freedom from your father’s endless gambling debts, and ….” I pause, then add the part I know will change everything. “I’m offering you the ability to leave.”

Her breath catches, barely audible, but I hear it.

“You can walk away without consequences,” I say softly, “anytime you want.”

She looks stunned, her beautiful eyes widening until they are large green pools of beauty. “Are you joking?” she whispers.

I shake my head. “No. After you become my wife, if you are unhappy… you can leave with enough wealth that you’ll never have to worry about money again for the rest of your life… even if it’s after only a month, a week, or even a day. I’ll never imprison you.”

Confusion and suspicion flicker across her face as her brows draw together, making her look even more fiercely beautiful. She’s trying to figure me out, trying to decide if this is another trap wrapped in pretty words, another cage disguised as freedom.

“You’ll put this in writing? Make it legal?”

“Yes.”

In my mind, the quest is simple, but burningly obvious: I’m going to throw my entire being into showing her why she will never want to leave. I’m going to make her think she has died and gone to heaven. All her time with me will be another day in paradise. She’s the reason I fought my way to this crown—every lie, every kill, every calculated move was fueled by the need to have the power to get her and then protect her, to give her something no one else could. But if I coerced her, forced her, or lied… it would all mean absolutely nothing to me. I want her to choose me. I need her to choose me.

Just then there is a sharp knock on the door. It swings open before either of us can speak, and Mario steps in. His eyes widen when he sees us standing so close together in the dim library, the air thick with something he can’t quite name. Surprise flashes across his face, quickly followed by something darker—ugly, tearing jealousy. I recognize it because I have felt it too. Seeing my beauty with his father.

“I’ve been looking all over for Viola,” he says, voice too loud, too forced, trying to sound casual. “Some associates want to say hello and offer their condolences.”

I don’t even blink. “Accept the condolences on her behalf,” I say, my gaze sharp and lethal, the kind that has made stronger men piss themselves. “She’s busy right now.”

Mario knows better than to test me. He bows curtly, but enough to show submission, and backs out without another word.

I turn my eyes back to her, waiting. The ball is in her court now.

Chapter Eleven

VIOLA

The way Mario barged into the library scared me more than I want to admit. The sound of his knuckles rapping sharply against the heavy oak door jolted through me like electricity, making the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand. A cold rush flooded my veins as pure, primal fear left a metallic taste on my tongue. My pulse spiked so fast I could feel it hammering in my throat, in my wrists, behind my eyes.

Every instinct screamed that this man, only two years older than me but strutting like he already owned every inch of this house and me, could drag me down into a pit even darker than what I’d already survived. I can see it in his eyes. It will be so easy for him to dispose of my body in a vat of acid if I do not behave in the way he expects of me.

Yet here I am, standing only inches from Ricci Santori—the man who just told me what he wants in exchange for saving me is… me—and I feel no spike of fear that makes my knees lock. No gut-clenching dread that leaves me tasting bile. No instinctive urge to step back, or to put a great distance between us as possible. In fact, I’m interested. Wary—always wary, because trust is a luxury I lost years ago—but I’m not scared.

Why?

The question spins through my mind like smoke, slow and impossible to catch, while I study him closer than I ever have before, letting my eyes linger in a way I’ve never dared, never allowed myself. He is dangerous, but by God, he’s beautiful in a way that makes my breath catch. Everything about him is undeniably masculine. The sharp cut of his jaw, shadowed with the faintest hint of stubble, the hard line of his mouth that rarely softens into anything resembling warmth. Those piercing, whiskey eyes—amber and gold flecks that seem to see straight through every wall I’ve built, every layer of ice I’ve wrapped myself in. His glossy dark hair falls over his forehead in a way that makes my fingers itch to brush it back, to feel the texture of it under my fingertips. Tall and broad, he is the most powerful person in our world right now, the newly crowned Godfather. So easily he could kill and dispose of my dead body, and yet I am not afraid of him.

The thoughts circle and circle, tightening like a noose, until I force myself to stop and consider things logically instead of letting my body betray me with this strange, warm pull low in my belly, this unfamiliar heat that makes my skin flush and my thighs press together.

The facts are brutally simple. Even in my wildest dream, I did not dare to pray for such an outcome. His name and protection. Freedom from my father. The ability to walk away with no consequences. Unheard of in la cosa nostra. It’s almost like a gift from heaven. This is clearly my best and only option.

If I walk out of this house without his protection, I walk out with nothing. Not a dollar in my name, not a safe place to lay my head, not even my mother’s weak arms to fall into. She’d hand me over again in a heartbeat if it meant clearing another debt for my father. I’ll probably be captured and dead within a year, or even worse and more likely now that I am no longer a prized virgin, passed around between men, used and abused until I’m completely broken, then discarded like a cheap doll.

But here in front of me stands a powerful man, telling me I can walk away at any time I choose. Yes, it sounds too good to be true, and men like him don’t make promises they don’t intend to twist, but I realize I am not in a position to bargain.

I picture Mario’s greedy eyes, the way they’d devoured me like I was already his to take; the lawyer’s slick offer of a penthouse and “freedom”. If I’m going to give myself away again—if my body is the only currency I have left—it might as well be to the most powerful man I can find.