Page 15 of The New Godfather

A pause stretches between us, thick with unspoken things. Then Fabiola's voice brightens with hope. “Well… now that you're free from him we can live together again? When will you be coming home?”

That is when I tell her. “I'm not coming back.”

“What do you mean you're not coming back?” she asks, confused.

I close my eyes and lean my head back against the closet wall. The scent of cedar and expensive perfume wraps around me like a shroud. “I’m getting married to Ricci Santori.”

Fabiola's breath catches audibly. “The new Godfather?” she whispers in shock.

“Yes.”

“Why?” she gasps.

“Salvatore didn't leave me anything, Fabiola. Not a dime. And you already know he never allowed me to put anything in my name. He deliberately left me exposed, vulnerable, and in danger. I love Papa, but if I come home as another mouth to feed, you know as well as I do that he will just sell me off to the highest bidder again. That’s why I decided to take control of my own life. It's the best way. For all of us.”

My sister is quiet for the longest time. I can hear her breathing, slow and measured, like she's trying to keep herself together. Then she explodes, her voice rising sharp and furious through the speaker. “This is absurd. You've been so miserable for so long, and now that you can finally find your freedom, you go and hook yourself to the new boss? What will people say? Accepting a marriage proposal on the day you bury your dead husband! Do you even hear how crazy that sounds?”

My hands shake with sudden fury. “I don't really give a fuck what anyone says. In this world, everyone only thinks about themselves. No one thought of me. Not once. Not Salvatore, not Papa, not Mama, not even you. No one. So, I have to secure my own safety.”

Fabiola’s anger remains unabated, her words coming fast and sharp like bullets. “Word gets around, Viola. If my sister is doing this, catching a new husband this way… won't it affect my own chances of finding someone decent? It sends the message that we're all nothing but gold diggers, jumping from one powerful man to the next. Your husband’s body is not even cold in his grave.”

I'm really upset now; the tears I thought I'd cried out earlier, threaten again, hot and stinging behind my eyes. My throat tightens until it hurts to swallow. “Fabiola, this is not about you. This is about me trying to ensure that I don’t end up dead. This should be important enough to you. Anyway, I just called to invite you to the wedding… if you want to come. I don't need a lecture. The choice is up to you. I'll send you the details as soon as it's confirmed.”

She's still talking—still angry, still trying to talk me out of it—when I end the call. My thumb jams the red button, and the line goes silent. I feel bad instantly. Guilty and worn out, my shoulders slump as I drop the phone on the carpet. I press my forehead to my knees and try to steady myself.

Just then, a message from an unknown number comes through:

Hey.

I stare at it, my heart thudding harder now. I text back quickly:

Who is this?

The reply is instant.

Ricci.

My heart lodges in my throat. My pulse starts racing so fast I can feel it in my fingertips as I type back.

Hello.

The response is quick:

About the contract—when will you have it ready?

Oh my God, it’s really happening. I swallow hard.

I'll handle it with the lawyer tomorrow.

Ricci: Fine. We should get married as soon as possible. Before other people start getting ideas about how to make sure it doesn't happen.

Me: If you have a date in mind…

Ricci: Does Saturday work for you?

I'm shocked. This is just two days away. It's so soon it almost doesn't feel real, like I'm watching someone else's life unfold on a screen.

Me: Okay. I'll get my lawyer to have the contract ready before that.