Page 21 of The New Godfather

“You can start to move your things in here tomorrow, and you’re welcome to make any changes you want to make yourself feel more at home.”

“Thank you,” I say quietly, but I’m more than a little surprised at this. This was not an allowance given to me in my previous marriage. I was expected to move in and blend in, not change anything or move anything out of place. His words make the tension in my shoulders ease.

And immediately I start imagining how I could warm the place up. I’ve always loved interior design. Always craved the kind of comfort a real home can bring, the kind I’ve never had. Soft cashmere throws in deep jewel tones draped over the leather. Plush rugs to sink my toes into on cold mornings. Cushions everywhere, beeswax candles that actually burn instead of just sitting there looking expensive. Plants that live and breathe—ferns, orchids, maybe a small lemon tree by the windows. Little touches that would make this apartment stop feeling like a beautiful cage and more like… my home. A place where I could finally exhale.

He takes a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving mine. “What would you like to have for dinner?”

I shake my head, certain I will not be able to keep anything down even if I try. I feel like a cat on a hot tin roof. My stomach is a knot of nerves and anticipation and fear and want, all tangled together.

“Well then,” he says, setting his glass down with a soft clink, “since you don’t want to eat…”

At his words I nearly choke on my drink. The liquid burns going down the wrong way, and I cough and splitter, eyes watering, and heat flooding my face in a rush. I set the glass down with a shaky hand, trying to catch my breath while his eyes stay on me, dark and watchful.

The air feels charged, electric, every second ticking by like a countdown, and I can feel the space between us crackling with sexual tension. He’s still standing there in his unbuttoned shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows now, forearms corded with muscle, looking at me like he knows exactly how this night is going to end.

My thighs press together under the island, seeking friction, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound. He doesn’t move closer. He just watches me, letting the tension build, letting me feel it settle deep in my bones.

I want what he wants, and that’s what scares me most of all.

Chapter Eighteen

RICCI

Iwatch the way the sharp little cough makes her eyes water and sends a flush racing up her throat like she’s been caught with her hand somewhere forbidden. The sound is small, almost delicate, but it hits me low in the gut anyway.

My fingers slide into the inside pocket of my jacket and close around the white cotton handkerchief that has been pressed against my body since this morning. It is crisp and carries the warmth of my body heat. I hesitate, my thumb tracing the raised letters of the monogram RR—stitched in tight black silk thread by the same tailor. Why does handing this square piece of cotton feel heavier than the contract we signed last night?

Heavier than the plain gold band now sitting on my finger. That ring was ceremony. This is something else—something that’s been pressed against my skin all day, absorbed my scent, my heat. It feels like I’m giving her a piece of me no one else has ever touched.

I put the hesitation aside and hold it out to her, no flourish, no words.

“Thank you,” she murmurs and presses it briefly to her lips like she’s tasting the ghost of where it’s been. I have to look away. The sight of her using something that’s mine nearly undoes the iron control I’ve spent years perfecting.

After a moment, she folds it neatly in her lap, fingers lingering on the monogram like she’s memorizing it. I wait. The silence between us is heavy with everything we haven’t said yet.

“You sure you don’t want to eat?” I ask, keeping my tone even, casual.

She nods at first—quick, automatic—then pauses. Her gaze drops to the half-empty glass in front of her, then lifts to meet mine again. “Actually… I could use some food.”

The corner of my mouth twitches. Small victory. “Good. Do you want to go out or eat in?”

Her eyes drift to the floor-to-ceiling windows where Manhattan glitters like it’s putting on a private show just for us, then back to me. I can almost see the math happening behind those green eyes: my penthouse versus the outside world, my territory versus neutral ground, the safety of distance versus the risk of being alone with me again so soon after the vows. The same woman I’ve watched from across rooms for years, always calculating the next move, always guarding the soft parts. Neutral ground gives her breathing room.

“Out,” she says finally, voice quiet but certain. “I think… out would be better.”

I push off the counter. “Let’s go.”

I stand and offer her my hand. She hesitates only a heartbeat—barely noticeable—before placing her palm in mine. Her skin is cool, small fingers curling lightly around my flesh. I feel the faint tremor in her grip and feel a rush of possessive pride. She is my wife now. Then I open my grasp, the contact ends, and we walk together toward the foyer.

I grab my keys from the shallow black porcelain bowl on the entry table, and I stop at the sleek touchscreen panel mounted beside the doors of the elevator. I swipe my card once. “This elevator works on a code,” I tell her, voice low. “Six digits that change every thirty days. I’ll give you the current one now, and the app will push updates to your phone once we link it.” I punch in the sequence slowly, letting her see every tap. “The downstairs door works the same, but with a secondary four-digit PIN for after-hours. Your key and the full access app will be ready when we get back tonight. You can then come and go as you want.”

She watches every movement of my fingers carefully. Her expression is blank and unreadable, but the intensity of her attention makes heat crawl up the back of my neck. Not once does she look away. Not once does she interrupt. Just those green eyes locked on mine whenever I glance up, steady and searching.

It’s almost impossible not to let it faze me. My pulse kicks harder every time our gazes connect. I want to close the distance, back her against the wall, ask what the hell she’s looking for when she watches me like that. Instead, I pocket the fob and hit the call button. The doors slide open with a soft chime.

We step inside wordlessly.

The mirrored walls throw us back at each other. Me with glittering, excited eyes, and her looking cool in ivory satin that skims every curve I’ve spent years imagining under my hands. The ride down is silent except for the faint mechanical hum and the whisper of her breathing. Her gentle perfume drifts toward me, and I take a greedy breath of it.