Page 22 of The New Godfather

The doors open and cool air rushes in, carrying the faint smell of concrete, motor oil, and the promise of rain that hasn’t fallen yet. I lead her to my car, open the passenger door, and watch—dress sliding over leather, legs cSantoring neatly—before I close it with a quiet click.

I slide behind the wheel and start the engine. The low growl fills the space between us. I pull out onto the street, and merging into the late-night traffic, I glance at her.

“Where do you want to eat?” I ask.

She shrugs, gaze fixed on the passing buildings. “Anywhere is fine.”

That annoys me. Not the words themselves—fuck the restaurant, I’d eat from a cart on the corner if it made her smile—but the tone. Detached. Automatic. The same answer she gives everyone. Like her preferences don’t exist. Like she’s still waiting for someone to tell her what she’s allowed to want.

I ease the SUV to the curb and stop. Traffic flows around us, horns distant.

She tenses instantly—spine straightening, fingers tightening in her lap. Alarm flashes across her face before she locks it down again.

I keep my voice quiet as I speak to her. I don’t want to scare her, but I do want to make sure that I am heard.

“You said you wanted to go out.”

She blinks, then gives a small nod. “Yes, I did.”

I turn to face her fully, one hand still resting on the wheel. “So, you should have an idea of what you want to eat? Or where you want to eat.”

Her gorgeous eyes are wide and startled, like no one has ever asked her that question in her entire life.

“What do you like to eat?” I ask softly. “What are you craving tonight?”

Chapter Nineteen

VIOLA

My breath catches. When did my desires ever matter? Salvatore never asked—not once. Not about dinner, not about anything. I was decoration. A thing to be looked at, fucked when he was in the mood, never listened to. I learned early to stop wanting, to stop expecting, to be fine with my opinion not counting, and it was better that way. I could hide better. Ricci’s question feels like a crack in the wall I’ve spent years building.

My fingers tighten around the handkerchief in my lap—his handkerchief—still warm from his pocket, still carrying the faint trace of cedar and smoke that clings to him. I swallow hard.

“You decide,” I say, the words tumbling out too fast. “I’ll be happy with anything.”

He shakes his head once, and I feel the weight of his attention shift to me completely. “No.”

“You wanted to come out to eat,” he continues, voice calm, patient. “So think about where you want to go. I can give you some options if you like.” He pauses—just long enough for the silence to press in—then adds, softer, “It’s your wedding night, Viola. Choose a place you’ll enjoy. We didn’t have a reception, so this should at least be pleasant for both of us.”

Pleasant. Enjoy. Wedding night. The words feel foreign in my head, like they belong to someone else’s life. I stare at the hard line of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble, the way his hands rest easily on the wheel like he owns the road. I never even considered why he wanted to marry me. Not really. The question rises sharp and sudden before I can swallow it back.

“Why did you marry me?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “I told you. I want you.”

The passing headlights catch the whiskey gold in his eyes, and there is quiet certainty in his voice. My heart gives a hard, uneven thud.

“I’m your dead boss’s wife,” I say, the words tasting bitter. “There are a million other women who would fall at your feet. So why me?”

“There may be a million other women,” he says, voice raw with emotion, “but I want you. And I’m a man who gets what he wants—even if he has to wait a very long time for it.”

Something hot and electric shoots through me—thrill and chill twisting together until I can’t tell which is which. My fingertips tingle. My pulse roars in my ears. I realize then, really realize, that his interest might not have suddenly arisen at Salvatore’s funeral reception. It might have been there the whole time, quiet and patient, nothing to do with my status as Salvatore’s widow. All that time he wanted… me. Perhaps years… The thought hits like lightning, bright and blinding. I turn away fast, pressing my cheek to the cool glass of the window, watching the blur of people on the sidewalks, the endless stream of cars crossing the intersection ahead. My breath fogs the window in small, quick clouds.

“How about this place?” he suggests after a moment, his voice easy again. He names a restaurant I’ve only ever heard of in passing. Per Se, high above Columbus Circle, overlooking the river and the park, a tasting menu that changes with the seasons. He lists a couple more. Or Le Bernardin for the seafood. It has a private terrace draped in string lights and candle flames, one known for its view of the skyline and a wine list. The details come at me fast—too fast—and the only thing I can manage is a small, dazed nod.

“Yes to either,” I whisper.

His eyes never leave mine. “I hope you realize that we’re going to sit here until you choose…”