Page 23 of The New Godfather

Once again, he waits. Really waits. No pressure, no impatience. I wonder what will happen if I say no. Will he push? Will he decide for me anyway, the way everyone else always has? The old fear flickers, cold and familiar, but something else—curiosity, maybe defiance—pushes it aside.

I test him again, just to see. “Can you repeat the options, please? I wasn’t really listening the first time.”

A slow smile curves his mouth—devastating, dangerous, the kind that makes heat pool low in my belly. He repeats the options patiently, voice low and calm, giving me every detail without a trace of irritation. He’s really serious about this. He wants me to pick the restaurant. I pick the one with the private terrace and the soft candlelight.

“Good,” he says softly.

He shifts the gear smoothly, the engine purring under us as we turn onto the next avenue. We say nothing else while I sit with the terrifying, thrilling knowledge that tonight is only the beginning.

For the first time in years, I’m not sure whether to run, or lean in closer to the new life that beckons.

Chapter Twenty

RICCI

I’m surprised at myself.

She’s pulling something out of me I didn’t even know was there. In the space of one single evening, I’ve spoken more words to her than I have in the last five years combined with full sentences, questions, and explanations. Normally this kind of talking would have me itching to tell them to fuck off. Every word feels like handing over ammunition.

But tonight?

Tonight, I feel… alive. Brimming with something dazzling and restless. Maybe it’s just the sheer adrenaline of finally making her mine. Maybe that’s all it is. But deep down I know better. She’s better, much better than I imagined she would be. She’s outdone my best fantasies. Nothing—nothing—I dreamed can compare to the living, breathing her.

And she’s cracking open a door inside me I thought was welded shut years ago.

Neon signs streak across the glass in flashes of crimson and electric blue—Broadway marquees, hotel awnings, the glow of Times Square bleeding into the night like spilled paint. Her scent fills the air. It’s subtle, but it’s everywhere, sinking into my skin, my lungs, my blood. She sits quietly beside me, my handkerchief clutched in her lap like she’s afraid to let it go. I can feel her watching me even though she is pretending she’s not. Her cat-like eyes flicking sideways, studying me in the passing lights.

And every time our gazes meet, my pulse kicks harder.

We pull up to The Terrace at The NoMad. The uniformed doorman’s face is professionally blank. He steps forward and opens her door before I can round the car. I toss my key fob to the valet, then circle back and offer her my hand. Her fingers are small and cool against my palm. My thumb brushes the delicate skin inside her wrist, and her pulse jumps under the pad of my finger—quick and unsteady.

I feel it like a victory.

Inside, the hostess recognizes me instantly. No name, no fuss—just a respectful dip of her chin, and a murmured: “This way, please, Mr. Santori.” She leads us through the main dining room, past velvet banquettes and low marble tables filled with customers. We pass through a set of French doors onto the private terrace tucked at the back, elevated above the street noise, and screened by climbing ivy and potted olive trees.

It’s perfect.

Soft amber light spills from antique chandeliers wrapped in living ivy, the vines trailing down like green waterfalls, catching the glow and turning it golden. Fresh white roses and eucalyptus spill from heavy crystal vases on every table, their fragrance mingling with the faint metallic promise of rain on the breeze drifting in through the open railing. Beyond the railing the Manhattan skyline stretches out forever.

A waiter materializes behind us and pulls out the chair for Viola. She sits, smoothing the satin of her dress over her thighs. The fabric whispers against her skin—soft, intimate, maddening. I take the seat across from her. Our knees almost brush under the crisp white tablecloth. The candle between us flickers, throwing warm shadows across her face, catching the faint flush still lingering on her cheeks. The manager, a balding, round, short man, bustles over to our table.

“Congratulations to the happy couple,” he cries, beaming at us both. “I will get the Chef to prepare something special for you. On the house, of course. All on the house.”

I nod and smile benevolently.

“Thank you,” Viola acknowledges shyly.

As the little round man backs away, his face wreathed in effusive smiles, another waiter arrives with a bottle of champagne and pops it open with a quiet hiss. Our glasses are filled. I raise mine.

“What should we drink to?” Viola asks.

“To new beginnings.”

“To new beginnings,” she echoes and takes a small sip, and sets the glass down carefully. Her cheeks are flushed pink. “Mmm… this is lovely.”

“Yes. It’s a good champagne.”

A waitress appears with menus. “I’ll have the usual.”