Page 24 of The New Godfather

“Go mad,” I say, sliding the heavy cream menu across the table at her. “It’s been a hellish week.”

She looks up, eyes wide. “That’s putting it lightly.”

She opens the menu and scans it like it’s written in code. I see it in the tiny crease between her brows, the way she bites the inside of her lip, the slight hunch of her shoulders like she’s bracing for judgment.

“Do you like lamb?”

She nods quickly, almost in relief.

“How about the herb-crusted rack of lamb with roasted root vegetables, and lemon polenta?”

“Yes, that sounds good.”

The waitress nods courteously and disappears.

They know what I like here. Someone comes over with an open bottle of Gaja Barolo. At that moment our eyes meet across the table. She looks down quickly, lashes brushing her cheeks, then turns her face toward the skyline like she can hide the blush creeping up her neck.

I don’t look away.

I can’t.

Chapter Twenty-One

VIOLA

Dinner is delightful.

I never thought I’d say that about a meal with a man legendary as much for the mystery of his origins as his mercilessness, but here we are. You have to be a cold, brutal monster to become a Godfather. Dinners with Salvatore were pure torture. Like a King, he’d sit on an ornate, throne-like chair at the head of his long mahogany table, his phone glued to his ear, barking orders at his men. I’d sit there in silence, pushing food around my plate, or pretending to have a headache so I could escape upstairs. I learned every trick to disappear without leaving the room.

This is nothing like that.

I watch Ricci across the table, and something warm unfurls low in my stomach. He eats with quiet intensity—every bite deliberate, unhurried, like the food deserves his full attention and nothing less. The way his jaw moves, the faint flex of muscle under the open collar of his shirt, the way he savors the herb-crusted lamb, is a marvelous thing to watch. No phone. No barked commands. Just him, completely present. Nothing like the fat, sloppy pig I was married to, grease glistening on his chin, shoveling food into his mouth while his men waited in the edges with fear.

He catches me staring, and I look away fast, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. Slowly, I’m realizing I like watching him. The watching feels dangerous though, like stepping too close to a flame. I look up at him. I’ve spent years learning not to look too long at men like him, but tonight I can’t seem to stop.

He pours wine for me. His hand is steady as the dark ruby liquid fills my glass. I watch the way his fingers curl around the bottle, strong and sure, and my pulse does something stupid in my throat. I pull my gaze away and let it drift around the terrace. It really is romantic here. Couples lean in close at every other table, heads bent, soft laughter floating on the breeze. A woman in a red dress tilts her head back at something her date says, her laugh bright and easy. Another pair are feeding each other tiny bites of dessert. The rest of Manhattan doesn’t exist for them.

Then there’s us.

We’re not lovey-dovey at all, but it is not the way it was like with Salvatore—like a tight coil, waiting for the next explosion. This is different. It feels… safe. Like we’re both still figuring out the rules of a new game, but no one is trying to win by hurting the other. I don’t mind it. I actually like it.

For the first time in years, I can taste my food instead of it tasting like sawdust. The lamb is tender, perfectly pink in the center, the herbs and breadcrumbs coating is wonderfully crispy against the rich meat. The polenta is creamy and velvety, melting on my tongue with a faint hint of lemon and rosemary.

I let myself relax into the moment and wonder about him.

The question has been building all evening, rising with every sip of Barolo. The deeply dark wine has warmed my chest and loosened something tight inside me. I trace the rim of my glass with one finger. I clear my throat. “Your family couldn’t attend the wedding, or…”

“Or what?” His voice is low, curious, cutting through the quiet like warm velvet. No edge. No demand. Just gentle interest.

I swallow. “You just didn’t invite them.”

He sets his fork down slowly. “I don’t have a family,” he says simply. No drama. No bitterness. Just a fact. “There is an uncle somewhere. He could be dead or alive. I don’t know, and it’s better that way. If he’s still breathing, I’ll probably be the one to kill him myself.”

My breath catches in my throat. The wine glass feels suddenly heavy in my hand. Of course, I married the monster everyone whispers about in dark corners. The one who clawed his way up from nothing with blood on his hands and ice in his veins. No one knows where he came from or who he really is. Now he is the new Don. The mysterious stranger who outsmarted them all. And yet here he is, sitting across from me in candlelight, telling me his secret past like it’s nothing.

I can’t stop myself. Something in me needs to know more. Needs to understand the boy behind the man. I lean forward.

“Why do you hate him so much?” I ask, voice barely above a whisper.