Page 25 of The New Godfather

His eyes hold mine—black gold in the candlelight—and for the first time I see something raw flicker behind them. Not anger. Not pain. But an old, deep wound, scarred over.

“My parents died in a car accident when I was six. My uncle took me in, but let’s just say he’s not exactly father material. Eventually he got tired of social services coming around to ask about my broken ribs and black eyes and dumped me into their care.” He shrugs. “Maybe I was an unlucky child, but foster homes are hellholes. No child should have to experience what I did. I ran away at fourteen and chose to live on the streets. Then I found Salvatore, and the rest, as they say, is history.”

I feel every word settle in my chest like stones. From that abandoned little boy—beaten and fighting just to breathe to the man sitting across from me now… the boss of the house of Greco. The most powerful man in our world. The one who stole the crown right from under Mario’s nose.

I can’t help it. Something softens inside me, warm and treacherous. I admire him. The strength it must have taken. The way he turned pain into power, rage into control. My gaze traces the hard line of his jaw, the broad shoulders, the quiet confidence in his hooded eyes. He’s. Beautiful and deadly. He is everything I’ve spent years teaching myself to fear.

But why does my heart flutter every time our gazes touch?

I have to be careful. I have to steel my heart, lock it down tight before it leans any closer. I can’t afford to trust him. Not him. Not anyone. Hell, I can’t even trust my own mother to protect me. I look away…

I let the cool night breeze brush my cheeks, carrying the scent of roses and rain, reminding me who I am.

A survivor.

Nothing more.

Chapter Twenty-Two

RICCI

Talking about myself feels strange as hell.

I have never done this. Never cracked open my ugly past and lay it out for anyone to see. Even the words taste foreign on my tongue, like they belong to someone else, not me. But the green-eyed beauty is sitting across from me and listening as if every syllable matters. Like she’s not just waiting for her turn to speak, but really hearing me.

The truth is: I don’t want distance and walls with her. I’ve dreamed of conversations like this—nights where she expresses curiosity about me, and in turn, lets me see the woman behind the perfect mask she’s worn for years. The way she’s listening now, head tilted slightly, candlelight catching the soft curve of her cheek, it makes something warm and dangerous bloom in my chest.

Happy.

I’m actually happy sitting here with her, and the feeling is so foreign it almost hurts.

She takes another sip of wine, and tilts her head. A loose strand of blonde hair slips forward. “Your friend… the one at our wedding. How did you meet him?”

I set my glass down carefully, the stem cool and solid between my fingers. The faint clink against the table feels louder than it should in the hush around us.

“I met Leonardo in the foster system. We were in the same group home for a while. We clicked and looked out for each other.” I pause, the memory surfacing sharp and clear. “We were two skinny kids sharing a bunk, trading cigarettes and stories about places we’d run to when we were old enough. Now he owns a Michelin-starred restaurant downtown. Great guy, but nosy as hell. There is no secret he can’t sniff out of you.”

She laughs. A real laugh—soft, surprised, like it slipped out before she could catch it. The unexpected sound curls through the air between us and hits me warm and sweet. I’ve never heard her laugh. Not even a polite one. Something possessive and raw rears up inside me. I want to hear it again. I want to be the reason for it every single time.

“Why didn’t we go to his restaurant?” she asks, eyes bright for a second before she catches herself and looks down at her plate.

“Because like I said, he’s nosy. He’d watch us the whole night like a hawk, trying to read every look, every pause. Who wants that on their wedding night?” I let the words hang for a beat, watching the way her lashes flutter. “But if you’d like, I’ll take you to eat there sometime.”

She nods. “That would be nice. Thank you.”

The words settle deep inside me. The tension that’s been humming under my skin all night loosens just a fraction. I’ll take her. Of course, I’ll take her anywhere she wants, anytime she wants. We keep eating, and it feels almost normal. Just a man and his wife on their wedding night, sharing a meal, no blood, no deals, no shadows.

Then dessert arrives.

The waiter sets down a delicate lemon olive-oil cake in front of her. It’s light and golden, dusted with powdered sugar and served with fresh raspberries and a thin ribbon of crème fraîche. She picks up her spoon and takes a small bite. Her eyes close for a moment and she makes a soft sound—barely audible, almost a sigh.

I can’t stop watching her.

The way her lips close around the spoon, the faint shine of sugar on her bottom lip when she pulls it away. The candlelight catches on her throat as she swallows. My gaze traces the curve of her neck. She notices. Of course she does. Her eyes flick up to mine, and she offers me a spoonful of dessert.

“Here,” she says softly.

I lean forward and taste it. The cake is bright, citrusy, melting on my tongue with just a hint of olive oil richness. She takes another bite, then offers me the next. The intimacy of sharing her spoon, tasting what she just tasted, feels indescribably intimate. My cock feels hot and hard.