Page 34 of The New Godfather

Sorry, I forgot to make some arrangements for your breakfast. I usually have mine at the club. I’ll get someone over to help you out.

Panic flickers quick and sharp. I like my solitude right now. I need it. The thought of someone else in the house, moving around and watching me, makes my chest tighten. I text back fast, fingers flying.

No need. There are ingredients here. I’m all good.

I hit send and wait, heart picking up speed. He doesn’t reply right away. Nervous he won’t answer in time, that the quiet will stretch too long and I’ll start overthinking everything again, I tap his name and call him instead. The second the line connects, and I hear his voice—low, rough, that same calm tone from last night—my heart gives a hard, stupid thud. Heat rushes up my neck as memories flash: his hands on my skin, the way he’d groaned my name, the slow, deep way he’d moved inside me. I pull in a quick breath before I can stop it.

“Hello,” I say, trying to sound calm. Then I blurt out in a rush about the ingredients in the fridge, how the old house was always filled with movement and people and noise, and how much I like the quiet.

He listens. I can hear the faint smile in his voice when he answers. “I understand,” he says, quiet and warm. “You can order anything you want and get it sent to the apartment.”

“Okay,” I whisper.

There’s a brief silence after that—neither of us hangs up, neither of us speaks. I don’t want to end the call. I won’t admit it, not even to myself, but I don’t. I used to think his voice sounded cold and distant. Now it feels like warmth wrapping around me, steady and safe. It terrifies me how much I like it.

“You’ll need to move out of Salvatore’s house.”

I nod even though he can’t see me. “Yes. I don’t have much stuff. I’ll call a taxi later today and go get them.”

“No!” he barks, then pauses, and adds more gently. “There is a car on standby for you. You can leave anytime you want. Press the button on the elevator panel—the one with the hat symbol—head down to the garage like I showed you. The driver will be waiting.”

I’m amazed. Impressed, really. The thoughtfulness of it, the way he’s making sure I have freedom without having to ask… it settles softly in my chest.

“Okay,” I agree. “Thank you.”

“See you later.”

“Okay.” The line stays open another second. I hear the faint rustle of him moving, the low murmur of the city in the background. I don’t want to let go. But I do. I end the call and stand in the quiet kitchen, phone still in my hand, heart still racing from the sound of his voice.

I don’t know what to do with these strange emotions rushing through me. I turn towards the open fridge and tell myself I’ll figure it out later. One step at a time. Just like I always have.

Chapter Thirty-Two

VIOLA

Eggs scrambled soft in butter, thick slices of sourdough toasted until the edges turn golden and crisp, a handful of fresh berries, and a generous dollop of Greek yogurt drizzled with honey is what I have in mind. Nothing too fancy. Just real food.

I take my time making my breakfast, the kind I haven’t let myself make in years. For so long there was never any point. In Salvatore’s house, the staff handled everything, and Salvatore made sure every meal was a performance. He was the main guy, and I was a decorative ornament on the chair opposite him. I stopped caring. I ate what was put in front of me, or I didn’t eat at all.

But this morning I’m feeling ravenous. And something else too—quietly excited. My body feels strangely alive. Hungry in more ways than one.

The pan hisses gently when I crack the eggs in. The smell of melting butter and browning bread fills the kitchen, warm and comforting. I stir the wooden spoon in slow circles, letting myself enjoy the small, ordinary act of cooking for myself in this beautiful, quiet space that so quickly feels a little less like someone else’s home and more like mine.

When it’s ready, I don’t bother carrying it to the table. I hop onto the wide marble counter and eat right there with my legs swinging gently. The first bite of the eggs makes my eyes sting. God. I nearly cry. I can’t remember the last time a meal tasted like this—like something made with care, something I actually wanted. Not eaten in silence while someone barked orders into a phone. Just mine.

I eat slowly, savoring every creamy bite of egg, the crispy edges of the toast, the bright sweetness of the berries bursting between my teeth. Tears blur my vision for a moment, and I blink them back hard, refusing to let them fall. This is ridiculous. It’s only breakfast. But it feels bigger than that. It feels more like the first real breath I’ve taken in four years.

After I finish, I stay perched on the counter for a while longer, empty plate next to me, staring out at the glittering city through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I don’t want to leave yet. I don’t want to go back to that house and face what it still represents.

So, I procrastinate.

I pull out my phone and start scrolling through design ideas—soft throw pillows in deep jewel tones, cozy cashmere blankets, more fresh flowers, simple plates and vases that would warm up the sleek, dark penthouse without changing it too much. I don’t want to make him uncomfortable in his own home. I just want to make it feel a little more like somewhere I could finally call my home.

I shop online for a little bit and place a few small orders, biting my lip as I add things to the cart. Nothing crazy. Just gentle touches. When I finally check the time, reality settles back in. I can’t put it off any longer. I have to go back and get my things.

Close that terrible chapter for good.

I take the private elevator down, press the button with the little hat symbol, and the driver is waiting exactly as Ricci said he would be in an idling, gleaming black SUV by the elevator. He greets me with quiet respect and holds the door open. I slide into the back seat, and we pull out into the bright afternoon light.