Page 49 of The New Godfather

The staff don’t argue. Not a single complaint, not even a tired groan. They know the drill. They’ve seen me show up before, late at night, when the restaurant’s already half-dark and the last guests have long since left. One by one they file out. The waiters slipping off their aprons, the line cooks hanging up their whites, and the hostess giving Leonardo a quick nod as she grabs her bag. Their footsteps fade across the hardwood, soft and quick, until the big front doors click shut behind them. The last one to leave is the manager, who goes around switching off the lights in the dining room one by one, soft little pops that leave the space dim and quiet, with just the low glow of the emergency exits and the white spill of light from the kitchen.

Leonardo jerks his head toward the swinging doors. “Come on,” he says, already moving. “I’ll cook for us.”

“I’m not hungry, but I’ll watch you eat.”

“Watch me eat? What kind of talk is this? The most amazing piece of beef just arrived from Japan. You have to try it. I swear, there is nothing like it.”

I follow him through the doors, the rubber mats under my shoes giving a faint squeak against the tile. Stainless steel counters gleam under the overhead lights, pots and pans hanging in neat rows, the walk-in fridge humming low in the corner. It feels alive in here, even with everyone gone. Familiar. Safe in a way the rest of my world rarely is.

Leonardo gestures to the small seating area tucked right beside one of the long steel counters — just a couple of sturdy stools and a low table they use for staff meals. Nothing fancy. Exactly what I need tonight.

“Sit,” he says, already heading for the walk-in fridge, his movements sure and relaxed. “What kind of sauce are you in the mood for? French, New York style, or plain?”

I slide onto one of the stools, the metal cool against the backs of my thighs through my slacks. The contrast feels good after the long day. “Whatever’s easiest,” I tell him. “I’m not picky tonight.”

He shoots me a look over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised, the corner of his mouth twitching with sarcastic amusement. “You? Not picky? That’s new.” But he doesn’t push. He just starts pulling ingredients out: vegetables, potatoes, and two pieces of finely marbled meat. He caresses the pieces lovingly as if they are beloved pets. Then the quiet clatter of pans and knives starts up.

I grab a bottle of Barolo from the wine rack against the wall. The dark glass is cool in my hand. I pour a generous amount into two glasses. I set one down beside him on the counter.

We don’t talk much while he cooks. The air fills with the sharp chop of his knife blade against the cutting board, the hiss of oil hitting hot pans, the low sizzle of meat as it sears. I lean back against the counter, arms crossed, absorbing the warmth and the smells around me.

Leonardo finally plates the food — perfectly seared beef steaks with a simple rosemary jus, roasted vegetables, and crisp and golden French fries. He slides the plates across the counter to our little seating area, wipes his hands on the towel still slung over his shoulder, and drops onto the stool across from me.

The food is, as always, incredible. He is right. The meat is something else. I make a mental note to bring Viola here to try it. The jus is rich and savory and the onions are perfectly caramelized. Leonardo leans back a little, studying me the way only someone who’s known me since we were skinny street kids would dare. His eyes are narrowed and thoughtful.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this worried,” he observes quietly. “What’s going on? Married life doesn’t suit you?”

I set my wine glass down. “Actually… being married to her is beginning to suit me so much I’m worried my current life as the Capo of the house of Greco might not suit me at all.”

Leonardo pauses mid-chew, then lets out a low chuckle, the sound knowing, like he’s been waiting for something like this. “Ah.” He smiles, half-joking, half-serious, the kind of smile that says he gets it more than I probably want him to. “You’re here to make a plan.”

I meet his eyes across the counter and nod slowly.

“Yeah,” I say, voice low. “I am.”

“It’s not going to be easy,” he says softly.

“I know.”

He picks up his glass, clinks it lightly against mine. The soft ring of crystal fills the quiet kitchen. We both take a long drink, the Barolo warm and dark on my tongue.

We’ll eat as we talk. And for the first time in my life, I’m ready to plan a future that doesn’t end in blood.

Chapter Forty-Six

VIOLA

Dawn light filters through the sheer curtains, soft and gray. It tells me the city has not yet woken up properly. I lie in the big bed, sheets tangled around my legs, and my first thought is him. My body already knows he’s moving around downstairs. I recognize the low hum of the coffee machine he always turns on as soon as he goes downstairs.

All I want to do is go downstairs and watch him until he leaves. It’s becoming downright embarrassing. Last time I “needed” coffee was at six a.m., exactly when he was heading out the door. Oh! The way his eyes lingered on me, warm and knowing, made my cheeks burn. I’d mumbled something stupid about not being able to sleep and practically fled back upstairs like a teenager with a crush. God, I’m a grown woman. His wife, technically. And here I am, hiding under the covers, fighting the ridiculous urge to creep to the top of the stairs just to catch one more glimpse of him before he disappears into the big bad city.

But this time I stay in bed. I listen instead.

His footsteps are quiet — deliberately so — because he doesn’t want to wake me. I know that. He’s always so careful with me now, like I’m something fragile that he’s afraid to break. I hear the soft click of the front door alarm being disarmed, the rustle of his suit jacket as he shrugs it on, the low murmur of his voice when he answers his cell phone.

My heart does this stupid little flutter.

I wish I could go down there. Just walk straight into the foyer, wrap my arms around his neck, and kiss him goodbye like it is the most natural thing in the world. He’d welcome it. I know he would. Those whiskey eyes would darken, his hands would settle on my waist, and he’d kiss me back slow and deep like he has all the time in the world.