Page 6 of The New Godfather

Fuck them all.

I can’t afford to be passive now, but I know if I approach her directly that could force her to recoil. No. For now, while she’s not in danger—unless one of these wolves gets too close—it’s best if I keep my distance. Only offer help if and when she asks. The idea of letting any of them approach her kills me, and every instinct I have is screaming for me to claim her. But I know if I’m too forward right now I’ll frighten her off. She’s like a nervous deer. She can’t trust anyone, much less the new boss who’s never spoken a single word to her and has more or less pretended as if she didn’t exist all these years.

I sit back against the leather, staring out at the passing city, and force myself to calm down. I will get her. By hook or by crook, she will be mine.

Chapter Five

VIOLA

Isit at the ornate dresser in my bedroom, the antique mahogany piece that’s been the silent witness through four years of my nightmare. The mirror reflects back a woman I barely recognize anymore. Grief finally crashes over me—not for Salvatore, that cold, controlling sadist who doesn’t deserve a single tear, but for my own fate, the cruel wreckage he’s left with his passing. It hits like a wave, pulling me under until my chest aches with the weight of it.

Bonafanti’s sleazy offer is still echoing in my ears. I’ve caught the sly looks in the past, and I knew the cheap insults would come, but I did not expect a proposition so soon. I better prepare myself for more. They will keep coming. I won’t be able to accept any of them. Not one. Even the thought of lying with any of them brings a wave of nausea.

I was young and naïve when I was bullied into this godforsaken marriage to clear my father’s debts. My mother and sister kissed me and thanked me for securing the future of my family. I gave up everything for that fragile promise. My freedom, my body, my dreams. All of it sacrificed on the altar of family loyalty. And now, if I go back to my father’s house, the threats and emotional blackmail will all begin again, because I know he has fallen deeply in debt again.

I shake my head in wonder. Am I really being thrown out on the street with nothing? Not a single asset in my name, and the money in my current account will last a month if I am really frugal. It makes my heart break in a way I didn’t think possible, a sharp, fracturing pain that radiates through my ribs and leaves me gasping softly.

How can I fight this?

The question burns through me as I stare at the stricken woman in the mirror. Her eyes are red and puffy. Rage bubbles up hot and fierce, making my hands tremble where they rest on the cool surface of the dresser. I want to scream, to shatter something, to demand what’s mine after everything I endured. But how? How do you fight the will left by the biggest mafia Don in the country, the one that owns the police and the law on their payroll?

Fuck, I curse bitterly under my breath as I grab a tissue from the box beside me. I wipe at my eyes, wiping furiously, but the tears just won’t stop falling, fresh ones welling up quickly.

Someone knocks on the door, polite but insistent, cutting through my anguish like an unwelcome intrusion. I hurry to reach for my sunglasses on the dresser, ready to hide the evidence of my unraveling. But then I stop, mid-motion, the glasses hovering in my hand. What is the point? How long before I’m thrown out of this house? Days? Hours? Why the hell should I care about keeping up appearances anymore? The fight drains out of me, leaving only exhaustion in its wake.

I don’t respond, but the door creaks open anyway, and Daisy, one of the servants, slips in quietly. I like her. She has a sweet face with a smattering of freckles on her nose and cheeks, and she has been here since the day I arrived. She feels familiar, a small constant in my cold world, and for a fleeting moment, her presence calms the storm inside me just a little.

Her face registers shock for a split second as she takes in my tear-streaked reflection, my swollen eyes and the way my shoulders are hunched forward. But she recovers quickly, and her expression softens into genuine sympathy.

“I know this is a bad time,” she says softly, her voice hesitant, fingers twisting the edge of her crisp white apron. “Please… the master’s son requests your presence downstairs.”

Irritation flares hot in my chest, sharp and immediate, but I try not to let it show, keeping my tone even. An audience is the last thing I need right now. I want to be alone with my thoughts. I want to tell her I’m not ready to go downstairs yet, but I dare not refuse a direct order from Salvatore’s son. I find myself nodding my agreement. Daisy takes her leave with a small curtsy, the door clicking shut behind her softly.

Mario is just two years older than me, yet he’s always acted like he was itching to take over from his father. An arrogant man with shockingly cruel eyes, maybe even worse than his father. I feared him instinctively and kept out of his way. Now… I can’t help the flicker of dread that stirs inside me. What does he want from me?

I can’t think of any reason he would want to see me. It wouldn’t be sexual. I literally belonged to his father. Stepmothers are off-limits even in their twisted world. The thought brings a reassuring comfort. It would be ugly if I had to reject him. Very ugly. In fact, I might not come out of it alive.

I wipe the tears from my face, repair my make-up, and slide the sunglasses back on. Straightening my back with deliberate effort, I roll my shoulders back. Be strong, I tell my reflection silently.

You’ve survived worse. You can survive this.

I draw in a shaky breath, rise from the dresser, and head downstairs. The weight of what’s coming presses down on me like an invisible hand.

Chapter Six

RICCI

The entire living room and the sprawling gardens beyond are overflowing with people. Laughter rises in low bursts, glasses clink, and the rich scents of prosciutto, aged cheeses, and strong espresso drift from the silver trays being passed around. Everyone is here to mourn in public and scheme in private.

But she is nowhere in sight.

Funny thing is, I’m quite certain at this point that I can sense her presence. It’s like the air itself changes when she’s near. And that’s exactly what happens when she finally arrives.

Very little in this world tenses me up anymore. I’ve stared down barrels of guns and walked through rooms of men who wanted me dead. But all of a sudden, I feel it—a prickling of heat racing down my spine, slow and electric, settling low in my gut. My body knows before my eyes do.

Suddenly, I lose focus on the man speaking to me, droning on about territory lines. His voice fades into background noise. I pretend to flag a passing waiter with a sharp tilt of my chin. As I reach for a glass of whiskey from his tray, I spot her at the edge of the room. She stands there alone, poised and still, like she’s waiting for someone. The black dress hugs her slim frame perfectly, the fabric falling over her curves in a way that makes my throat tighten.

I ogle her openly for a few seconds, drinking in every detail while my blood heats, but I make sure to keep a slight, distant expression on my face in case anyone—including her—is watching. A mask of cool indifference I’ve worn for years. It doesn’t take long to figure out who she’s waiting for. The loud, obnoxious voice of Mario cuts through the crowd as he makes his way toward her with that predatory swagger of his.