Page 59 of The New Godfather

“Boss, you want to swing by The Carlyle? The commissioner’s there right now in the private lounge. Said he wants five minutes.”

I lean back in the leather chair. Usually this wouldn’t even be a question. I’d already be moving, suit jacket on, ready to handle whatever needed handling. I realize I’ve been leaving work earlier and earlier lately. The men have started noticing. I can see it in the glances, the way conversations pause when I stand up to go. They’re not stupid. They know something’s shifted.

I don’t care.

The only thing on my mind is her. If I stay out well past midnight as I used to do, she’ll be asleep by the time I get back. I don’t want that. I want to walk through the door and find her still awake, see that soft look she gives me when she thinks I’m not watching.

“Not tonight,” I say, voice calm but final. “Tell him we’ll catch him later in the week. I’ll meet for a drink before dinner.”

Tommy nods, already reaching for his phone. I stand up, grab my keys, and head out the side door. I slide behind the wheel of the black Escalade myself — no driver tonight. I want the quiet. I want the drive.

I can’t fucking believe it. Who could have known that the day would come when I’d be rushing back for a woman? Because I want to hear how her day went. I want to see the pieces she pulled from the kiln, hear her talk about glazes and whatever else made her eyes light up. These are the mundane things I’m looking forward to now.

Unbelievable.

I pull into the garage, kill the engine, and step out. The moment the elevator doors open into the penthouse, the smell hits me — warm, savory, something sizzling on the stove mixed with the sweet, buttery scent of baking. It hits me then. This. This is what I rushed home for. It’s all I’ve ever really wanted. I’m just pretending to be a Mafia boss. That’s not me. This is me.

I walk into the kitchen, and there she is.

Standing at the stove in one of her simple sundresses, which I’ve come to love, and an apron tied around her waist. Her hair is pulled back loosely, and a few strands fall around her face. She’s stirring something in a pan with a wooden spoon. She looks so fucking beautiful it stops me for a second.

She glances up, sees me, and her whole face changes. Her eyes brighten, lips curving into a big, open smile that hits me right in the gut.

“You’re home early,” she says, surprised and happy.

A great warmth steals across my chest. I cross the space between us, pull her by the waist against me, and kiss her. She melts into me instantly, one hand still holding the spoon, the other coming up to rest on my chest. When I pull back, she’s flushed, eyes soft, and I feel that familiar ache settle deeper.

“Why are you back so early?” she asks, voice a little breathless. “Salvatore was almost never around this time of night. He always operated late, and I assumed you would as well, since you were practically running everything for him anyway.”

I lean against the counter beside her, watching the way the light plays across her cheek. There’s no point in lying. Not to her. I want to open myself up fully, give her everything I’ve never given anyone.

“The truth?” I say quietly. “I wanted to come home to you. I wanted to hear how your day went. I wanted to see the pieces you pulled from the kiln.”

She freezes for a second. The surprise on her face is clear, like she can’t quite believe what I just said. She laughs softly, a little disbelieving sound, turns away, and goes back to stirring her pot. I know she doesn’t want me to see her expression.

“You wanted to see if I was skilled enough to invest in a studio?” she teases, but there is a strange tremor in her voice.

“Yeah. I guess I did.”

She sets the spoon down, wipes her hands on the apron, then goes into the pantry and brings out the fired pieces she brought home — two lidded pots, each one unique, the glazes catching the light in subtle, shifting colors. I turn them slowly in my hands. I’m no artist, but these pots are special. She explains the little imperfections about them that she loves. I listen to her words as I run my thumb over the smooth surfaces, imagining her hands shaping them.

I love them. Both of them.

I set them down carefully and look at her. “They are beautiful.”

“Really?”

I nod. “Yes. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

She smiles, soft and pleased. “Which one do you like most?”

I consider them seriously and pick up the one I think is the most beautiful. It has just the tiniest hint of pink running through it like a secret. It feels perfect in my hand.

“This one,” I say, turning it in the light.

She laughs again, the sound bright and easy. “Look under the lid.”

I take off the lid and examine it carefully. To my surprise, my initials are engraved on the side. RS. I look up at her.