Page 70 of The New Godfather

We move into the kitchen together, Freddie still squirming happily in my arms. A small playpen has been set up in the corner with his favorite toys and a cozy blanket, and I set him down inside it. He immediately tumbles around, chasing a squeaky ball with pure, unfiltered puppy joy. I kneel beside him, watching him, unable to stop smiling. My heart feels too big for my chest, full to bursting with a kind of happiness I didn’t know I could still feel.

Ricci comes over a moment later, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. There’s a playful glint in his eyes, but I catch the real edge of jealousy in his voice when he says, “Hey, you’re taking all of my wife’s affection. Unacceptable.”

I glance up at him and laugh, the sound bubbling out of me before I can stop it. The jealousy is so cute on him — this powerful, terrifying man pouting because a tiny puppy is stealing my attention. I reach out, grab his hand, and tug him down beside me. He comes willingly, dropping to his knees on the floor with me, his shoulder brushing mine.

Just then his phone rings.

He answers it, his voice shifting instantly into that of a stranger. I watch his face as he listens, and my stomach tightens at the way his jaw hardens, and his eyes go distant and cold, all the softness from a moment ago vanishing into nothing. I know that look. It means there’s trouble. Some mess that needs handling. It’s normal in his world, but it never stops making my chest feel tight and fearful. One of these days I’m going to get that call that tells me he is dead.

He ends the call quickly and turns to me. Before he can speak, I lean in and kiss him, soft and lingering, trying to pour everything I feel into it. He kisses me back, deep and reassuring, one hand cupping the back of my neck.

“I gotta go,” he mouths against my lips.

I nod in understanding, even though my heart is aching with worry. I watch him as he leaves, the door closing quietly behind him, and the penthouse suddenly feels too big, too empty without him in it.

To be honest, I’m becoming more and more worried every time he walks out like this. I remember again how Salvatore died: so suddenly, so stupidly, in a fruit shop of all places. It’s so easy to be killed in this world. One moment you’re here, the next you’re not. I close my eyes and say a silent prayer for him, hoping he comes home as soon as possible.

I can’t wait to be in his arms tonight.

Chapter Sixty-Five

VIOLA

The days pass, and the air in New York turns sharper, carrying that crisp bite that signals the season is changing. With the weather getting colder, I need a couple of new sweaters, something soft and warm to wrap around me when the penthouse feels a little cold while I’m waiting for Ricci to come back. At least, that’s what I told Ricci, but the real reason I’m at this upscale mall is Ricci. His birthday is coming up soon, and I’ve been racking my brains for weeks trying to find the perfect gift. Something that feels personal, but for the life of me I haven’t been able to think of anything impressive at all.

I wander into a couple of designer stores first, the kind with hushed lighting and sales associates who move like ghosts. I browse watches — heavy, elegant pieces with sleek faces — and cuff links in brushed gold and platinum. They’re beautiful, expensive, the kind of things a man like him might wear, but none of them feels right. None of them feels like him. I leave each store empty-handed.

Eventually I find myself in a Loewe store. The interior is warm and inviting, and clever lighting makes the leather goods glow. I head toward the winter coats, running my fingers over thick cashmere and wool blends, imagining how they would look on Ricci’s broad shoulders. One in particular catches my eye, a deep charcoal piece with a subtle texture that feels luxurious under my fingertips. That is definitely a contender.

While I’m here, I decide to try a few on for myself, so I pick a couple of coats and head into the changing room at the back of the store. The fitting room is quiet, the heavy curtain pulling closed behind me with a soft hush. I hang the coats on the hook and unbutton my jacket. I slip the first coat on, smoothing it over my shoulders, turning this way and that to see how it falls.

Just as I’m checking the fit in the mirror, the curtain moves.

Someone steps inside.

My heart leaps into my throat as I spin around. A woman in a tailored suit stands there, close enough that I can smell her perfume. Before I can even open my mouth to protest the intrusion, she quickly flashes a badge: gold and blue, the letters FBI clear under the overhead light.

My stomach drops.

It’s a sudden, sickening plunge. As if the floor has vanished beneath my feet. For a second, I can’t breathe, the air in the small changing room turning thick and sour. The soft lighting that felt warm and flattering a moment ago now feels too bright, too exposing. I’m shocked. Truly and viscerally shocked by the realness of the situation, but I’m not surprised. They’re always trying to nail members of the family, chipping away at the edges, looking for any crack they can widen. And I’m the new don’s wife now. In fact, I should be surprised it took them this long to approach me. Honestly, I’ve been waiting for something like this, even if I tried not to think about it.

“I’m not interested in speaking to you,” I say, my voice cold as ice. The words come out calm, the way I learned to speak when I was Salvatore’s wife, but inside my pulse is racing, hammering against my ribs. “This is an invasion of my privacy. If you want to interrogate me, use the normal and official way.”

I turn to leave, fingers reaching for the heavy curtain, already picturing the safety of the store beyond it, the bodyguards waiting just outside. My hand closes around the fabric.

But her words stop me cold.

“Are you aware that your current husband had your last husband killed?”

The sentence lands like a slap across my face. Sharp, stinging, knocking the air from my lungs. I freeze, back still turned to her, my fingers grip the heavy curtain so tightly the fabric bunches in my fist. I try not to show it. I try so hard to keep the mask in place, the one I perfected over years, but the shock of her statement ripples through me, sliding under my skin like ice water. My breath catches in my throat, a tiny, audible hitch I hate myself for, but my mind races, scrambles to stay calm, to keep my face neutral, to not let her see the way the ground is tilting beneath me.

She doesn’t wait for me to respond.

She pulls out her phone, taps the screen once, and a recorded conversation starts playing. The voice is clear, male, a little rough around the edges. A man confessing in a low, frightened voice that Ricci was the one who paid him to take the shot in the fruit shop. He did it as part of a deal: Ricci would protect him from an ongoing case, keep the police off his back. But now that a member of his own family is in trouble, he has to renege. He has to give Ricci up to save his brother from being prosecuted.

I stand there, heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my temples, in the tips of my fingers still clutching the curtain. My hands start to shake. The words echo in my head, ugly and impossible and yet… they fit. They fit too well with the pieces I’ve tried not to look at too closely these past months. The way Ricci moved so quickly after Salvatore’s death, the way he stepped into the role like he’d been waiting for it, the way he always seemed to know exactly how things would unfold.

The agent’s voice cuts through the recording, persuasive and gentle now. “Viola, we want you to work with us. These men are predators, and they have done nothing but prey on you. We can help you, but only if you help us. Help us get Ricci. In exchange, we’ll give you immunity and put you into the witness protection program with a new identity. You will be safe, and more importantly, you will be free. Don’t you want to be free of these monsters, Viola?”