Page 7 of The New Godfather

“My dearest stepmother,” he calls out, loud enough for half the room to hear, opening his arms like he’s about to pull her into an embrace.

I can’t control the annoyance that flashes across my face now, my jaw tightening hard. Just before I turn away from the aggravating scene of Mario trying to wrap his arms around her, my eyes collide with Viola’s.

For a second, the entire world comes to a complete stop.

Everything else—the noise, the people, the clinking glasses—disappears. There’s only her. Those green eyes locked on mine, pulling me under like a riptide. My heart slams against my ribs. Heat floods my body so fast it leaves me dizzy. I want her so badly in that moment it is painful. A raw, obsessive hunger that claws at my insides.

Then she turns towards Mario, and the spell shatters. The noise of the environment crashes back in all at once.

I whirl away in confusion.

I’ve broken the necks of men with my bare hands. I’ve watched the light leave their eyes without blinking. And yet one single glance from this woman can completely remove the floor from underneath my feet. She wrecks me in ways no enemy ever could.

I feel drugged, completely off-balance, my pulse still hammering. Without taking a sip of the whiskey, I set the untouched glass back on a passing tray, and pretend to listen to the conversation, though every cell in my body is tuned to her.

Chapter Seven

VIOLA

Ipull back from Mario’s attempted embrace just before his arms can close around me, my body recoiling on pure instinct, twisting so sharply the contact never happens, but I’m shaken—shaken to the core by something far more dangerous than Mario’s clumsy hug.

It’s what I saw across the crowded room in the eyes of the new Capo del Capo.

Ricci Santori.

For years I’ve seen him move through these halls like a steely shadow, and yet his eyes have never met mine. Not once. I thought I was invisible to him, even though I’ve always been curious about him, drawn in some strange and forbidden way I could never name. Somehow, he seemed to have more depth than the rest, even though the stories Daisy chatted about him are blood-curdling. One misstep, one wrong glance, and he could blow my head off without blinking. And yet, in a way I’ve never been able to explain, I’ve felt safer around him than anyone else in this Godforsaken world. Safer than with my own husband. Safer than with my own father.

It is not that I was scared of Salvatore. No, I knew he wouldn’t damage me physically. Not when I was one of his prized possessions. And I was certain my heart would never be broken by him. He could never hurt me. With Ricci Santori, though… my brain advises caution. There is something about him…

The way he looked at me. It was so crazy. I felt as if his gaze reached out and touched me. I wonder if he knows what’s happening to me. He has to. They’re throwing me out on the street with nothing. Of course, he’s aware. To be crowned the Godfather is not easy. You have to be utterly ruthless. You have to prove you are more bloodthirsty than all the other contenders. You must know everything that happens in your kingdom. If anyone can help me, it will be him. He’s the one I should talk to. The only one.

The thought twists sharply in my chest.

But then what the hell would I say? Give me my money. But that would be a lie. Nothing here ever belonged to me. The sadness of it settles heavily in my bones as Mario flicks his hand to gesture for me to follow him. He looks furious that I so publicly evaded his embrace. I trail after him down the long hallway, our heels clicking on the marble, the noise of the reception fading behind us until the study door shuts with a heavy, final click, sealing us inside.

The sudden quiet presses in. The air in Salvatore’s study is laced with the faint scent of old leather, polished wood, and the lingering ghost of Salvatore’s smelly cigars. Cuban Cohibas. My pulse is already too loud in my ears, an insistent drum that makes my temples throb. It feels as if I’m on the thinnest edge of my sanity, nerves stretched so razor-thin I can almost feel them fraying with every breath.

My eyes flick involuntarily to the massive oriental vase perched on the side table to my left—a priceless antique, deep cobalt blues swirling into molten golds, easily two feet tall and heavy enough to feel murderous in my hands. I calculate it in a heartbeat: the weight balanced in my palm, the perfect, vicious arc it would take if I swung it hard enough to crack Mario’s skull open. In my fantasy world, I smash it over his head without a second thought. I swear I do. And I’m not even angry—it’s just the cold and practical thing to do to monsters.

Mario drops into his late father’s leather chair, sprawling wide like he’s already claimed every inch of the room. The chair creaks under his weight, the same creak I’ve heard a thousand times when Salvatore sat there issuing orders. He leans forward and reaches for the crystal decanter on the sideboard. The ruby liquid of the Barolo catches the low lamplight as he pours. He holds the glass out to me, stem pinched between two fingers, the offer wrapped in false concern.

“Something to calm your nerves, stepmother?”

The word stepmother lands in an oddly intimate and possessive way that makes my skin crawl. I decline with a small, controlled shake of my head. My voice is steady even though my mouth feels dry. “No, thank you.”

His lips curve. It’s a slick, knowing smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He takes a sip, smiles his approval, stands, and walks towards me. I can smell his aftershave. I stay as rigid as a statue as he towers over me. What the hell kind of game is he playing? His hand lifts toward my face, fingers brushing the edge of my sunglasses like he has every right in the world.

My hand shoots up fast, catching his wrist mid-air. “Don’t touch me.”

“You know better than to tell me what to do,” he drawls, as if amused, but I see the steel in his eyes.

I let my hand fall away. Not because I want to give in. Because this isn’t a battle worth dying over—not yet. Push harder right now, and one of us will be dead. I swear it on my life. Right now, I have nothing left to lose. Salvatore has made damn sure of that.

He slides the glasses off slowly, deliberately, setting them on the side table with a soft clink. “You’ve been crying,” he notes with surprise.

“It’s what widows do,” I mutter tightly.

He laughs, then lets his eyes peruse me like I’m merchandise already sold and delivered. The black dress covers every inch of me—high neck, long sleeves, fitted but modest—but his gaze lingers on my breasts anyway, tracing the way the material moves with each rise and fall of my breathing. Nausea rolls through me, thick and sour, coating the back of my throat. God, I’m not safe from anyone in this family. Not one single man.