Page 71 of The New Godfather

I’m close to throwing up. Ricci? A monster?

Just then there’s a small commotion outside the changing room, yanking me back to the present. My bodyguards are at the door, voices raised, calling out to me, asking if I’m okay. They haven’t seen me for a while, and I can hear the edge in their tone. They’re already on high alert. I remember now Ricci had them follow me discreetly. Of course he did. He always does. He said it was for my safety, but now I truly can’t help but wonder. Is it?

“I’m fine,” I call out, though my voice cracks just slightly on the last word. I turn around to face the agent. When she doesn’t say anything else, I push past the curtain and step out into the store, the cool air of the boutique hitting my flushed skin like a shock. The bodyguards relax once they sight me and once again disappear out of sight. Head held high, I head toward the exit.

I’m shocked. Confused. And I feel used. Everything I thought was real these past few months has been peeled back to reveal something ugly underneath.

The words the agent said keep replaying in my head as I walk back to the car, the cold autumn air biting at my cheeks and making my eyes water. Did Ricci have these men follow me because he cares about me… or did he just want to monitor me? To see if I would be approached? To see if I would turn on him?

I hate that I’m even thinking this way.

Over the past few weeks, we’ve grown so close — closer than I ever thought possible, and I’ve fallen in love with him, hard and deep, the kind of love that terrifies me because it’s so all-consuming that I can’t imagine my life without him. But what if it was all a lie? What if he lied to me from the very beginning? Why did he marry me? What if he only did it to keep an eye on me… or simply as a trophy?

The questions swirl faster and faster as the car pulls away from the curb, the city blurring past the tinted windows. My hands are still shaking in my lap. I press them together tightly, trying to steady myself, but the doubts have already taken root deeply and are impossible to ignore.

And for the first time since I married Ricci, I feel lost and alone again.

Chapter Sixty-Six

VIOLA

The weight of the information the agent shared with me settles on me like a second skin I can’t peel off.

The penthouse is quiet when I step inside. Rebecca has already left for the night, and Freddie must be fast asleep in his playpen. I’m too fraught to go look at him as I do every day. I can’t even feel relief being back here, surrounded by the familiar smells of home; Ricci’s cologne lingering in the air, the smells from the scented candles I like to light in the evenings. Feeling restless and nervous, I run upstairs to my bedroom.

I change into something comfortable, pour myself a glass of wine I don’t really want, and try to distract myself with a book. It doesn’t work. I look at the clock. Strange that Ricci isn’t home yet. That alone feels unusual. He’s been making a point lately of coming back earlier, of carving out time for us even when his work demands more from him. The clock ticks past ten, then eleven, and the silence starts to feel heavier. I wonder why he’s so late. Is it just work? Or is there something else? The doubt the agent planted is already spreading, twisting around inside me.

I go to bed, but I can’t sleep.

I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, the sheets cool against my skin, the city lights casting faint patterns across the walls through the tall windows. Every time I close my eyes I see the changing room, the badge, her phone playing that recording. My heart won’t settle. A little past midnight I finally hear the low hum of the elevator rising, the soft ding when it reaches our floor. Relief and anxiety crash together in my chest as I slip out of bed and go downstairs to welcome him.

He steps into the foyer, looking tired, suit jacket slung over one shoulder, the top buttons of his shirt undone. His eyes widen slightly when he sees me standing there barefoot in my nightie.

“You’re still up,” he exclaims. He sets his jacket down and moves toward me, one hand already reaching out like he wants to pull me close.

I want to talk to him. I’ve been telling myself the whole night not to assume, not to jump to the worst conclusion, to give him a chance to explain. But before I say a single word, I glance around the penthouse: the lamps, the corners, the places where something small and listening could hide. We haven’t always been home these past few months. The FBI could have been here. They could have bugged anything.

“Come with me,” I say quietly, taking his hand and leading him away. “Balcony.”

He doesn’t question it. He follows me outside, the cool night air hitting us as I slide the glass door shut behind us. The city stretches out below, lights glittering like scattered diamonds, the distant hum of traffic a low constant. The breeze carries the faint chill of autumn and tugs at my silky robe. I wrap my arms around myself for a moment, trying to steady my breathing.

It’s difficult to speak. My throat feels tight, emotions clawing at the edges, but I force them down. I need to remove all of it, the hurt, the fear, the love that’s making this so much harder. I look into his eyes, those whiskey depths I’ve fallen so completely into these past months, and I start to speak.

“The FBI approached me today,” I say, my voice flat, almost clinical. “In a changing room in Loewe. A woman. She wanted me to listen to a recording. A man confessing that you paid him to kill Salvatore. That it was part of a deal: you’d protect him from his own case, but now he’s turning on you to save his brother.”

I pause, searching his face. My heart is hammering so hard it hurts. He doesn’t respond so I am forced to keep talking. “She wants me to work with them. She said that they’d grant me immunity. They’d um… put me in a witness protection program. A new life.”

The words hang between us, heavy in the night air. My voice sounded steady, but inside I’m trembling. “Tell me the truth, Ricci. No more hiding things from me. Please. I’m part of your world now and … I’m married to you. I deserve to know the truth.”

He takes a long time to speak.

The silence stretches, filled only by the distant city sounds and the soft rustle of the breeze. I can’t breathe while I wait. My chest feels tight, every second dragging like hours. I watch his face, the way his jaw tightens, the way his eyes flicker with something I can’t quite read. Please, I think. Please let this be a lie. Let there be some explanation that makes sense.

Eventually he does. He nods once slowly, his gaze never leaving mine.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “It’s true.”

The world tilts. Shock crashes over me, cold and absolute. All my half-formed theories from the car ride home flood back in; the speed with which he took power, the way he always seemed one step ahead, the way he married me so quickly after Salvatore’s death. I feel like someone just punched straight through my chest. I have been living in a complete fantasy these past few months. Every touch, every late-night conversation, every time he looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered — was any of it real?