Page 73 of The New Godfather

VIOLA

Ilie in bed, unwilling to move.

The sheets feel too heavy against my skin, like they’re trying to hold me down. I’m curled on my side, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight around my middle as if that could keep everything from falling apart. Tears slip silently down my cheeks, soaking the pillow beneath my head. The city lights outside the tall windows cast faint silver patterns across the ceiling. I try to tell myself things can still be salvaged. That I’m just panicking. That there has to be a way out of this. Some detail I’m missing. I should have been brave and listened to his explanation. Maybe there is an explanation, but the recording the agent played keeps echoing, low and nasty, refusing to fade.

It doesn’t matter what Ricci’s initial goal was when he married me.

Whether he did it to claim the Don’s widow, to step neatly into Salvatore’s shoes, or for some other reason I haven’t even imagined yet should change anything now. It didn’t matter to me back then, hence the contract I drew up. So why should it now? I went into this marriage with my eyes open, or at least I thought I did. But he’s affected me now in ways I never planned. Unlike what I promised myself, I’ve fallen for him. Deeply. Completely. The kind of love that sinks into your bones and makes every breath feel different.

And now all I really should ask myself is not his motives, but how he has treated me since he came into my life.

I lie in the dark, eyes burning, and I admit it to myself. He has treated me with more grace, more affection, more attention, and more respect than anybody ever has in my entire life. The way he listens when I speak, like my words actually matter. The way he touches me. Not like I’m something to own, but something infinitely precious. The puppy he brought home just because he remembered that I had a soft spot for dogs. The way he comes home early just to eat dinner with me. The way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not watching, like I’m the only thing in his world worth protecting.

For these reasons alone, I should hear him out.

I don’t have to take whatever he throws at me. I don’t have to forgive everything on the spot. But I should give him as much grace as he has given me these past months. So I decide that I will speak to him at breakfast in the morning. I’ll sit across from him in the kitchen, and I’ll ask him to tell me everything. No more hiding.

It’s too late now. He’s probably asleep.

The clock on the nightstand glows softly. 4:07 a.m., the numbers burning into my tired eyes. I can’t sleep, and I won’t be able to sleep until I hear his side.

I wonder if he’s in his room and he’s awake too.

The thought surfaces quietly, and I turn it over for a long moment. Maybe now would be a good time to talk, before the sun comes up and the world feels too bright and real again, before breakfast makes everything feel normal and I lose my nerve. I slip out of bed and get into my silk robe. It whispers against my skin as I pull it tighter around me.

I pad quietly down the hallway. The penthouse is completely silent. My heart beats a little faster with every step closer I take. I stop outside his door, staring at the dark wood for what feels like forever. My hand hovers, and I hesitate before I knock softly. I wait. Nothing. I knock again, a little louder this time, the rap of my knuckles echoing loudly in the quiet hallway.

No answer.

I turn the handle slowly, the metal cool against my palm, and push the door open.

The room is empty.

The bed is still made, the crisp white linens untouched, pillows arranged exactly as the housekeeper left them. No indentation where his body would have been, no discarded jacket tossed over the chair, no faint imprint of him anywhere. Only the faint, lingering scent of his cologne hangs in the air, mocking me with its presence.

It’s clear now that he didn’t stay home.

He must have left after I confronted him. The realization settles over me like a guilty cloud. I shouldn’t have reacted so emotionally. I should have been more rational. A fresh wave of sadness and worry washes through me, so strong it makes my knees feel weak for a second. Where is he? Is he safe? Is he out there right now dealing with the FBI? Or is he somewhere else entirely, handling things I don’t even want to imagine?

I stand there in the doorway for a long moment, one hand still gripping the doorframe while my thoughts spin faster. The room feels too still, too perfect, like it’s waiting for someone who might never walk back through it the same way.

I shiver with that thought and quickly return to my room. Just as I arrive at my bed, my phone lights up on the nightstand with a call.

An unknown number.

My stomach tightens instantly, a sharp, nauseating twist. I freeze mid-step, staring at the glowing screen like it might bite me. I’m afraid then, almost certain it’s the FBI again. They never once bothered me while I was married to Salvatore, but now that I’m with Ricci, they won’t freaking leave me alone. The intrusion feels personal, invasive, like they’ve reached into the one fragile corner of my life that finally felt safe and shattered it. I’m pissed at how easily they ripped away the peace I’d started to believe in, angry at myself for letting any of this touch me so deeply.

I try to ignore it, letting it ring, the vibration buzzing against the wood like an accusation. But then the fear spikes sharper, colder, twisting in my gut. What if it’s about Ricci? What if they’ve arrested him, or worse, harmed him? My hand moves before I can stop it, fingers closing around the phone.

The voice on the other end is one I don’t recognize; male, rough, low, the kind of voice that sounds like it’s been dragged across gravel.

This is not the FBI. This is some low-level thug.

“We have your dog,” he says in a thick Bronx accent.

“What?”

“We have your dog,” he repeats impatiently.