Page 81 of The New Godfather

Further surprising me, he goes down on one knee in the small cabin, right there on the gently rocking floor, his hands still holding mine. The boat sways softly beneath us, the distant sound of waves lapping against the hull the only other noise in the world. He looks up at me, eyes shining with everything he’s never been able to say before.

“I love you, Viola,” he says again, voice thick. “Truly. More than I ever thought I could love anyone. You’re the only person that has ever made sense in my life.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a ring. I gasp with shock and awe. It is a huge, utterly gorgeous emerald surrounded by a halo of diamonds that catch the lamplight and throw it back in sparkling bursts. It’s stunning and perfect.

“Marry me again, Viola,” he says, his words simple and fierce and full of promise.

I don’t even have to think. “Yes,” I breathe, the word breaking on a sob and a laugh all at once. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

He slides the ring onto my finger, the metal cool and heavy and the perfect size. Then he rises and pulls me into his arms. His mouth swoops down in a deep, passionate kiss, tasting of joy, relief, and the future we just chose together.

“God, I love you so damn much,” he growls when we finally pull apart.

And in that moment, with the boat carrying us toward whatever secret life waits for us, I believe him with every piece of my heart.

“I love you too, Ricci.”

Epilogue

VIOLA

Three years later

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uD-3RBLaU9Q

The kitchen in our new home in the South of France is breathtaking. I’ll never get used to how beautiful it is. Even after all these years, I still catch myself thinking, oh you lucky bitch. How did you get so lucky?

Sunlight pours through the wide-open windows, warm and golden, carrying the sweet scent of ripening grapes from the vineyard that stretches out for acres beyond the house. The vines roll across the hills in neat, endless rows, their leaves a deep, vibrant green that shimmers in the breeze. I stand at the long marble counter, my hands still dusted with cinnamon, arranging a beautiful platter I’ve just finished. Fresh bread I baked this morning sits in thick, crusty slices, warm and fragrant, alongside wedges of creamy cheese, thin curls of cured meat, and glossy green olives. Everything looks abundant, alive, like the life we’ve built here.

The staff move quietly around me, bringing pitchers of chilled sangria and bottles of crisp lemonade for the picnic. They smile at me as they pass, and I return it, still a little amazed that this is my everyday now. No fear. No watching my back. Just this gorgeousness.

I pick up the platter and step outside.

The air is warm and soft against my skin, carrying the faint hum of bees and the distant bird song. Under the old olive tree at the edge of the garden, Ricci has spread out a blanket for our little picnic. He’s running around with our son, chasing him in wide, playful circles, the boy’s laughter ringing out bright and clear. Raymond is so much like his father already, dark hair tousled by the wind, the same intense energy, the same easy joy when he’s free. My heart swells so fiercely it makes my eyes sting. I stop for a moment just to watch them, the platter balanced in my hands, the sun warm on my shoulders.

I’m stunned by how beautiful my life has become.

It hits me all at once — the vineyard, the laughter, the man I love chasing our child like nothing else in the world matters. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I want to cry, not from sadness, but from a joy so profound it almost hurts. This is real. This is ours.

Our little boy spots me and lets out a delighted shriek, running straight toward me to slam against my legs.

“Careful,” I caution. “I spent a long time making this platter.”

His small hands clutch the fabric of my dress. He giggles, peeking out at his father with mischievous eyes.

Ricci slows down, his gaze finding mine across the grass. Something soft and hungry flashes across his face. He walks over with a leisurely gait. The late afternoon light catches the slight stubble along his jaw. When he reaches me, he doesn’t speak. He simply cups my face with both hands, thumbs brushing my cheeks, and kisses me. A deep and slow kiss that steals the breath from my lungs and makes my knees weak. His mouth moves against mine like he’s savoring every second.

“I have X-rated plans for you,” he whispers.

How naughty.

We settle on the blanket. The sun filters through the leaves above us, dappling the white cloth and our plates. Ricci compliments everything — the bread I baked, the cheeses bought from the farmers market, the way the olives taste with the sangria. His voice low and warm, his hand never far from mine. We eat slowly, feeding each other bites, stealing kisses between sips of juice, the laughter of our son playing nearby wrapping around us.

I look into his eyes across the table, those whiskey depths, and I can’t hold it in any longer. I wanted to wait until later tonight, to make it special, but now, with the sun on his face and our son’s laughter in the air, I simply can’t. I turn to our little boy first and call him to me. He comes and climbs into my lap, and I brush a curl from his forehead.

“What do you think about a little sister to play with?” I ask softly, my voice trembling just a little. “Or a brother? Which would you prefer?”

He thinks about it seriously for a second, then grins. “Boy. I want a boy,” he shouts decisively.