Page 39 of The New Godfather

Why shouldn’t I fucking walk down a supermarket aisle with her?

I’ve never lived a normal life. Not once. Not as a kid getting beaten by the uncle who was supposed to protect me, not on the streets, not even after I tricked my way into Salvatore’s world. Normal was always something other people got. But right now, with Viola standing in front of me looking like she might actually give me that thing that was never mine. Something ordinary. God, how I want it. I want this tiny piece of normal so much it hurts.

But it feels strange as hell when we head out together.

I’m quiet in the elevator, quieter still when we reach the garage. Nervous in a way I haven’t been since I was a kid sleeping with a knife under my pillow. My hand brushes the small of her back as I open the passenger door for her. She slides in, her t-shirt riding up just enough to show a sliver of skin at her waist. I have to look away before I do something stupid.

It is just the low purr of the engine and the city sliding past the windows in streaks of light and shadows as I drive. I don’t want to bring up Mario again. At least, not yet, but dammit, the question burns in my chest. Did he hurt her? Did he touch her again? I grip the wheel tighter, knuckles white. In the end, I decide it doesn’t matter what she says. I’ll deal with him regardless. No one puts hands on her. Ever.

“He’ll never hurt you again,” I tell her, and my voice is low and rough. I keep my eyes on the road, but I feel her turn toward me. “So you don’t have to be scared.”

She’s quiet for a long moment, and the only sound is the soft click of the turn signal when I change lanes.

“He didn’t hurt me,” she says carefully. “It was just Mario being Mario.”

Her words sting more than they should. She’s defending him. Even after everything, she’s still trying to soften it. My jaw tightens. I hate that she still feels she has to protect him.

She notices. Of course she does. She always notices everything.

“I don’t want you to hurt him. I know it will only cause trouble for you. He has his band of loyal supporters too. I used to think Salvatore was invincible, but he was not. I just don’t want you to…”

Her voice trails off, but it’s enough. I feel the corner of my mouth lift with a happy smile. She wasn’t protecting Mario. She was thinking about me. Worrying about me. That alone does something dangerous to my chest.

“Viola, our entire business model is based on stepping on toes.”

She smiles at that, a small, hesitant smile. Our eyes meet for a second when I glance over. Fuck. She is so beautiful it knocks the air out of me. The late sunlight catches her green eyes, making it luminous, and turns her blonde hair into spun gold. This is what I imagined angels looked like when I was a kid.

I want her.

Not just her body — though Christ, I want that too — but all of her.

The guarded woman who’s starting to let me in. The one who cried in my arms with fear, and still tried to protect me from the consequences. Suddenly all I want to do is kiss her. Pull the car over, lean across the console, taste the salt of her earlier tears and the sweetness that’s just her. My body reacts hard and fast. Heat pools low, and my cock thickens against my thigh. I’m so turned on it’s painful.

To calm myself, I force myself to focus on driving. I breathe slowly and deeply, counting the blocks until we reach the store. But the lust for her refuses to leave. It just simmers under my skin, hot and impatient, waiting for the moment I can finally have her again.

Chapter Thirty-Six

VIOLA

That look. God, that look. I didn’t expect it to hit me this hard. Suddenly, every breath I take carries the scent of him. My thighs press together on the leather seat, trying to ease the sudden, insistent ache that’s building in my belly. I’ve never thought of myself as sexual. Never the kind of woman who gets wet just from sitting next to a man. But right now, all I can think about is riding him. Sliding my hand over the hard muscle of his thigh, feeling the strength of his gorgeous, thick, hard cock inside me, stretching me until I scream his name.

Fucking. That’s what I’m thinking about. Crude, raw fucking. Nothing soft. Nothing romantic. That’s good, because the softer version is more dangerous. The softer version makes me want to crawl into his lap right here in the middle of traffic and beg him to love me.

I stare out the window, trying to focus on the buildings and taillights, but my eyes keep drifting back to his hands. The way his fingers wrap around the wheel, veins standing out, knuckles flexing every time he shifts lanes. I remember those fingers curling inside me, stroking that spot that made me see stars. My breath catches. The car suddenly feels too warm, too small. I almost reach for the window to roll it down, but I stop myself. If I do that, he’ll know. He’ll see how badly I’m unraveling.

Thankfully, before I can embarrass myself completely, we pull into the parking lot of a grocery store. The sun is low in the sky as Ricci parks smoothly, kills the engine, and turns to me. His eyes catch mine for a second, and I feel that pull again — sharp, electric, almost terrifying in its intensity.

He gets out and, before I can even move, he has come around to open my door. I step out and the cool evening air hits my flushed cheeks like a relief. Wordlessly, he offers his hand, and I take it. His palm is warm and calloused, and the moment our fingers lace together my heart does a stupid little flip. We walk toward the entrance like that — hand in hand.

Inside, the store is bright and quiet, the kind of place where it smells faintly of fresh bread and herbs. Ricci grabs a cart, but I can feel how vigilant he is. His gaze moves constantly, scanning the aisles, the other shoppers, the exits. When I start to stray a little too far to look at a display of olive oils, his arm slides around my waist and pulls me back against his side, firmly and protectively.

“I don’t have my men with me,” he says quietly, voice low against my ear. “So stay close.”

I understand. In our world, you never let your guard down, especially not the new Don. I nod and press a little closer, letting the solid warmth of his body steady me. We move through the aisles together, him pushing the cart with one hand while the other stays on me, sometimes at my waist, sometimes brushing my fingers. It feels… good. Strangely good.

I find myself watching him closely, at what he’s choosing. I notice he is going for the cheapest brands. Not guided by the price, but what he remembers buying a long time ago when he had no money. As he said earlier, he is making poor people’s food.

I catch myself laughing softly when he teases me about my “fancy” taste in butter, and the sound surprises me. For a little while I forget that I’m the widow who married her husband’s second-in-command before the gravestone was erected. I forget everything except the way Ricci’s arm feels around me and the way he looks at me. Like I’m the only woman in the world worth looking at.