Page 48 of The New Godfather

The tears sting my eyes before I can stop them. They are hot, sudden, and overwhelming. The kindness, the freedom he’s offering me so easily, the way he’s looking at me like my dreams actually matter… it cracks something wide open inside my chest. I can’t hold it back anymore. I move without thinking, swinging my leg over so I’m straddling him fully on the couch. My knees sink into the leather on either side of his thighs. I don’t say a word. I just lean in and kiss him long, deep, and desperate, pouring everything I can’t put into words into that kiss.

My shirt is gone in seconds. His follows right after. Somehow, I don’t quite know how, his pants are lost. My greedy hands are everywhere, sliding down his chest, over the hard ridges of muscle, until I wrap my fingers around his cock. He’s already rock hard. The thick shaft twitches in my palm. I stroke hot, velvet-smooth skin slowly at first, feeling him jerk and thicken even more under my touch. We don’t speak. We don’t need to. The fascination, the pull, the growing need between us is louder than any words could ever be.

I rise on my knees, position him at my entrance, and sink slowly, taking my time, savoring every thick inch as it impales me. He groans loud and raw, the sound vibrating through his chest into mine. His hands grip my hips hard enough to leave marks, fingers digging into my flesh, but I don’t care. I want the marks. I want to feel him tomorrow.

I ride him slow and deep, rolling my hips in languid circles, loving the way he fills me so completely, the way every ridge drags against my insides. The friction blooms into delicious heat, and I almost come right there: shaking, head falling back, a whimper tearing from my throat. But I manage to hold on and make the pleasure last. I continue to ride him, taking him deeper, harder, chasing that edge with every roll of my hips.

He lets me set the pace for a while, but I can feel his control fraying. His fingers dig deeper into my hips, guiding me, urging me faster. I ride him harder; my nipples are tight and aching. He leans forward and catches one in his mouth, sucking hard, teeth grazing just enough to make me cry out.

It makes me lean forward, brace my hands on his shoulder, and ride him with abandon, grinding down on every stroke so my clit rubs against his pelvis. The pleasure coils tighter and tighter in my belly until I’m shaking, thighs burning, moaning his name like a prayer.

“Ricci… Oh God… Ricci…”

Suddenly his control snaps completely. His hands clamp down on my hips, holding me in place as he starts ramming up into me — hard, fast, relentless. The angle change means he hits that perfect spot inside me with every powerful stroke. He fucks me like he’s trying to claim every inch of me, like he wants to erase every bad memory of Salvatore and replace it with him. The couch creaks dangerously beneath us. My breasts bounce with every brutal thrust. Sweat slicks our skin.

I come first: hard and shattering, my walls clamping down around him like a vice as the orgasm rips through me. I scream his name, back arching, body shaking violently in his lap. He keeps thrusting through it, drawing it out, prolonging every wave until I’m gasping and sobbing with overstimulation.

Then he follows.

He buries himself deep with a guttural groan, his cock pulsing inside me and jets his hot and thick seed deep inside me. The thought of his seed deep inside me pushes me into another smaller, shuddering aftershock. We stay locked together, trembling, breathing raggedly into each other’s mouths.

I collapse against his chest, boneless and spent, his arms wrapped tight around me. His heart hammers against my ear, the sound strong and steady. I can still feel him inside me, softening but not ready to slip out yet. And in that moment, wrapped around him, feeling him still inside me, I realize I’m falling.

Hard.

And I’m not sure I want to stop.

Chapter Forty-Five

RICCI

Afew days later…

I’m driving back from downtown, the city lights smearing across the windshield like wet paint, when it hits me. That heavy, restless pull in my chest that hasn’t let up for days. I know what it is now. I’m not pretending anymore.

I’m falling in love with her.

Probably already fallen.

The thought should scare the shit out of me. Love has never been part of my world. Survival, power, blood — those are the only things I’ve ever let myself want. But Viola, with her fragile face and enormous hurt eyes, scared to trust but wanting to, she’s changing everything without even trying.

For the first time ever, I’ve become really worried about the future. Not mine, but ours. In my mind’s eye, I see her laughing in the kitchen, her body melting against me on the couch, the soft, unguarded look in her innocent eyes when she thought I wasn’t watching. I want her exactly like that: happy and safe. Not just for now, but for good. I want to build something real for both of us. A life where she can throw away that cool mask forever. Where she can ride horses, play with clay, and laugh with our children. A life without looking over her shoulder in fear. Where no one can touch her again.

I used to only think about myself. What I needed and wanted. Now I need to look much farther ahead. I need to make sure this world doesn’t destroy the one good thing that life has given me. My hands tighten on the wheel as I make the turn toward SoHo without deciding to. Leonardo’s place is the only spot I can go to right now.

The restaurant is already winding down when I pull up. The big front windows are darkened, and only a few low lights are still on inside. I kill the engine and step out into the cool night air, the faint smell of rain and exhaust mixing with the warm scent of food drifting from the kitchen vents. Before I even reach the door, one of the waiters spots me through the glass and hurries outside, wiping his hands on a white towel.

“Mr. Santori,” he says, respectful but a little nervous. “We’re just about to close, but I’ll let the Chef know you’re here and I’m sure he’ll be happy to rustle up something delicious for you.”

I shake my head. “I’m not here to eat. Please tell him I’m out back.”

He disappears inside. A minute later the heavy wooden door swings open and Leonardo steps out, still in his chef whites, sleeves rolled high, a pristine-white dish towel slung over one shoulder. His face breaks into that same easy grin he’s had since we were kids sharing a bunk in a home.

“Ricci,” he calls, voice warm with surprise. “What’s up?”

“Need to talk to you,” I reply.

Leonardo turns toward the back entrance and raises his voice just enough to carry through the open doors. “Okay, everyone go home,” he calls out; the words carry the kind of command that comes from years of running this place. “I’ll lock up. See you guys tomorrow.”