Page 60 of The New Godfather

“Ricci Santori,” she whispers.

The way she says my name — soft, intimate, like it belongs to her now — does something crazy to me. I put the lid down on the counter carefully and reach for her, pulling her to me by the waist, and kiss her again. But this time it’s completely different. It’s urgent. It’s hungry. It’s devouring. It’s primitive. It’s pure madness.

I’m going fucking crazy!

Her hands slide up my chest, fingers curling into my shirt, and for a moment we both forget everything else. Her soft body presses into mine. I back her against the counter, my hands sliding down to grip her hips. I can feel her breath hitch against my mouth. The kiss goes on and on. My cock is hard and ready.

Suddenly, the pot behind her starts to sizzle, the smell shifting from ‘I’m delicious, eat me’ to ‘fuck I’m really burning here’.

She pulls away with a shocked gasp, eyes wide. “Oh shit. The food!”

She is laughing as she grabs the pan and moves it off the heat. I stand there, watching her, heart still racing, my cock throbbing, a slow grin tugging at my mouth.

This. This is exactly where I want to be.

Forever.

Chapter Fifty-Six

VIOLA

It’s the night of the gala. I stand in front of the full-length mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back.

The dress is blood-red, floor-length, and off-the-shoulder, the silk falling like liquid over my body. It clings in all the right places and drapes beautifully everywhere else, the color so deep and rich it looks almost dangerous under the soft bedroom lights. I spent almost an hour wrestling my hair into an updo, but it’s already rebelling. Loose tendrils have already escaped from around my face and neck, curling softly against my skin. I try to tuck one back, but it slips free again. I give up. It’s just going to have to be like this.

Back in the bad old days, I never had to lift a finger to get dressed. Stylists would arrive, maids would zip, and pin, and adjust, and I would stand there like a doll while they turned me into whatever Salvatore wanted me to be that night.

Tonight, I did everything myself. I don’t look as perfect as they could make me look, but at least this is me. The real me. At least I chose this dress, this hairstyle, this make-up.

I smooth my hands down the silk.

Truth is: I really, really, really don’t want to go.

None of them cares about the children’s hospital. Not really.

They just want an opportunity to show off, to preen in their designer gowns, to gossip and tear each other apart behind pretty smiles and perfectly manicured nails. I already know exactly what they think of me. I know they gossiped about me constantly, and now that I’ve married Ricci, they call me a slut. They say I jumped from one powerful man to the next before my husband was even cold in the ground. The whispers have probably been growing sharper and nastier with every retelling. But really, they’re just jealous. Every single one of them would give their right hand to be married to Ricci. They want what I have. The power, the status, and the man himself.

And that jealousy makes them vicious.

They made sure not to ask for the check. I wish they had. I’d rather just write a cheque and be done with it. Something generous enough to make the hospital happy and keep my name out of their mouths. I know Ricci couldn’t be bothered whether we went or not. He’s never once tried to control me the way Salvatore did. But I want to support him. Even if it’s only by standing at his side and looking the part. Even if it’s uncomfortable. Even if every step I take tonight will feel like walking back into a world I thought I’d escaped.

A knock sounds on the door.

My heart gives a little jump, the way it always does when I know it’s him. I call out, my voice a touch unsteady, “Come in.”

The door opens, and Ricci steps inside.

The sight of him steals the breath right out of my lungs.

He’s in a luxurious black tuxedo, perfectly tailored, the fabric caressing his broad shoulders and narrow waist. Why wouldn’t it? It was made for him alone. His dark hair is brushed back from his clean-shaven face. He towers. Like a general. Or a king who could command a room with a glance. Even back when I was Salvatore’s wife, my breath used to catch every time I saw him dressed like this. Back then the feeling never went beyond how devastatingly good he looked in a tux. Now it’s different. So different.

A fire ignites in my belly, sudden and fierce. Then he was a stranger. Now he is mine. And all I can think about is peeling that tux off of him. Slowly, deliberately, inch by inch. I think of me pushing him down onto the bed, climbing on top of him, and taking exactly what I want. The image is so vivid it makes me wet under the silk, heat blooming hot and urgent between my legs.

He stands in the doorway, eyes locking on me.

For a long moment neither of us speaks.

The silence stretches, thick and electric, the only sound the faint hum of the city far below the windows. I feel exposed under his gaze, but in the best possible way. My fingers twitch at my sides, and I have to fight the urge to reach up and smooth the unruly loose tendrils at my neck.