Page 8 of The New Godfather

“What do you need to talk to me about?” I ask, forcing my tone to stay cool, measured, even though my pulse is hammering so hard I can feel it rushing in my temples. “I have matters to handle.”

“Not from what I’ve heard,” he says, that sly smile spreading wider as he moves away toward the crystal decanter of Salvatore’s favorite Scottish whisky, specially smuggled in just for him. Mario pours himself a generous measure, the amber liquid glugging against the glass. He takes a long sip from the half-full glass and comes to perch at the edge of the coffee table directly opposite me. Our knees almost touch. He is close enough that I smell the peat smoke on his breath.

He takes another slow sip, eyes never leaving mine, savoring both the whisky and his new raw power. “I know that my father left nothing for you. Not a red cent. And I think that is tragic. A beautiful woman must always have lots of money. You see, I understand the need for hairdressers, designer clothes, jewelry, handbags, shoes. So … I have very good news for you. I wanted to reassure you that I don’t want to kick you out of this house as it belongs to me now, and I want you to have the same allowance my father gave you, Viola.”

His eyes devour me as he speaks, sliding down my body again, hungry and blatant, stripping me bare without laying a finger on me.

Everything about him sickens me. I was right; he is worse than his father. Not even the decency of a slime ball. I’d rather die than lay with him. I’ve seen his girlfriends over the years, make-up caked on to hide their black eyes, bruises ringing their wrists like bracelets.

I don’t let my shock at his proposition show. I keep my composure locked down tight, the same mask I’ve worn for years. “I’m your father’s widow,” I say quietly, the words measured, deliberate. “You’re really willing to go there?”

“Why not?” He laughs softly, a low guttural sound that makes my stomach turn. “Keeping it in the family is always the best policy. It’s the way it’s been done from time immemorial. The Mongols, for instance—the successor would claim his father’s widows to keep the bloodline and the power intact. It’s tradition.” He leans in a little more, elbows resting on his knees, whisky glass dangling loosely between his fingers. “I’m sure my father would be more than glad, looking down on us right now, knowing that his most delicious asset will be well cared for.” His voice drops, intimate, coaxing. “You’ll be comfortable and protected. And most importantly, you’ll be safe because I can’t guarantee your safety once you leave this house. Many widows in your position have met with violent deaths.”

Real fear races up my spine, cold and sharp as a blade, but I keep my expression fixed. I have to get out of here before I betray myself.

I stand up slowly, legs steady even though my heart is racing so hard it feels like it might crack a rib. I force a polite smile. “Thank you for your offer. It is a good offer, and I will give it the consideration it deserves before I get back to you with my answer.”

I nod and turn away. With my back to him, I feel caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. I can’t go back to my father’s house—he’d sell me again in a heartbeat, trade me for another debt cleared. But I sure as hell can’t live under Mario’s so-called protection. And I can’t just be a normal woman who goes out, gets a job, and starts again, because neither of these monsters will allow me to do it. So, what the hell am I going to do?

The echo of his voice still lingered in my mind—oily, entitled, the smug certainty that I had nowhere else to go. It made my skin crawl, made me want to scrub myself raw just to get rid of the memory of his gaze sliding over me like I was already his.

I hurry out of the study before he can say anything else. As soon as the door shuts behind me my tears of frustration and anger spill over. They come hot and fast, blurring the hallway lights into streaks. I realize too late that I left my sunglasses on the table inside. Shit. Before anyone can see the mess of my face, I rush forward—straight into a broad, rock-hard chest.

The impact nearly knocks me off my feet, my breath punching out in a sharp gasp. Strong hands catch my arms instantly, steadying me, fingers warm and firm through the thin sleeves of my dress. I don’t want to be caught like this by any man, not now, not when I’m falling apart at the seams. I mumble a quick apology, my voice thick with emotion, and try to pull away, to keep moving toward my room, toward any place I can hide.

But the arms don’t budge. They hold me inescapably, thumbs brushing the insides of my elbows in a touch that’s almost caring.

I’m forced to look up.

I stare straight into the glittering whiskey eyes of Ricci Santori.

Chapter Eight

RICCI

The moment she slams into me, everything else ceases to exist. My world shrinks to the exact point of impact—her slim body crashing against my chest, the exhale of startled surprise that rushes out of her, the instinctive way her fingers curl into the lapels of my suit jacket like she knows she has reached a safe harbor. I catch her arms without thinking, my hands closing around the silk sleeves of her black dress. I hold her steady, firm enough to keep her upright but careful, always careful with her.

Then I see the tears swimming in her eyes.

As I watch, they start spilling freely down her pale cheeks. Her green eyes are wide, glassy, rimmed with red, and the raw vulnerability in them hits me like a fist.

I’ve watched her for years—across crowded rooms at family gatherings, from the shadows of the estate’s gardens, during those rare moments when our paths crossed in the halls; she has always been icy. Untouchable. Perfectly composed. That mask never slipped, not once. Not when Salvatore barked orders at her in front of everyone, not when she stood alone at the edges of parties, not even when the rumors of her miscarriage circulated like poison through the clan. Nothing ever cracked her.

But right now, she’s shattering right in front of me. My heart actually stops beating for a long, agonizing second.

The ostentatious marble hallway around us, the imported crystal sconces throwing warm pools of light across the walls, the distant murmur of voices from the reception, fade until there’s only the sound of her uneven breathing and the thunder of my own pulse in my ears.

I’m not sure where I was going a minute ago. I just knew I saw her leave the main room with Mario trailing too close behind, his hand hovering near the small of her back like he already owned the right to touch her, and I lost my mind.

I know exactly what kind of beast he can be. He kept the worst of it leashed while his father was alive, but now the old man is in the ground, he thinks Salvatore’s kingdom is now his playground. He hasn’t understood that without his father, he has become nothing. None of the other heads respects him. And I’m on to him. He is an open book to me. I know what he’ll try. But I’m ready for him. In fact, I’ve been waiting for him to make a move, watching for the moment he slips the leash. I have an idea what form it will take, but I’m not going to risk my theories on her skin. So, I followed, moving silent as a shadow through the corridors. If he laid a finger on her, I’d end him. No hesitation. No witnesses. Just clean.

A good kind of violence.

When he closed the door of Salvatore’s study, I wanted to barge in, but I clenched my teeth and held back. I knew then he was not going to do anything to her in the place where his father humiliated and berated him all his life.

But here she is minutes later, white as a ghost, trembling like a fucking leaf, and blind with tears. An uncontrollable rage surges up from that black place inside me. Everything becomes black, making my vision tunnel until all I see is the study door behind her. I’m ready to kill. Right now. Right here in this hallway. I can already feel my hands closing around Mario’s skinny throat, squeezing until his eyes bulge with shock and remorse for daring to make her cry just before his life drains out of him.

“What did he do to you?” The words come out quiet, cold and lethal—because that is the only way I can stop myself from roaring.