Chapter 2
Chapter Two
RICCI
-I’ve been loving you too long-
Contempt coils in my gut as they file out in somber silence, their footsteps muffled on the plush Persian rug.
I watch them go—treacherous Don Moretti with his thick silver hair and perpetual scowl, shifty Bianchi slinking out like the untrustworthy weasel he is, and the others, less remarkable, but the rest of the old-school bosses from the five families and their most trusted consiglieres.
Their luxury hand-tailored suits cannot hide the rot beneath.
I see them for what they are: relics, dinosaurs clinging to power with arthritic fingers.
Once I was dismissed as just a street rat, but today they have been forced to kiss my cheek and hand over the keys to the old Greco’s kingdom.
My penthouse in the Upper East Side has finally become the seat of the throne today.
The door clicks shut behind the last of them; the sound rings joyously through the cavernous living room.
Immediately, I turn away and walk towards the floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the glittering sprawl of Manhattan below. The sun has dipped low, painting the Hudson River in streaks of orange and gold, and made the skyline a jagged silhouette of steel and ambition.
A smile tugs at my lips, slow and satisfied, as I press a hand against the cool glass.
Five years... Five insufferably long years…
Many times, countless times, I thought I wouldn’t make it.
God, the savagery of it all crushed me. Lying through gritted teeth in smoke-filled back rooms, cheating death in alleyways where the air reeked of garbage and gunpowder, killing men whose faces still haunt my nightmares.
Living on my wits. Every day was a chess game where one wrong move meant a bullet to the head.
Endless manipulation, pulling strings like a puppet master, dancing like a puppet myself, outfoxing rivals who thought they were untouchable... it was endless and intolerable.
The memories flood in unbidden, sharp as a knife edge.
I feel the ghost of that bullet lodged in my side from two years back, the one the docs couldn't fully remove.
It aches now, a dull throb under my shirt as if recalling the fight.
Flashes hit me: the crack of gunfire in a warehouse down by the docks, the metallic tang of blood in my mouth after a brawl, the cold sweat of near misses when plans teetered on collapse.
Risks that could've ended me a thousand times over.
I know I can never wash away the blood on my hands or my soul.
But I proved my worth, didn't I?
Outsmarted them all, turned their schemes against them. And now... now I’ve realized it. The goal that's burned in my veins like whiskey fire.
I've claimed the crown. I am the new Godfather. Head of the powerful Greco Mafia. Accepted by the heads of the other families. The authority of the title surges through me, heady and electric, making my pulse quicken. No more waiting in the shadow of the second-in-command.
I'm the Don now.
But the thrill of triumph fades as my thoughts shift to the funeral.
Salvatore's body has just been released from the morgue, after the cops poked around just enough to pretend they cared.
The funeral will be at St. Patrick's Old Cathedral, that Gothic pile in Nolita where so many of our kind have been laid to rest. They keep the air in there thick with incense so the mourners in their black Gucci and Armani can pretend heaven exists for them all.
I'll go, of course. Play the respectful successor, shake hands, murmur condolences.
But… my main concern will be her. My mind quiets, and the city view blurs as her image replaces every other thought.
Viola.
Dio, just thinking her name sends a jolt through me.
I picture her as I've seen her so many times—riding that sleek Arabian mare across the estate's fields, her hair whipping in the wind like golden silk, her slim buttocks and legs gripping the stallion's flanks with a grace that makes my blood run hot. I'm rock hard just from that one memory.
Desire twists like a cut snake in my gut.
Aground, she's breathtaking, a cool beauty that could bring men to their knees, but on horseback...
Christ, she's wild, untamed, a fierce goddess.
It is almost as if she would kill for that freedom, or so it seems in those stolen moments I've watched from afar.
Our eyes have met sometimes. Across rooms, across dinner events, but she only looks at me the same way she does everyone else: like there's an impenetrable wall of ice between her and the world.
No flicker of any emotion, certainly no warmth. She never shows any reaction.
I've never seen that wall crack, not once. Ever.
Tomorrow, at her dead husband's funeral, it'll be the same, I am certain.
No tears staining those green eyes, no tremble to those tightly held lips.
I'll watch her surreptitiously, stealing glances amid the sea of black veils and gloomy faces.
I've always been careful—Salvatore was suspicious of everything and everyone. His paranoia was like a shadow that choked the air in every room he was in. But now, he’s gone, and I'm the boss.
I can have my fill of her sight, drink in every detail without his beady eyes noticing.
So many times, I've wanted to talk to her, to comfort her, to shatter that facade and see the woman beneath.
But I knew. I would not be risking my neck, but hers as well.
So, she remained under ice. Never breaking free.
Not even when she had that miscarriage six months ago.
I'd been sure it would break her, that even her iron control would snap.
But my spies reported: nothing. Not a single tear, no sign of sadness, just...
the same impassive stare. Blank as a marble statue.
I've never seen her laugh, either—not a real one, not the kind that lights up a face and echoes in one’s soul.
Does she even know how to? I wonder. She must have smiled before the cold, ugly bastard sucked all the life out of her, leaving only this shell.
Maybe now that Salvatore is gone, I’ll finally get to see the real her.
A shaft of fear pierces my chest.
It is sharper than any fear I’ve felt before.
As the new Godfather, protecting her won't be easy.
Everyone knows Salvatore bought her from her father and kept her almost a prisoner.
It was clear the cool beauty did not love him, and she's now fair game and available for the taking.
A prized ornament that can be claimed to decorate their own lives as Salvatore had done before them.
They will believe it will be first come, first-served.
And tomorrow as her husband is buried... the wolves will start circling.
And many want her.
The worst is Mario, Salvatore’s eldest son from his first marriage.
I’ve seen the greedy gleam in his eyes when he thinks no one's watching. He devours her with his gaze. It’s lust and no heart.
He is a brute, and I detest him. Spoiled and selfish, filled with his father's cruelty, but none of the cunning.
Given half the chance, he will brutalize her.
There are others, too—dodgy men without conscience, lieutenants, and rivals.
My fists clench at my sides, and the glass fogs under my heated breath. I swear to myself, right there with the city lights flickering to life below, that none of them will lay a finger on her.
No one touches what's mine—and she's been mine since the very first glance. But… she’ll have to come to me. She’ll have to reach out first. I’ll have to find a way to make her need me.