Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
VIOLA
Ipress my fingers gently over the spot through the sleeve of my t-shirt where Mario grabbed me and feel the heat of the forming bruise. It’s a brand I never asked for.
I close my eyes for a second and force the memory of his furious, pain-filled eyes away.
I’m never going back there. Never. That chapter is finished.
The gates, the cold marble halls, the way the house always smelled of cigar smoke and suspicion — all of it belongs to the past now.
I’m safe here. I’m free. I’ll never have to look at Mario’s face again.
I stare out at the Manhattan skyline, the lights glittering like scattered diamonds against the darkening sky.
The view is beautiful, almost unreal, and for a moment it feels like the only thing anchoring me.
This place is surprisingly warm in a way that Salvatore’s grand estate never was.
The leather beneath me is soft, the blanket I pulled over my body smells faintly of cedar and something clean.
It reminds me of Ricci. I let myself breathe into it, trying to push the stables out of my mind completely.
Then the elevator pings.
And the sound slices through the quiet like a knife.
My heart lurches hard against my ribs. I sit up straight, every muscle locking tight.
For one terrifying second, a crazy thought fills my head.
Mario must have followed me. He’s found out where I live, and he’s here.
I’m already calculating — the kitchen knife, the phone, how fast I can reach the panic button Ricci showed me this morning. My breath comes short and shallow.
Then I realize it can’t be Mario, but purely on instinct, I sprint to my feet, the blanket sliding to the floor. My pulse is racing so fast I can hear it in my ears. My eyes stay fixed on the elevator doors like they might explode open any second. The doors slide open with a soft whoosh.
Of course, it’s not Mario.
It’s Ricci.
He steps into the foyer, tall and broad in a dark suit.
His whiskey-gold eyes find me immediately, and the relief hits me so hard it knocks the strength right out of my legs.
My knees actually buckle. I fall back on the couch, a shaky breath rushing out of me.
The panic drains away so fast it leaves me dizzy, like I’ve been holding my breath for hours and can finally let go.
He sees it all. The fall, the tremble I can’t hide. His expression changes in an instant. Concern darkens his gaze, his jaw tightening with something fierce and protective.
“Viola…” he calls, his voice low and urgent. He moves toward me fast, long strides eating up the space between us.
I try to speak, try to tell him I’m fine, but the words stick.
My throat closes up. I am so embarrassed, furious at myself for falling apart the second he walks in.
I should have better control than this. I always did before.
But the warmth in his eyes, the way he’s looking at me like …
like he cares. It undoes something deep inside me.
He comes to a stop in front of me. “Are you okay?” he asks softly, like he’s afraid to spook me.
I nod quickly. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine,” I whisper, but my voice cracks and gives me away. I wonder where my spine went. Where the cool, guarded woman I’ve spent years perfecting disappeared to. I feel small and exposed and stupidly grateful all at once.
His voice softens even more, low and gentle. “Did he hurt you?” A pause “Tell me what he did, and I’ll take care of it.”
The words break me open.
No one has ever asked. Not like this. Not with that quiet promise behind them, like my pain matters enough to be fixed.
No one has ever cared enough to offer. The tears I’ve been fighting spill over for real now, hot and fast, blurring the sharp lines of his face.
I try to stop them. I really do, pressing my lips together, swallowing hard, but it’s useless.
The betrayal, the loneliness, the years of being invisible in that house… it all surges up at once.
So suddenly I don’t even perceive it as movement, Ricci pulls me into his arms, one hand sliding to the back of my head while the other wraps around my waist. His embrace is warm and solid, and his chest is broad against my cheek.
I hear his heartbeat steady under my ear.
He holds me quietly, no rush, no demands.
Just steady warmth and the faint brush of his fingers through my hair, petting me like I’m a small, frightened animal.
I let it all out.
The sobs come quiet at first, then deeper, shaking my whole body.
I cry for the girl who was sold into a loveless marriage, for the years I spent frozen and invisible, for the terrible hate in Mario’s eyes.
I cry because no one ever asked if I was okay until this man, this supposedly dangerous, merciless beast of a man, walked in and made it the first thing he wanted to know.
Ricci doesn’t speak. He just holds me tightly, chin resting on top of my head, his breathing slow and even as if he can anchor me with his calm.
I cry forever, my tears soaking into his shirt. Safe. I feel safe with him in a way I’ve never felt with anyone. The realization settles deep in my bones, warm and wonderful all at once.
The sobs are finally spent. I am sure my eyes are swollen, my face is a mess, and I should be mortified by my involuntary ugly-cry on the second night of our marriage, but I look up at him anyway.
Our gazes meet, and something melts inside my chest. He is suddenly the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.
His dark hair falls slightly across his forehead.
The hard line of his jaw is softened with concern, and there is real warmth in his eyes.
I’m struck dumb by it. My pulse flutters with nerves.
Self-consciously, I push away gently, wiping at my cheeks.
He smiles. It’s just a quirk of his lips, but it’s real, the kind that reaches all the way to his eyes. “Thank goodness I came home,” he says quietly. “I must make sure to come home early more often.”
I manage a shaky smile back, the warmth of it spreading through me despite the tears still drying on my skin.
“Are you hungry?” I ask, voice still a little hoarse but steadier now. I need to do something normal, something useful. “I can make you something.”
He smiles, small and real, the kind that reaches all the way to his eyes and softens every sharp line of his face. “Let me feed you instead,” he says, his voice low and deep. “You must try my famous grilled cheese and tomato soup.”
I feel a flash of sadness. Grilled cheese and tomato soup is the kind of simple, comforting meal a kid with almost nothing would learn to make perfectly.
Something hot and filling that tastes like home even when you have none.
The thought of the new Don of the Greco house of crime offering to cook something so ordinary and personal for me makes a strange sensation bloom in my chest.
“Do you need a second Chef’s services?” I ask.
He nods gravely. “Yes… but first, we need to source the ingredients. A trip to the store is in order.”
I can tell he wants to distract me, to gently pull me out of the storm clouds around me.
He’s trying to give me something normal to do, and I’m so moved by it I can barely speak.
Grocery shopping. With him. The idea feels so ordinary and strangely intimate at the same time that my chest aches with a sweet kind of warmth.
I can’t even believe this is my life now.
I nod immediately. “Do you want me to check what we already have? The fridge is pretty stocked…”
“No,” he says firmly, shaking his head. “The woman who stocks my fridge and pantry knows nothing about the kind of cuisine I’m talking about. We need to buy poor people’s food for my dish.” He pauses, then adds with a small, almost boyish smile, “Besides, I haven’t been to the store in years.”
“Me too,” I admit, the confession slipping out soft and honest.
His smile deepens, eyes warm on mine, the whiskey gold catching the late afternoon light streaming through the windows. “Then this will be the perfect date for us.”
The words settle over me like a soft blanket, simple and sweet. I feel my cheeks warm as a flush creeps up my neck, but I don’t look away. For the first time in a long time, I don’t want to hide.