Chapter 43
Chapter Forty-Three
RICCI
Iknow everyone has a million and one questions about us.
A widow marrying her dead husband’s second-in-command five seconds after his funeral is the biggest surprise our world has seen in years.
I don’t have to answer them, of course. I’m the new Don.
No one dares ask me directly. But Viola will bear the brunt of their curiosity.
There might be… no, there will be a whole load of jealousy coming her way too.
She’s going to need protecting. I think back to how I sent her to Salvatore’s house earlier today with no security at all and a cold shudder runs down my spine.
How careless I was.
The realization is bitter in my gut. I should have known better.
I should have sent more men, should have made sure Mario couldn’t get within ten feet of her.
The bruise on her arm is proof of how badly I fucked up.
No matter how hard I try, I cannot get the image of his dark fingerprints pressed into her pale skin.
One day into our marriage and I already failed her.
Underneath my rage is something worse: guilt.
Guilt that I didn’t see the danger she is.
I can’t be careless with her again. Not ever.
She’s the only thing in this rotten world that is worth protecting with everything I have.
But I must do it in a way that doesn’t suffocate her.
She’s spent years in a cage — cold, beautiful, and lonely. I won’t become another lock on the door. I won’t turn her new life into another prison, no matter how much the thought of her being vulnerable twists something violent inside my chest.
I set my fork down slowly and look at her. “I’m assigning a few extra men for your safety,” I say softly. I am careful not to make it sound like an order.
She looks up, those green eyes searching mine like she’s trying to read what’s behind my words. There’s a flicker of hesitation in her face.
“They won’t be with you constantly,” I continue, keeping my tone even. “They’ll stay in the shadows, just backup if you need it. Everything is still so new… it won’t hurt to be careful.”
She considers the prospect quietly. I watch her fingers trace the rim of her wine glass, and the small furrow between her brows. Then she nods.
“Thank you,” she says softly.
That simple gratitude from her settles deep inside me. And deep inside me, I feel it bloom. It is only one flower, but it is the most beautiful flower in the world.
We stand up together and clear the table.
We load the dishwasher side by side. The domestic rhythm of the clink of dishes, the warm water running, and the faint scent of lemon soap feels so normal it almost makes me smile.
When the last dish is in, we both turn at the same time and lean against the counter, staring out at the apartment together.
The silence is comfortable. The city hums far below us, a distant, living pulse.
“So,” she says, tilting her head and looking sideways at me. “What do you do for fun around here?”
I laugh. “I’m seldom here, and when I am, I come only to sleep,” I admit, shrugging my shoulders. “So this is a first for me as well.”
She smiles at that. And I decide I want to know her, the real her, the one who existed before the world of made-men and dirty money swallowed her whole. I want to know the dreams she had before everything was taken from her, before she learned to hide behind her wall of ice.
I grab a new bottle of wine and two fresh glasses in one hand, and hold out the other to her. She takes it without hesitation, her fingers sliding into mine like they belong there. I pull her with me over to the couch.
We settle in next to each other on the deep leather.
She watches me as I open the bottle with a soft pop and pour the deep red wine into the glasses.
I hand her one. Then I tug her legs gently over my thighs so she’s half-draped across my lap, close enough that I can feel the warmth of her body through our clothes.
I take a slow sip of my drink, and ask the question that’s been sitting in the back of my mind since the day I first saw her.
“Before you married Salvatore,” I say quietly, “what were your plans? What did you want to do?”