Chapter 58
Chapter Fifty-Eight
VIOLA
Istill can’t stop thinking about that night.
I’m at the studio wheel, the familiar hum of it spinning beneath my hands, but my mind is miles away.
Back in our bedroom, back to when that blood-red dress had pooled at my feet.
My concentration lapses and my fingers press into the clay a little too hard, and the side of the mug collapses.
Again. I sigh, scrape it off, and start over for what feels like the tenth time today.
I want this one to be perfect for him. Something distinctive, something that feels like him.
I’ve thrown so many versions already, each one destroyed because it didn’t quite capture what I’m trying to say.
The clay is cool and slick under my palms when my mind wanders again, and I remember the way he’d looked at me in the mirror when he fastened the necklace around my neck.
Such raw, awed hunger in his eyes. His fingers had trembled just slightly against my skin.
The hard press of his cock against my back, already thick and ready.
It makes heat bloom between my legs even now.
How he’d dropped to his knees behind me, kissing the backs of my thighs, the curve of my ass, his mouth so hot and sexual it had made me shake.
Then later… God, the way he’d taken me all over the bed.
I tried, but I couldn’t hold on. His forehead was pressed to mine while I fell apart beneath him.
I know now that I’m not just falling for him: I’m falling hard. The feelings run deep. So deep they scare me. My heart races every single evening when I know he’s coming home for dinner. I find myself glancing at the clock, counting down the minutes, my stomach fluttering like a schoolgirl’s.
It’s kinda terrifying, because I told myself I wouldn’t let this happen.
I swore this relationship would stay a contract, body only, easy to walk away from when the time came.
But how could I help it? I’ve never been happier.
Not once in my life. I love the feel of the clay, the quiet focus, the way it lets me create something that’s truly mine, but the truth is I can’t wait to go home the second I’m done.
I want to see that rare, real smile he saves only for me.
I want to feel his arms around me again.
I finish the mug. A simple, sturdy shape with a subtle swirl in the clay.
Setting it carefully on the tray, I carry it over to the kiln attendant.
As soon as it’s loaded, I wash up quickly, grab my bag, and head home.
It’s a little earlier than usual, but I want to have a special dinner ready for when he walks through the door.
I’m halfway through chopping vegetables when I hear the elevator ding.
My knife pauses mid-slice, the blade hovering over the bright red pepper on the cutting board.
My heart jumps, a quick flutter that makes my breath catch.
He’s early. Really early. Usually, he doesn’t walk through the door until later, sometimes much later.
I wipe my hands quickly on the dish towel hanging from the oven handle, and step out of the kitchen, confusion and a sliver of fear twisting in my chest.
Is everything okay?
Did something happen at work?
I round the corner just as the elevator doors slide open, and Ricci steps into the penthouse with something bundled carefully in his arms. Something small and alive, wriggling gently beneath the dark fabric of his suit jacket.
I freeze in the middle of the living room, my bare feet suddenly rooted to the cool wood floor. My brow furrows. What on earth…?
He walks closer, the late evening light from the tall windows catching the handsome lines of his face, and the bundle moves again.
A tiny pink nose pokes out first, followed by a pair of enormous, floppy ears that twitch with curiosity.
My breath catches hard in my throat, a soft, surprised sound escaping before I can stop it.
A puppy. He brought home a puppy!
A little grey pitbull — all soft wrinkles and clumsy paws, and the sweetest pink nose I’ve ever seen.
The contrast is almost comical: this tiny, wriggling ball of life tucked against the chest of one of the most dangerous Mafia bosses in New York.
The puppy’s head tilts, big dark eyes blinking up at me with pure, innocent trust, and something deep inside my chest cracks wide open. Love. It is love at first sight.
It hits me so hard my knees actually feel weak for a second.
I have to reach out and steady myself on the back of the couch.
It reminds me instantly of the little dog I once secretly saved in the old house, the one I hid in the stables at night, the one I nursed back to health with stolen scraps and quiet visits when no one was looking.
I loved that dog so much. Still do. The memory floods me all at once: the way that little boy would press his warm body against mine, the soft wet nose nudging my hand, the quiet comfort it gave me in a world that offered none.
Seeing this puppy now, safe and wriggling in Ricci’s arms, makes something deep and aching bloom in my chest, a bright, painful rush of joy and longing I wasn’t prepared for.
“Is it… for me?” I ask, my voice cracking on the last word, barely more than a whisper.
He nods, that rare, soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips — the one he saves only for me, the one that makes the hard lines of his face soften in a way that always steals my breath.
I hurry over, tears already spilling down my cheeks before I can stop them.
The puppy wriggles excitedly as I reach for it, tiny paws scrambling against Ricci’s jacket, and I take it gently into my arms. It’s fat and yet so small.
The warm little body vibrates with happy energy against my chest. Its fur is soft and velvety under my fingers, and those big dark eyes look up at me with such pure, open trust that my heart feels like it might burst. I laugh through the tears, the sound shaky and bright and completely unstoppable.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, half-laughing, half-crying. “Look at you. You’re so cute.”
The puppy licks my cheek, a clumsy, enthusiastic swipe of its tiny, warm tongue, and I laugh again, louder this time, the joy bubbling up so fast it almost hurts.