Chapter 3
Chapter Three
VIOLA
-my love-
The air hangs heavy with the scent of fresh earth and the cloyingly sweet perfume of an overabundance of white lilies.
I stand at the edge of the graveside gathering in Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx, where old-money mobsters like Salvatore get their eternal plots amid marble angels, ornate stone crypts, and manicured lawns.
Gray clouds scud across the sky, threatening rain but holding back for now, casting a muted light that makes everything feel washed out, unreal.
I've pulled on oversized dark sunglasses so no one can see my eyes. It seems appropriate to hide my total lack of grief. Also, it lets me scan the crowd without them knowing. And God, what a circus it is. You’d think the governor died, not some paranoid kingpin.
Rows of black-clad mourners stretch out—the bosses in tailored Brioni suits, their wives dripping in diamonds, and everyone whispering deals behind fake solemn nods.
They're here to pay respects, sure, but really to connect, to curry favor with whoever's next in line. No one gives a damn about the mahogany coffin waiting to be lowered into that yawning hole. What a farce? I don't care, though. May he rot in hell. I’m celebrating the thought that this is the last time, the absolute last, I’ll have to perform as his dutiful wife.
The ceremony kicks off officially when the priest steps forward in his black robes and starts intoning the final rites in droning Latin.
A hush falls over the crowd as everyone turns their focus to the gleaming coffin.
Then comes the time for Salvatore to be lowered into the earth.
I step forward on numb legs, and scoop up a fistful of cool, dry earth.
I can feel the grit between my fingers as I let it fall.
Goodbye, you piece of shit. The words feel satisfyingly revengeful in my mind.
A tiny smile tugs at my lips, but I hide it quickly, pressing my mouth into a thin line.
Why shouldn’t I be happy? The noose around my neck has finally been untied.
One by one, the rest of Salvatore’s family steps up—his horrible son, his sobbing mother, distant cousins, lieutenants.
They all toss in handfuls of soil, the dirt pattering down like rain.
The ceremony drags on a bit longer, more prayers, before it finally winds down.
The crowd shifts restlessly as the priest closes his book.
I keep my expression icy, so no one approaches me. I don’t need any condolences or curious glances beyond the obligatory nods. I just want to go back to the estate, shed this suffocating dress, and figure out what comes next.
I spot Maria, our housekeeper, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, her plump face streaked with genuine tears.
She's been with the family forever, loyal to a fault, so I understand her pain.
I fall into step beside her, and together we begin to head toward the line of sleek black limousines idling on the winding cemetery road, their engines purring softly.
We're almost there when a voice calls out, "Mrs. Greco."
Ugh… that name. I turn. It's the family lawyer, Bonafanti—short and balding, in a pinstriped suit that reveals his old-school Italian roots. His gold pinky ring glints as he hurries over.
Maria glances at me, then at him, and murmurs something about waiting in the car before slipping away, leaving us alone amid the scattering crowd. A mix of dread and anticipation twists in my chest. I've been avoiding this conversation all week—everything from this moment hinges on what he says.
What did Salvatore leave me? Or more likely, what didn't he?
"Viola, my dear," he starts, his voice smooth as olive oil. He offers a sympathetic pat on my arm, but it lingers a few seconds too long. "My deepest condolences. What a great loss. Your late husband was... a force. A real force.”
I note his use of my first name but keep my expression blank. "Thank you, Mr. Bonafanti.”
He glances around, his beady eyes darting over the thinning crowd of mourners drifting toward their cars.
Then he clears his throat as if he's rehearsing the words in his head one last time.
The air feels thicker now, charged with something unspoken, and I brace myself, my heart thudding a little harder against my ribs.
"I'll get right to it," he says, his voice dropping low. "Your husband... he didn't leave any provisions for you in the will."
The words land like a slap, sharp and stinging, even though a part of me— the cynical, guarded part that's survived four years in this cage— expected it.
He pauses, watching me, perhaps expecting tears or a gasp of shock, but I give him nothing.
"His explicit wish," he continues, adjusting his silk tie awkwardly, "was for you to return to your father’s house. He believed it was the best way to protect you."
Protect me? The phrase echoes in my head, absurd and infuriating.
I nearly scoff, the sound building in my throat like a bitter laugh, but I bite it back, clenching my jaw until it aches.
Shock mingles with the anger, a cold spike that sends my thoughts spinning.
Protection? From what? "Protect me how?" I ask, my voice steady, but inside, the question burns.
Bonafanti leans in a fraction closer, his cologne wafting over me.
It’s invasive, just like his gaze. "If he'd given you assets," he explains, his tone almost paternal, "bad people might come after you or your family.
He understood that it truly will be better for you to start fresh under your father's roof.
Salvatore thought of everything, you know. He cared about your safety."
Cared? I nearly laugh then, a bitter, derisive sound bubbling up from my chest that I swallow hard, forcing it down like bile.
Even from the grave, the bastard manages to annoy me to no end.
And this fool in front of me has been paid to twist his selfishness into some noble facade. Painting this as ‘care’? Please.
The real reason is as clear as day. Salvatore didn't want me independently wealthy. He wanted me to grow old in my father’s house, wearing the widow’s habit under the stern guardianship of my father. He wanted me dependent and diminished. A bird with clipped wings.
To my surprise, Bonafanti suddenly smiles, a sly curve to his thin lips that doesn't reach his eyes. He shifts a fraction closer. His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, laced with something oily and expectant. A shiver races up my spine, but I stay still, rooted to the spot, my breath catching as I hope against hope for some twist, some sliver of good news buried in Salvatore’s final betrayal.
"I know how devastating you must feel," he murmurs, his eyes flicking over me in a way that makes my stomach turn, lingering on the modest curve of my neckline.
It's appraising, hungry, and it sends a wave of nausea through me.
"But you have nothing to worry about, Viola.
I'd be willing to... help." He pauses, letting the word hang heavy with implication.
“Help how?” I ask, my face the mask of cool composure I've perfected over the years. Inside, resentment burns like wildfire.
“Well, I’d house you in a beautiful apartment…
say, a penthouse in Tribeca. You’ll have the best views of the river, and in exchange, you’ll be my...
companion." His gaze darkens, bold now. "I wouldn't imprison you like he did. You'd have freedom, Viola. You’ll also have anything money can buy—designer clothes, jewelry, all of that. And you’ll get to travel as often as you like to wherever you want with me.
Amalfi Coast… Paris. You'd want for nothing. I'd make sure of it."
Shock freezes me for a beat, my mind blanking out in a white-hot flash of disbelief. His mistress? This sweaty little servant of Salvatore with his wandering gaze and receding hairline? The idea repulses me, turning my stomach sour and making my skin crawl.
"No," I say flatly, the word cutting the air like a knife. "Thank you, but no."
His smile falters, and surprise flickers across his face. I don't wait for the recovery. Before he can respond, stammer some protest, or press further, I turn on my heel and stride toward the waiting limousine with purposeful steps.
The driver holds the door open, and I slide into the cool leather interior, the scent of polished hide enveloping me as the door thunks shut behind me, sealing out the world.
Maria sits across from me, still sniffling into her handkerchief, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy.
I nod at her, but my focus is inward as I peel off my sunglasses, folding them carefully in my lap.
The limo pulls away smoothly, the engine a low purr, and the cemetery gates recede in the rearview mirror, iron bars blurring into the distance.
I stare out the tinted window, the blurred landscape of headstones giving way to the gritty edges of city streets. Try as I might to hold it together, to keep that iron control I've clung to like armor, the tears come unbidden, hot tracks rolling down my cheeks.
He left me with nothing.
Salvatore was worth billions. And yet he left me zilch, not even a freaking crumb.
What now? What do I do now?
Have I no agency at all? Can they really force me to go back to my father's house, like some discarded toy, handed back to the man who sold me in the first place?
The thought chokes me, a sob catching in my throat.
Fear mingles with the grief I never felt for him—a grief for myself, for the life that's crumbling around me.
All those years... enduring his possessiveness, the way his hands gripped too tight, his touches that left me feeling hollow and used, the endless isolation in that sprawling house where every room felt like a prison cell. All for what? So my father can sell me again?
My hands tremble in my lap. I wipe at my face, but the tears keep coming, silent and relentless.