Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
VIOLA
Ipull back from Mario’s attempted embrace just before his arms can close around me, my body recoiling on pure instinct, twisting so sharply the contact never happens, but I’m shaken—shaken to the core by something far more dangerous than Mario’s clumsy hug.
It’s what I saw across the crowded room in the eyes of the new Capo del Capo.
Ricci Santori.
For years I’ve seen him move through these halls like a steely shadow, and yet his eyes have never met mine.
Not once. I thought I was invisible to him, even though I’ve always been curious about him, drawn in some strange and forbidden way I could never name.
Somehow, he seemed to have more depth than the rest, even though the stories Daisy chatted about him are blood-curdling.
One misstep, one wrong glance, and he could blow my head off without blinking.
And yet, in a way I’ve never been able to explain, I’ve felt safer around him than anyone else in this Godforsaken world.
Safer than with my own husband. Safer than with my own father.
It is not that I was scared of Salvatore. No, I knew he wouldn’t damage me physically. Not when I was one of his prized possessions. And I was certain my heart would never be broken by him. He could never hurt me. With Ricci Santori, though… my brain advises caution. There is something about him…
The way he looked at me. It was so crazy.
I felt as if his gaze reached out and touched me.
I wonder if he knows what’s happening to me.
He has to. They’re throwing me out on the street with nothing.
Of course, he’s aware. To be crowned the Godfather is not easy.
You have to be utterly ruthless. You have to prove you are more bloodthirsty than all the other contenders.
You must know everything that happens in your kingdom.
If anyone can help me, it will be him. He’s the one I should talk to. The only one.
The thought twists sharply in my chest.
But then what the hell would I say? Give me my money.
But that would be a lie. Nothing here ever belonged to me.
The sadness of it settles heavily in my bones as Mario flicks his hand to gesture for me to follow him.
He looks furious that I so publicly evaded his embrace.
I trail after him down the long hallway, our heels clicking on the marble, the noise of the reception fading behind us until the study door shuts with a heavy, final click, sealing us inside.
The sudden quiet presses in. The air in Salvatore’s study is laced with the faint scent of old leather, polished wood, and the lingering ghost of Salvatore’s smelly cigars.
Cuban Cohibas. My pulse is already too loud in my ears, an insistent drum that makes my temples throb.
It feels as if I’m on the thinnest edge of my sanity, nerves stretched so razor-thin I can almost feel them fraying with every breath.
My eyes flick involuntarily to the massive oriental vase perched on the side table to my left—a priceless antique, deep cobalt blues swirling into molten golds, easily two feet tall and heavy enough to feel murderous in my hands.
I calculate it in a heartbeat: the weight balanced in my palm, the perfect, vicious arc it would take if I swung it hard enough to crack Mario’s skull open.
In my fantasy world, I smash it over his head without a second thought.
I swear I do. And I’m not even angry—it’s just the cold and practical thing to do to monsters.
Mario drops into his late father’s leather chair, sprawling wide like he’s already claimed every inch of the room.
The chair creaks under his weight, the same creak I’ve heard a thousand times when Salvatore sat there issuing orders.
He leans forward and reaches for the crystal decanter on the sideboard.
The ruby liquid of the Barolo catches the low lamplight as he pours.
He holds the glass out to me, stem pinched between two fingers, the offer wrapped in false concern.
“Something to calm your nerves, stepmother?”
The word stepmother lands in an oddly intimate and possessive way that makes my skin crawl. I decline with a small, controlled shake of my head. My voice is steady even though my mouth feels dry. “No, thank you.”
His lips curve. It’s a slick, knowing smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
He takes a sip, smiles his approval, stands, and walks towards me.
I can smell his aftershave. I stay as rigid as a statue as he towers over me.
What the hell kind of game is he playing?
His hand lifts toward my face, fingers brushing the edge of my sunglasses like he has every right in the world.
My hand shoots up fast, catching his wrist mid-air. “Don’t touch me.”
“You know better than to tell me what to do,” he drawls, as if amused, but I see the steel in his eyes.
I let my hand fall away. Not because I want to give in. Because this isn’t a battle worth dying over—not yet. Push harder right now, and one of us will be dead. I swear it on my life. Right now, I have nothing left to lose. Salvatore has made damn sure of that.
He slides the glasses off slowly, deliberately, setting them on the side table with a soft clink. “You’ve been crying,” he notes with surprise.
“It’s what widows do,” I mutter tightly.
He laughs, then lets his eyes peruse me like I’m merchandise already sold and delivered.
The black dress covers every inch of me—high neck, long sleeves, fitted but modest—but his gaze lingers on my breasts anyway, tracing the way the material moves with each rise and fall of my breathing.
Nausea rolls through me, thick and sour, coating the back of my throat.
God, I’m not safe from anyone in this family. Not one single man.
“What do you need to talk to me about?” I ask, forcing my tone to stay cool, measured, even though my pulse is hammering so hard I can feel it rushing in my temples. “I have matters to handle.”
“Not from what I’ve heard,” he says, that sly smile spreading wider as he moves away toward the crystal decanter of Salvatore’s favorite Scottish whisky, specially smuggled in just for him.
Mario pours himself a generous measure, the amber liquid glugging against the glass.
He takes a long sip from the half-full glass and comes to perch at the edge of the coffee table directly opposite me.
Our knees almost touch. He is close enough that I smell the peat smoke on his breath.
He takes another slow sip, eyes never leaving mine, savoring both the whisky and his new raw power.
“I know that my father left nothing for you. Not a red cent. And I think that is tragic. A beautiful woman must always have lots of money. You see, I understand the need for hairdressers, designer clothes, jewelry, handbags, shoes. So … I have very good news for you. I wanted to reassure you that I don’t want to kick you out of this house as it belongs to me now, and I want you to have the same allowance my father gave you, Viola. ”
His eyes devour me as he speaks, sliding down my body again, hungry and blatant, stripping me bare without laying a finger on me.
Everything about him sickens me. I was right; he is worse than his father. Not even the decency of a slime ball. I’d rather die than lay with him. I’ve seen his girlfriends over the years, make-up caked on to hide their black eyes, bruises ringing their wrists like bracelets.
I don’t let my shock at his proposition show. I keep my composure locked down tight, the same mask I’ve worn for years. “I’m your father’s widow,” I say quietly, the words measured, deliberate. “You’re really willing to go there?”
“Why not?” He laughs softly, a low guttural sound that makes my stomach turn.
“Keeping it in the family is always the best policy. It’s the way it’s been done from time immemorial.
The Mongols, for instance—the successor would claim his father’s widows to keep the bloodline and the power intact.
It’s tradition.” He leans in a little more, elbows resting on his knees, whisky glass dangling loosely between his fingers.
“I’m sure my father would be more than glad, looking down on us right now, knowing that his most delicious asset will be well cared for.
” His voice drops, intimate, coaxing. “You’ll be comfortable and protected.
And most importantly, you’ll be safe because I can’t guarantee your safety once you leave this house.
Many widows in your position have met with violent deaths. ”
Real fear races up my spine, cold and sharp as a blade, but I keep my expression fixed. I have to get out of here before I betray myself.
I stand up slowly, legs steady even though my heart is racing so hard it feels like it might crack a rib. I force a polite smile. “Thank you for your offer. It is a good offer, and I will give it the consideration it deserves before I get back to you with my answer.”
I nod and turn away. With my back to him, I feel caught between the devil and the deep blue sea.
I can’t go back to my father’s house—he’d sell me again in a heartbeat, trade me for another debt cleared.
But I sure as hell can’t live under Mario’s so-called protection.
And I can’t just be a normal woman who goes out, gets a job, and starts again, because neither of these monsters will allow me to do it. So, what the hell am I going to do?
The echo of his voice still lingered in my mind—oily, entitled, the smug certainty that I had nowhere else to go. It made my skin crawl, made me want to scrub myself raw just to get rid of the memory of his gaze sliding over me like I was already his.
I hurry out of the study before he can say anything else.
As soon as the door shuts behind me my tears of frustration and anger spill over.
They come hot and fast, blurring the hallway lights into streaks.
I realize too late that I left my sunglasses on the table inside.
Shit. Before anyone can see the mess of my face, I rush forward—straight into a broad, rock-hard chest.
The impact nearly knocks me off my feet, my breath punching out in a sharp gasp.
Strong hands catch my arms instantly, steadying me, fingers warm and firm through the thin sleeves of my dress.
I don’t want to be caught like this by any man, not now, not when I’m falling apart at the seams. I mumble a quick apology, my voice thick with emotion, and try to pull away, to keep moving toward my room, toward any place I can hide.
But the arms don’t budge. They hold me inescapably, thumbs brushing the insides of my elbows in a touch that’s almost caring.
I’m forced to look up.
I stare straight into the glittering whiskey eyes of Ricci Santori.