Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
RICCI
She said yes!
As I head down the stairs, each step echoing on the marble, I almost can’t believe what I’ve just done.
I’ve betrothed myself to be married to a girl I hardly know.
Me. Ricci Santori. I’m the man who’s never stayed with anyone longer than it took to scratch an itch, sometimes less than the time it took for the sheets to cool.
Commitment was a trap that women were always trying to trick me into. I always cut the cord well before it could tighten.
But this surprise proposal feels… perfect.
Like the last missing piece of a puzzle falling in place all of its accord.
All the blood spilt, the lies, and the nights when I could barely sleep for thinking have ended.
The trap has clicked into place with a quiet, satisfying snap.
And I can’t think of a better conclusion.
My blood is still humming from the way she looked at me when she said she’d accept.
Her eyes wide and searching, held my gaze as if she was trying to decide if I was her savior or executioner.
I will not make her regret her decision.
I reach the bottom of the stairs, and people swarm me immediately to deferentially congratulate me on becoming the new Godfather.
The air carries the scent of espresso pulled fresh from a machine, aged prosciutto sliced thin on silver platters, and too much Creed Aventus cologne. I nod, shake hands, and murmur the appropriate words—
“Thank you.”
“Appreciate it.”
“Sure. Sure. We’ll talk soon”
But my mind is somewhere else. Upstairs. With her. What is she doing now? Is she sitting on her bed wondering what the hell she just agreed to?
I cut through the crowd, and mutter a few sharp words to my closest aides, men who’ve bled for me, who know better than to question anything I say.
“I’ll be absent for a couple of days. Handle anything that comes up. If it’s important, you know how to reach me.”
They nod, eyes carrying that essential mix of respect and fear. That is the only blend that keeps loyalty sharp in this business. I slip out the side entrance into the cool evening air. The sky is darkening to deep indigo, and the setting sun glows gold against the distant line of cypress trees.
The driver opens the door of the black Escalade before I even reach it—silent, efficient, the way I like it.
I slide into the back and tell him to head to my apartment in the city.
As we pull away, my mind drifts back. I let it.
I need to remember how far I’ve come, to feel the distance between the boy I was and the man I’ve become.
From a young orphan beaten black and blue by an uncle who hated the sight of me.
His fists landed like hammers on my ribs, my stomach, my back.
I learned to curl up real small and wait for it to end.
Thank God, he finally gave me up when I was nine years old and dumped me into a heartless corporation masquerading as Child Protective Services.
They bounced me from one uncaring foster home to another until I ran away at fourteen and learned to survive on the streets of Brooklyn.
Every night I had to protect myself from being robbed, raped, or killed.
I remember that time like a movie reel. Unreal.
Fights in alleys that left me bloody and bruised, nights curled up in doorways with a stolen switchblade in my hand and my back to the wall.
Then one evening I saw a long black limo arrive outside a fruit shop called The Store, and the sharp-suited man that stepped out of it.
I saw how his men gathered around him to protect him, and I decided there and then: I wanted to be him.
That became my sole ambition in life.
I found out he was the boss of the Greco Mafia family.
I didn’t have a drop of Italian blood in me, but I knew a boy called Leonardo and could imitate his ways and pretend to have Italian ancestry.
Plus, I had watched Gomorrah, and I believed I could pull it off.
So… I changed my name from Nicholas to Ricci and approached Don Salvatore.
I pledged my allegiance to him, swearing to be his shadow and his most feared weapon.
Salvatore was nobody’s fool. He wasn’t going to say no to free labor.
He took me on and worked me day and night on a food and board basis.
I didn’t care. Sure, he was getting a great deal, but I was learning the ropes.
One day, I was taking over. I rose up the ranks very quickly and became indispensable to him and the family. Soon other families began to notice me.
Everything was going swimmingly well… until Salvatore took a bride.
I will never forget the first time I saw her at the wedding.
Poor thing. She was so young and so unhappy.
Her hands were trembling as Salvatore slipped the ring on her finger.
I felt something shift inside me at that moment.
That girl is mine. And I will have her. The need burned inside me brighter than anything else I had ever known.
And now… finally… I have become the man who stepped out of the long black limo. I’m also going to marry his wife. The thought settles like good warm bread in my stomach. Satisfying.
I pull out my phone and call Leonardo. He picks up on the second ring. “Ricci? You good, brother?”
“I’m heading to the restaurant,” I tell him. “Are you there?”
“Where else would I be? Of course I am,” he laughs, the sound easy and genuine. “What do you want to eat?”
Food is the last thing on my mind right now. “Whatever’s available.”
“We’ve just received a fresh box of black truffles from Italy. Out of season, but worth its weight in gold. Interested?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Bravo, you won’t regret it. I’ll keep your table for you.”
“See you soon.”
I hang up and lean back, watching the city lights blur past the tinted windows, the familiar neon signs, the streetlights, the endless river of traffic, but today everything feels different.
She said yes.
Twenty minutes later, we pull up to Leonardo’s Michelin-starred restaurant tucked in a quiet corner of SoHo.
Soft golden lighting spills onto the sidewalk from its elegant stone facade.
The faint scent of garlic and rosemary drifts out when the door to the private entrance opens.
Leonardo comes out to meet me personally, arms open wide.
We hug hard. We are bound with a bond that is deeper than blood.
We are survivors of the streets. We made it out alive.
He leads me to the back booth next to a narrow window that overlooks the back alley.
We call it my table. It’s our little joke.
No one else would appreciate this table, but I do.
I used to sleep in a dark alley just like this.
Candlelight flickers over the crisp white linen as a bottle of open Barolo that costs more than most people’s rent is placed in the middle of the table.
Leonardo slides into the seat across from me, pouring us both a generous glass.
“How was the funeral?” he asks, swirling the deep ruby wine.
“The way I like it. Uneventful,” I say, taking a slow sip. The rich, earthy flavor coats my tongue, dark cherries and leather.
He studies me over the rim of his glass, eyes narrowing the way they always do when he knows I’m holding back. “Can’t lie, I was expecting something juicier to happen.”
A waiter brings fresh focaccia still warm from the oven. The crust will crackle when I break it.
He studies me closely. “But something for sure did happen. Something good. I can see it in your eyes. Don’t even try to deny it. What happened?”
I set the wine glass down. “You’re right. I dropped by to ask you for a favor.”
Leonardo’s eyebrows shoot up, genuinely surprised. “You’ve never asked me for anything, ever. This should be interesting.”
Two plates of steaming, deliciously fragrant creamy risotto are put before us. The waiter shaves a generous portion of black truffles on top of them.
“Buon Appetito,” he says and leaves.
I lean forward, elbows on the table. “I want you to be my best man. I’m getting married in a couple of days.”
Leonardo freezes, spoon halfway to his mouth, risotto forgotten. “Married? How the hell can you be getting married? When were you even in a relationship?”
“I’m marrying Viola,” I say simply.
He stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Viola? Salvatore’s wife?”
“Salvatore is dead. She is his widow,” I correct, annoyance sharpening my tone.
He sets his spoon down slowly, worry creasing his brow. “Will this be accepted by the other families?”
I lean back, letting a slow smile curve my lips. “I can’t wait for them to try and stop me. My new position means I can do whatever the fuck I want. Hell, I almost wish someone would object so I get the chance to lay down some ground rules for my reign.”
Leonardo’s quiet for a long moment, swirling his wine, clearly nervous but trying to hide it. “I want you to be happy, man. I do. But I don’t know how happy you’ll be with a woman you’ve described to me as colder than ice.”
“It was a farce,” I say, shrugging. “At least… I hope it was.”
He doesn’t understand. I can see it in his eyes. I decide to enlighten him.
“When Viola first came to live in Salvatore’s house, one of the servants had brought in a dog and hid it in the stables.
It made the mistake of barking at Salvatore.
He shot it and left it to die in the stables.
But Viola… she waited until he was gone and then rushed it to the vet and nursed the creature back to health with her own hands.
She got the handyman to build a little kennel at the edge of the property and filled it with cushions that she snuck out of the house.
She could have looked away. Anyone else would have.
But she refused. She isn’t ice cold—she just has to pretend to be. She’s surrounded by vipers.”
I see Leonardo listening, really listening, the worry easing from his face as I keep going. “I’ve watched her for years.” I laugh softly. “I’ve wanted her for years. You know that. That’s why I’m sure I’m making the right decision. She’s… everything to me, Leonardo. Everything.”
He’s convinced. I see it in the way his shoulders relax, the small nod he gives. “Then I wish you the best, brother. When’s the wedding?”
“I’ll let you know. Be flexible.”
He claps me on the shoulder with enough force to make the table rattle. “I’ll be there. Count on it. Now… for fuck’s sake, eat your pasta before it goes cold.”
I dig in. It’s fantastic. I make a note to bring Viola here. I’m sure she will love this dish. Eventually, Leonardo heads back to the kitchen, leaving me alone with the wine and the quiet hum of the restaurant—soft jazz playing low, the clink of silverware from the main room.
I pull out my phone and make a call to my personal assistant. He picks up on the first ring. “Go to Salvatore’s house and tell Viola to pack her things. She should be ready to leave in the morning.”
“Got it. Anything else, Boss?”
I pause. “Wait. Just get me her phone number. I’ll do it myself.”