Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
VIOLA
Dinner is delightful.
I never thought I’d say that about a meal with a man legendary as much for the mystery of his origins as his mercilessness, but here we are.
You have to be a cold, brutal monster to become a Godfather.
Dinners with Salvatore were pure torture.
Like a King, he’d sit on an ornate, throne-like chair at the head of his long mahogany table, his phone glued to his ear, barking orders at his men.
I’d sit there in silence, pushing food around my plate, or pretending to have a headache so I could escape upstairs.
I learned every trick to disappear without leaving the room.
This is nothing like that.
I watch Ricci across the table, and something warm unfurls low in my stomach.
He eats with quiet intensity—every bite deliberate, unhurried, like the food deserves his full attention and nothing less.
The way his jaw moves, the faint flex of muscle under the open collar of his shirt, the way he savors the herb-crusted lamb, is a marvelous thing to watch.
No phone. No barked commands. Just him, completely present.
Nothing like the fat, sloppy pig I was married to, grease glistening on his chin, shoveling food into his mouth while his men waited in the edges with fear.
He catches me staring, and I look away fast, my cheeks burning with embarrassment.
Slowly, I’m realizing I like watching him.
The watching feels dangerous though, like stepping too close to a flame.
I look up at him. I’ve spent years learning not to look too long at men like him, but tonight I can’t seem to stop.
He pours wine for me. His hand is steady as the dark ruby liquid fills my glass.
I watch the way his fingers curl around the bottle, strong and sure, and my pulse does something stupid in my throat.
I pull my gaze away and let it drift around the terrace.
It really is romantic here. Couples lean in close at every other table, heads bent, soft laughter floating on the breeze.
A woman in a red dress tilts her head back at something her date says, her laugh bright and easy.
Another pair are feeding each other tiny bites of dessert.
The rest of Manhattan doesn’t exist for them.
Then there’s us.
We’re not lovey-dovey at all, but it is not the way it was like with Salvatore—like a tight coil, waiting for the next explosion.
This is different. It feels… safe. Like we’re both still figuring out the rules of a new game, but no one is trying to win by hurting the other. I don’t mind it. I actually like it.
For the first time in years, I can taste my food instead of it tasting like sawdust. The lamb is tender, perfectly pink in the center, the herbs and breadcrumbs coating is wonderfully crispy against the rich meat.
The polenta is creamy and velvety, melting on my tongue with a faint hint of lemon and rosemary.
I let myself relax into the moment and wonder about him.
The question has been building all evening, rising with every sip of Barolo. The deeply dark wine has warmed my chest and loosened something tight inside me. I trace the rim of my glass with one finger. I clear my throat. “Your family couldn’t attend the wedding, or…”
“Or what?” His voice is low, curious, cutting through the quiet like warm velvet. No edge. No demand. Just gentle interest.
I swallow. “You just didn’t invite them.”
He sets his fork down slowly. “I don’t have a family,” he says simply. No drama. No bitterness. Just a fact. “There is an uncle somewhere. He could be dead or alive. I don’t know, and it’s better that way. If he’s still breathing, I’ll probably be the one to kill him myself.”
My breath catches in my throat. The wine glass feels suddenly heavy in my hand.
Of course, I married the monster everyone whispers about in dark corners.
The one who clawed his way up from nothing with blood on his hands and ice in his veins.
No one knows where he came from or who he really is.
Now he is the new Don. The mysterious stranger who outsmarted them all.
And yet here he is, sitting across from me in candlelight, telling me his secret past like it’s nothing.
I can’t stop myself. Something in me needs to know more. Needs to understand the boy behind the man. I lean forward.
“Why do you hate him so much?” I ask, voice barely above a whisper.
His eyes hold mine—black gold in the candlelight—and for the first time I see something raw flicker behind them. Not anger. Not pain. But an old, deep wound, scarred over.
“My parents died in a car accident when I was six. My uncle took me in, but let’s just say he’s not exactly father material.
Eventually he got tired of social services coming around to ask about my broken ribs and black eyes and dumped me into their care.
” He shrugs. “Maybe I was an unlucky child, but foster homes are hellholes. No child should have to experience what I did. I ran away at fourteen and chose to live on the streets. Then I found Salvatore, and the rest, as they say, is history.”
I feel every word settle in my chest like stones. From that abandoned little boy—beaten and fighting just to breathe to the man sitting across from me now… the boss of the house of Greco. The most powerful man in our world. The one who stole the crown right from under Mario’s nose.
I can’t help it. Something softens inside me, warm and treacherous.
I admire him. The strength it must have taken.
The way he turned pain into power, rage into control.
My gaze traces the hard line of his jaw, the broad shoulders, the quiet confidence in his hooded eyes.
He’s. Beautiful and deadly. He is everything I’ve spent years teaching myself to fear.
But why does my heart flutter every time our gazes touch?
I have to be careful. I have to steel my heart, lock it down tight before it leans any closer. I can’t afford to trust him. Not him. Not anyone. Hell, I can’t even trust my own mother to protect me. I look away…
I let the cool night breeze brush my cheeks, carrying the scent of roses and rain, reminding me who I am.
A survivor.
Nothing more.