Chapter 45
Chapter Forty-Five
RICCI
Afew days later…
I’m driving back from downtown, the city lights smearing across the windshield like wet paint, when it hits me. That heavy, restless pull in my chest that hasn’t let up for days. I know what it is now. I’m not pretending anymore.
I’m falling in love with her.
Probably already fallen.
The thought should scare the shit out of me. Love has never been part of my world. Survival, power, blood — those are the only things I’ve ever let myself want. But Viola, with her fragile face and enormous hurt eyes, scared to trust but wanting to, she’s changing everything without even trying.
For the first time ever, I’ve become really worried about the future.
Not mine, but ours. In my mind’s eye, I see her laughing in the kitchen, her body melting against me on the couch, the soft, unguarded look in her innocent eyes when she thought I wasn’t watching.
I want her exactly like that: happy and safe.
Not just for now, but for good. I want to build something real for both of us.
A life where she can throw away that cool mask forever.
Where she can ride horses, play with clay, and laugh with our children.
A life without looking over her shoulder in fear. Where no one can touch her again.
I used to only think about myself. What I needed and wanted.
Now I need to look much farther ahead. I need to make sure this world doesn’t destroy the one good thing that life has given me.
My hands tighten on the wheel as I make the turn toward SoHo without deciding to.
Leonardo’s place is the only spot I can go to right now.
The restaurant is already winding down when I pull up.
The big front windows are darkened, and only a few low lights are still on inside.
I kill the engine and step out into the cool night air, the faint smell of rain and exhaust mixing with the warm scent of food drifting from the kitchen vents.
Before I even reach the door, one of the waiters spots me through the glass and hurries outside, wiping his hands on a white towel.
“Mr. Santori,” he says, respectful but a little nervous. “We’re just about to close, but I’ll let the Chef know you’re here and I’m sure he’ll be happy to rustle up something delicious for you.”
I shake my head. “I’m not here to eat. Please tell him I’m out back.”
He disappears inside. A minute later the heavy wooden door swings open and Leonardo steps out, still in his chef whites, sleeves rolled high, a pristine-white dish towel slung over one shoulder. His face breaks into that same easy grin he’s had since we were kids sharing a bunk in a home.
“Ricci,” he calls, voice warm with surprise. “What’s up?”
“Need to talk to you,” I reply.
Leonardo turns toward the back entrance and raises his voice just enough to carry through the open doors. “Okay, everyone go home,” he calls out; the words carry the kind of command that comes from years of running this place. “I’ll lock up. See you guys tomorrow.”
The staff don’t argue. Not a single complaint, not even a tired groan.
They know the drill. They’ve seen me show up before, late at night, when the restaurant’s already half-dark and the last guests have long since left.
One by one they file out. The waiters slipping off their aprons, the line cooks hanging up their whites, and the hostess giving Leonardo a quick nod as she grabs her bag.
Their footsteps fade across the hardwood, soft and quick, until the big front doors click shut behind them.
The last one to leave is the manager, who goes around switching off the lights in the dining room one by one, soft little pops that leave the space dim and quiet, with just the low glow of the emergency exits and the white spill of light from the kitchen.
Leonardo jerks his head toward the swinging doors. “Come on,” he says, already moving. “I’ll cook for us.”
“I’m not hungry, but I’ll watch you eat.”
“Watch me eat? What kind of talk is this? The most amazing piece of beef just arrived from Japan. You have to try it. I swear, there is nothing like it.”
I follow him through the doors, the rubber mats under my shoes giving a faint squeak against the tile.
Stainless steel counters gleam under the overhead lights, pots and pans hanging in neat rows, the walk-in fridge humming low in the corner.
It feels alive in here, even with everyone gone.
Familiar. Safe in a way the rest of my world rarely is.
Leonardo gestures to the small seating area tucked right beside one of the long steel counters — just a couple of sturdy stools and a low table they use for staff meals. Nothing fancy. Exactly what I need tonight.
“Sit,” he says, already heading for the walk-in fridge, his movements sure and relaxed. “What kind of sauce are you in the mood for? French, New York style, or plain?”
I slide onto one of the stools, the metal cool against the backs of my thighs through my slacks. The contrast feels good after the long day. “Whatever’s easiest,” I tell him. “I’m not picky tonight.”
He shoots me a look over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised, the corner of his mouth twitching with sarcastic amusement.
“You? Not picky? That’s new.” But he doesn’t push.
He just starts pulling ingredients out: vegetables, potatoes, and two pieces of finely marbled meat.
He caresses the pieces lovingly as if they are beloved pets.
Then the quiet clatter of pans and knives starts up.
I grab a bottle of Barolo from the wine rack against the wall. The dark glass is cool in my hand. I pour a generous amount into two glasses. I set one down beside him on the counter.
We don’t talk much while he cooks. The air fills with the sharp chop of his knife blade against the cutting board, the hiss of oil hitting hot pans, the low sizzle of meat as it sears. I lean back against the counter, arms crossed, absorbing the warmth and the smells around me.
Leonardo finally plates the food — perfectly seared beef steaks with a simple rosemary jus, roasted vegetables, and crisp and golden French fries.
He slides the plates across the counter to our little seating area, wipes his hands on the towel still slung over his shoulder, and drops onto the stool across from me.
The food is, as always, incredible. He is right.
The meat is something else. I make a mental note to bring Viola here to try it.
The jus is rich and savory and the onions are perfectly caramelized.
Leonardo leans back a little, studying me the way only someone who’s known me since we were skinny street kids would dare. His eyes are narrowed and thoughtful.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this worried,” he observes quietly. “What’s going on? Married life doesn’t suit you?”
I set my wine glass down. “Actually… being married to her is beginning to suit me so much I’m worried my current life as the Capo of the house of Greco might not suit me at all.”
Leonardo pauses mid-chew, then lets out a low chuckle, the sound knowing, like he’s been waiting for something like this. “Ah.” He smiles, half-joking, half-serious, the kind of smile that says he gets it more than I probably want him to. “You’re here to make a plan.”
I meet his eyes across the counter and nod slowly.
“Yeah,” I say, voice low. “I am.”
“It’s not going to be easy,” he says softly.
“I know.”
He picks up his glass, clinks it lightly against mine. The soft ring of crystal fills the quiet kitchen. We both take a long drink, the Barolo warm and dark on my tongue.
We’ll eat as we talk. And for the first time in my life, I’m ready to plan a future that doesn’t end in blood.