Chapter 65
Chapter Sixty-Five
VIOLA
The days pass, and the air in New York turns sharper, carrying that crisp bite that signals the season is changing.
With the weather getting colder, I need a couple of new sweaters, something soft and warm to wrap around me when the penthouse feels a little cold while I’m waiting for Ricci to come back.
At least, that’s what I told Ricci, but the real reason I’m at this upscale mall is Ricci.
His birthday is coming up soon, and I’ve been racking my brains for weeks trying to find the perfect gift.
Something that feels personal, but for the life of me I haven’t been able to think of anything impressive at all.
I wander into a couple of designer stores first, the kind with hushed lighting and sales associates who move like ghosts.
I browse watches — heavy, elegant pieces with sleek faces — and cuff links in brushed gold and platinum.
They’re beautiful, expensive, the kind of things a man like him might wear, but none of them feels right.
None of them feels like him. I leave each store empty-handed.
Eventually I find myself in a Loewe store.
The interior is warm and inviting, and clever lighting makes the leather goods glow.
I head toward the winter coats, running my fingers over thick cashmere and wool blends, imagining how they would look on Ricci’s broad shoulders.
One in particular catches my eye, a deep charcoal piece with a subtle texture that feels luxurious under my fingertips. That is definitely a contender.
While I’m here, I decide to try a few on for myself, so I pick a couple of coats and head into the changing room at the back of the store.
The fitting room is quiet, the heavy curtain pulling closed behind me with a soft hush.
I hang the coats on the hook and unbutton my jacket.
I slip the first coat on, smoothing it over my shoulders, turning this way and that to see how it falls.
Just as I’m checking the fit in the mirror, the curtain moves.
Someone steps inside.
My heart leaps into my throat as I spin around. A woman in a tailored suit stands there, close enough that I can smell her perfume. Before I can even open my mouth to protest the intrusion, she quickly flashes a badge: gold and blue, the letters FBI clear under the overhead light.
My stomach drops.
It’s a sudden, sickening plunge. As if the floor has vanished beneath my feet.
For a second, I can’t breathe, the air in the small changing room turning thick and sour.
The soft lighting that felt warm and flattering a moment ago now feels too bright, too exposing.
I’m shocked. Truly and viscerally shocked by the realness of the situation, but I’m not surprised.
They’re always trying to nail members of the family, chipping away at the edges, looking for any crack they can widen.
And I’m the new don’s wife now. In fact, I should be surprised it took them this long to approach me.
Honestly, I’ve been waiting for something like this, even if I tried not to think about it.
“I’m not interested in speaking to you,” I say, my voice cold as ice.
The words come out calm, the way I learned to speak when I was Salvatore’s wife, but inside my pulse is racing, hammering against my ribs.
“This is an invasion of my privacy. If you want to interrogate me, use the normal and official way.”
I turn to leave, fingers reaching for the heavy curtain, already picturing the safety of the store beyond it, the bodyguards waiting just outside. My hand closes around the fabric.
But her words stop me cold.
“Are you aware that your current husband had your last husband killed?”
The sentence lands like a slap across my face.
Sharp, stinging, knocking the air from my lungs.
I freeze, back still turned to her, my fingers grip the heavy curtain so tightly the fabric bunches in my fist. I try not to show it.
I try so hard to keep the mask in place, the one I perfected over years, but the shock of her statement ripples through me, sliding under my skin like ice water.
My breath catches in my throat, a tiny, audible hitch I hate myself for, but my mind races, scrambles to stay calm, to keep my face neutral, to not let her see the way the ground is tilting beneath me.
She doesn’t wait for me to respond.
She pulls out her phone, taps the screen once, and a recorded conversation starts playing.
The voice is clear, male, a little rough around the edges.
A man confessing in a low, frightened voice that Ricci was the one who paid him to take the shot in the fruit shop.
He did it as part of a deal: Ricci would protect him from an ongoing case, keep the police off his back.
But now that a member of his own family is in trouble, he has to renege.
He has to give Ricci up to save his brother from being prosecuted.
I stand there, heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my temples, in the tips of my fingers still clutching the curtain.
My hands start to shake. The words echo in my head, ugly and impossible and yet…
they fit. They fit too well with the pieces I’ve tried not to look at too closely these past months.
The way Ricci moved so quickly after Salvatore’s death, the way he stepped into the role like he’d been waiting for it, the way he always seemed to know exactly how things would unfold.
The agent’s voice cuts through the recording, persuasive and gentle now.
“Viola, we want you to work with us. These men are predators, and they have done nothing but prey on you. We can help you, but only if you help us. Help us get Ricci. In exchange, we’ll give you immunity and put you into the witness protection program with a new identity.
You will be safe, and more importantly, you will be free.
Don’t you want to be free of these monsters, Viola? ”
I’m close to throwing up. Ricci? A monster?
Just then there’s a small commotion outside the changing room, yanking me back to the present.
My bodyguards are at the door, voices raised, calling out to me, asking if I’m okay.
They haven’t seen me for a while, and I can hear the edge in their tone.
They’re already on high alert. I remember now Ricci had them follow me discreetly.
Of course he did. He always does. He said it was for my safety, but now I truly can’t help but wonder. Is it?
“I’m fine,” I call out, though my voice cracks just slightly on the last word.
I turn around to face the agent. When she doesn’t say anything else, I push past the curtain and step out into the store, the cool air of the boutique hitting my flushed skin like a shock.
The bodyguards relax once they sight me and once again disappear out of sight. Head held high, I head toward the exit.
I’m shocked. Confused. And I feel used. Everything I thought was real these past few months has been peeled back to reveal something ugly underneath.
The words the agent said keep replaying in my head as I walk back to the car, the cold autumn air biting at my cheeks and making my eyes water.
Did Ricci have these men follow me because he cares about me…
or did he just want to monitor me? To see if I would be approached? To see if I would turn on him?
I hate that I’m even thinking this way.
Over the past few weeks, we’ve grown so close — closer than I ever thought possible, and I’ve fallen in love with him, hard and deep, the kind of love that terrifies me because it’s so all-consuming that I can’t imagine my life without him.
But what if it was all a lie? What if he lied to me from the very beginning?
Why did he marry me? What if he only did it to keep an eye on me… or simply as a trophy?
The questions swirl faster and faster as the car pulls away from the curb, the city blurring past the tinted windows. My hands are still shaking in my lap. I press them together tightly, trying to steady myself, but the doubts have already taken root deeply and are impossible to ignore.
And for the first time since I married Ricci, I feel lost and alone again.