Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
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.”
Chapter Thirteen
VIOLA
I'm seated on the floor of my walk-in closet, clutching my phone, my legs tucked beneath me on the thick cream carpet. Light spills in from the half-open door. I look at the rows of clothes hanging above me like silent judges. Tailored designer outfits I never chose. Underneath, heels lined up in perfect formation like soldiers ready for battle. All mine, yet none of it belongs to me. It's all borrowed armor from a life that was never mine to begin with.
Is this a dream?
Salvatore’s murder was extraordinary enough without Ricci’s shocking and unbelievable offer of marriage. I don't quite know how to process it. My mind replays the scene in the library—the low rumble of Ricci's voice saying, “What I want is you,” and the way his eyes held mine without flinching, the heat of his body. It loops and loops until I feel quite dizzy.
Was it real?
Yeah, it was real.