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)
Viola.
Dio, just thinking her name sends a jolt through me.
I picture her as I've seen her so many times—riding that sleek Arabian mare across the estate's fields, her hair whipping in the wind like golden silk, her slim buttocks and legs gripping the stallion's flanks with a grace that makes my blood run hot. I'm rock hard just from that one memory.
Desire twists like a cut snake in my gut.
Aground, she's breathtaking, a cool beauty that could bring men to their knees, but on horseback... Christ, she's wild, untamed, a fierce goddess. It is almost as if she would kill for that freedom, or so it seems in those stolen moments I've watched from afar. Our eyes have met sometimes. Across rooms, across dinner events, but she only looks at me the same way she does everyone else: like there's an impenetrable wall of ice between her and the world. No flicker of any emotion, certainly no warmth. She never shows any reaction.
I've never seen that wall crack, not once. Ever.
Tomorrow, at her dead husband's funeral, it'll be the same, I am certain. No tears staining those green eyes, no tremble to those tightly held lips. I'll watch her surreptitiously, stealing glances amid the sea of black veils and gloomy faces. I've always been careful—Salvatore was suspicious of everything and everyone. His paranoia was like a shadow that choked the air in every room he was in. But now, he’s gone, and I'm the boss. I can have my fill of her sight, drink in every detail without his beady eyes noticing. So many times, I've wanted to talk to her, to comfort her, to shatter that facade and see the woman beneath.
But I knew. I would not be risking my neck, but hers as well.
So, she remained under ice. Never breaking free. Not even when she had that miscarriage six months ago. I'd been sure it would break her, that even her iron control would snap. But my spies reported: nothing. Not a single tear, no sign of sadness, just... the same impassive stare. Blank as a marble statue.
I've never seen her laugh, either—not a real one, not the kind that lights up a face and echoes in one’s soul. Does she even know how to? I wonder. She must have smiled before the cold, ugly bastard sucked all the life out of her, leaving only this shell. Maybe now that Salvatore is gone, I’ll finally get to see the real her.
A shaft of fear pierces my chest.
It is sharper than any fear I’ve felt before. As the new Godfather, protecting her won't be easy. Everyone knows Salvatore bought her from her father and kept her almost a prisoner. It was clear the cool beauty did not love him, and she's now fair game and available for the taking. A prized ornament that can be claimed to decorate their own lives as Salvatore had done before them. They will believe it will be first come, first-served.
And tomorrow as her husband is buried... the wolves will start circling.
And many want her.
The worst is Mario, Salvatore’s eldest son from his first marriage. I’ve seen the greedy gleam in his eyes when he thinks no one's watching. He devours her with his gaze. It’s lust and no heart. He is a brute, and I detest him. Spoiled and selfish, filled with his father's cruelty, but none of the cunning. Given half the chance, he will brutalize her.
There are others, too—dodgy men without conscience, lieutenants, and rivals.
My fists clench at my sides, and the glass fogs under my heated breath. I swear to myself, right there with the city lights flickering to life below, that none of them will lay a finger on her.
No one touches what's mine—and she's been mine since the very first glance. But… she’ll have to come to me. She’ll have to reach out first. I’ll have to find a way to make her need me.
Chapter Three
VIOLA
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M_kTSBqQkME
-my love-
The air hangs heavy with the scent of fresh earth and the cloyingly sweet perfume of an overabundance of white lilies. I stand at the edge of the graveside gathering in Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx, where old-money mobsters like Salvatore get their eternal plots amid marble angels, ornate stone crypts, and manicured lawns. Gray clouds scud across the sky, threatening rain but holding back for now, casting a muted light that makes everything feel washed out, unreal.
I've pulled on oversized dark sunglasses so no one can see my eyes. It seems appropriate to hide my total lack of grief. Also, it lets me scan the crowd without them knowing. And God, what a circus it is. You’d think the governor died, not some paranoid kingpin. Rows of black-clad mourners stretch out—the bosses in tailored Brioni suits, their wives dripping in diamonds, and everyone whispering deals behind fake solemn nods. They're here to pay respects, sure, but really to connect, to curry favor with whoever's next in line. No one gives a damn about the mahogany coffin waiting to be lowered into that yawning hole. What a farce? I don't care, though. May he rot in hell. I’m celebrating the thought that this is the last time, the absolute last, I’ll have to perform as his dutiful wife.