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)
One of the women lets out a soft, mocking little laugh. “What kind of information would make a man like Ricci Santori marry you?”
I smile sweetly “If I tell you, I’ll have to tell my husband to kill you.”
She rears back in surprise, and the others twitter nervously.
They move on quickly after that, turning the conversation to the charity gala like nothing happened. Their voices are bright and animated as they discuss themes, decorations, guest lists, the perfect shade of linen for the tables. They purposely leave me out, talking around me as if I’m not even there. I sit back in my chair, the leather cool against my back, and let them. I don’t need to be part of their little circle. I never have. Part of me wants to simply walk out, after all, I have done what I came to do, but then they will know they’ve won. Their condescending smiles get to me.
Annie turns to me with a big smile, as though she’s doing me a favor by remembering I exist. “Do you have any ideas, Viola? We’d love to hear your thoughts.”
I shake my head calmly. “No, I don’t. It looks like you all have everything under control anyway.” I look around the table. “But I’d be happy to support by writing a check.”
Ricci was right. The table goes instantly dead quiet. The insult is blatant, and it lands exactly where Ricci said it would. Their eyes narrow with envy and spite. I keep my expression pleasant, neutral.
I set my napkin down neatly and stand. “I should go. Thank you for having me. I’ll look forward to seeing you all at the gala.”
One of the women can’t help herself. “Are the rumors true?” she asks, her tone laced with satisfaction. “You really married Ricci Santori because Salvatore left you nothing?”
I meet her eyes without flinching. “Yes,” I say simply. “The rumors are true. Ricci saved me.”
I say a polite goodbye, turn and walk away. The relief hits me the moment I’m out of their sight. I promise myself right there, walking through the mall, that I will never get involved with them again. They’re not bad women. They have husbands who are unfaithful and bully them, so they have to find someone weaker than them to bully. But it reminds me once again of why I never had any interest in engaging with them in the past.
I step into the waiting car. “Take me to the studio, please.”
I need to throw more pieces. I need to get my hands dirty again and feel like myself.
Chapter Fifty-Five
RICCI
We’re finishing up in the back office of the club, the music beat of the main floor filtering through the walls. It sounds like a herd of wildebeest running in the distance. The meeting ran long, but we got through the accounts — clean numbers, tight margins, the kind of work that keeps everything running without drawing too much attention. Tommy is stacking the last of the ledgers. He looks up at me, eyebrows raised in that familiar way.
“Boss, you want to swing by The Carlyle? The commissioner’s there right now in the private lounge. Said he wants five minutes.”
I lean back in the leather chair. Usually this wouldn’t even be a question. I’d already be moving, suit jacket on, ready to handle whatever needed handling. I realize I’ve been leaving work earlier and earlier lately. The men have started noticing. I can see it in the glances, the way conversations pause when I stand up to go. They’re not stupid. They know something’s shifted.
I don’t care.
The only thing on my mind is her. If I stay out well past midnight as I used to do, she’ll be asleep by the time I get back. I don’t want that. I want to walk through the door and find her still awake, see that soft look she gives me when she thinks I’m not watching.
“Not tonight,” I say, voice calm but final. “Tell him we’ll catch him later in the week. I’ll meet for a drink before dinner.”
Tommy nods, already reaching for his phone. I stand up, grab my keys, and head out the side door. I slide behind the wheel of the black Escalade myself — no driver tonight. I want the quiet. I want the drive.
I can’t fucking believe it. Who could have known that the day would come when I’d be rushing back for a woman? Because I want to hear how her day went. I want to see the pieces she pulled from the kiln, hear her talk about glazes and whatever else made her eyes light up. These are the mundane things I’m looking forward to now.
Unbelievable.
I pull into the garage, kill the engine, and step out. The moment the elevator doors open into the penthouse, the smell hits me — warm, savory, something sizzling on the stove mixed with the sweet, buttery scent of baking. It hits me then. This. This is what I rushed home for. It’s all I’ve ever really wanted. I’m just pretending to be a Mafia boss. That’s not me. This is me.