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)
I glance up at him and laugh, the sound bubbling out of me before I can stop it. The jealousy is so cute on him — this powerful, terrifying man pouting because a tiny puppy is stealing my attention. I reach out, grab his hand, and tug him down beside me. He comes willingly, dropping to his knees on the floor with me, his shoulder brushing mine.
Just then his phone rings.
He answers it, his voice shifting instantly into that of a stranger. I watch his face as he listens, and my stomach tightens at the way his jaw hardens, and his eyes go distant and cold, all the softness from a moment ago vanishing into nothing. I know that look. It means there’s trouble. Some mess that needs handling. It’s normal in his world, but it never stops making my chest feel tight and fearful. One of these days I’m going to get that call that tells me he is dead.
He ends the call quickly and turns to me. Before he can speak, I lean in and kiss him, soft and lingering, trying to pour everything I feel into it. He kisses me back, deep and reassuring, one hand cupping the back of my neck.
“I gotta go,” he mouths against my lips.
I nod in understanding, even though my heart is aching with worry. I watch him as he leaves, the door closing quietly behind him, and the penthouse suddenly feels too big, too empty without him in it.
To be honest, I’m becoming more and more worried every time he walks out like this. I remember again how Salvatore died: so suddenly, so stupidly, in a fruit shop of all places. It’s so easy to be killed in this world. One moment you’re here, the next you’re not. I close my eyes and say a silent prayer for him, hoping he comes home as soon as possible.
I can’t wait to be in his arms tonight.
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.