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)
The Godfather is dead… Long live the new Godfather!
At last. Finally, I wear the crown of blood. What I have done to lift it to my head is despicable. There is no forgiveness for such acts, but we will not speak of them now.
I will answer directly to my maker when the time comes, and I will pay my dues. I will stand in the fires of hell, wear the groaning chains of torture, and let Dante’s ferocious demons gorge endlessly on my flesh.
And I will do this willingly.
It is a great honor. A wonderful achievement. Men will kiss my hand reverently, restaurant owners will refuse to take my money, more wealth than I can ever hope to spend will flow into my hands. The whole world will be my oyster. All of it will be mine to take
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter One
VIOLA
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0-4RLPSwNtc
-laciatemi Cantare-
The wind whips through my hair as I urge Bella faster across the sprawling fields of the estate. The rhythmic thunder of her hooves echoes the wild beat of my heart. Bella’s muscles flex beneath me, powerful and sure, making me seem one with her. This is the only time I feel truly alive—free, untethered from the invisible chains that bind me every other moment.
No walls, no watchful eyes, just the world rushing by, and the honest scent of earth and horse sweat filling my lungs. No unnamed vague worry gnawing at the edges of my mind, making me feel as if I'm living on the edge. Everything could be fine, and in the next moment I will be knocked off balance and left to lie broken on the ground.
The little lake comes into view, its surface shimmering in the late-afternoon light like a sheet of polished glass. I pull Bella to a gentle halt at the edge and slide down from the saddle. Heat radiates from her neck as she dips her head eagerly to drink, her muzzle breaking the water with soft ripples. I let my gaze wander over the distant line of oak trees that mark the legal boundaries of my husband, Salvatore's world. Mine is smaller, confined to these stolen rides and the silent rooms of the house.
The sound of approaching hooves pulls me from my thoughts. I turn warily and spot Gino, the stable hand, galloping toward me on his old bay gelding. He is older than most of the men around here, shorter and rounder too, with a face weathered by years under the sun. I watch as he reins in, his chubby frame shifting awkwardly in the saddle. Dismounting is always a struggle for him. He plants one foot in the stirrup, huffs a bit, then swings the other leg over with a grunt that almost makes me smile.
Almost.
I bite it back, hiding it away like I do everything else. No one in this house gets to see inside me, not even Gino, whom I've known since I was dragged here four years ago. In his patient, gruff way, he taught me to ride, but letting my guard down is a luxury I can't afford. Not while I’m a prisoner in a gilded cage. Every kindness could be a potential betrayal.
"Senora," he says, dusting his hands on his worn jeans, his voice carrying that familiar Italian lilt softened by decades in America.
I cringe inwardly at the word, its implication and formality. In my head, I will never be Senora Greco. My name's Viola.
There is pity in his dark eyes, and it sets my teeth on edge. Pity? From him? Why? Fear bubbles up, hot and quick. "What is it?"
"I think you're going to want to go back home."
I stare at him curiously. This is new—he's never interrupted my rides before, never pulled me back early. "What's happened? Is my husband back?" Salvatore, home in the early afternoon? That's unheard of. He usually slinks in late at night, reeking of cigars, perfume, and whatever dirty deals he's sealed in the shadows.
Gino shrugs. "I was just asked to tell you to return immediately."
He won't say more—I see it in the set of his jaw, the way he avoids my eyes. Panic flickers to life in my gut, a cold twist that makes my hands clench around Bella's reins. What could be so urgent? I nod stiffly, but instead of mounting up, I decide to walk. The longer it takes to get back, the better. Thirty minutes of delay, maybe more, to steel myself for whatever waits. I hand Bella's reins to Gino without a word, and he leads the horses away.
I start down the dirt path.
The walk gives me time to think. About this time, Salvatore is usually at his favorite fruit shop in the city—a little hole-in-the-wall shop in Little Italy that the men call The Store. The air smells of ripe fruit, and the owner greets him like an old friend. This thing he has with The Store is the most peculiar thing about Salvatore. It is the only thing that ever piqued my curiosity in our loveless marriage. He smokes like a chimney, drinks grappa neat until his bloodshot eyes glaze over, but he has this odd obsession with fresh smoothies from that shop, blended right there with fruits he picks himself.