The Godfather's Love (Erika and Charles) novel Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Charles actually came back.

He had shaved. The stubble was gone, leaving his jaw hard and clean. He wore a crisp, deep gray suit, tailored perfectly to his frame. His hair was slicked back neatly. In his hand, he held a bouquet of blood-red Bulgarian roses, petals thick as velvet, dew still clinging to the edges.

From the kitchen came the rich scent of clam chowder—thick, creamy, with a hint of white wine. It was the only dish he could cook, and the only one he ever made well. I had taught him, once, back when that kind of thing mattered.

He paused when he saw me, rainwater dripping from my coat, hair plastered to my cheeks. His brow furrowed.

“You’re soaked. Go change before you catch a cold.”

His voice carried a concern I hadn’t heard in a long time. The kind that belonged to a husband.

If not for the new Patek Philippe on his wrist—the dainty, feminine one, obviously a woman’s—I might’ve believed him.

“Today…,” he began, extending the roses toward me. His expression was a mess of guilt and a desperate urge to patch things up.

“I’m sorry, Erika. Just give me a little more time.”

“After tonight, I won’t see her again. I promise.”

He looked at me, his eyes filled with that same nervous, hopeful flicker he had the first time he asked me out, back when we were kids chasing something bigger than ourselves.

I looked at the roses.

The petals were so dark they were nearly black, like congealed blood. The same kind he used to bring me during our first year of marriage—every time he came back from a trip. Then it became occasional. Then only for birthdays and anniversaries. And in the last two years, not even that.

“Tonight,” I said, taking the bouquet. The wrapping paper was cold against my fingers.

“This is the final farewell?”

He exhaled, nodding hard. “Yes. I promised to have one last dinner with her. Just dinner. At the downtown apartment. We won’t go anywhere.”

“I’ll be back before midnight. I swear.”

Still holding the roses, I walked over to the fireplace. The flames danced in the hearth, casting flickering light onto the marble mantel. I laid the bouquet down gently.

The firelight made the petals glow, like they were alive.

“Charles,” I said, my back to him.

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