Page 117 of Mafia Daddy's Christmas Bride
"Roman." He doesn't stand when I enter. "I didn’t hear from Marco that you’d be coming.”
I take the seat across from him without invitation. "I promised Isabella that I’d help her find out about her mother’s murder.”
His face remains impassive, but his knuckles whiten around his glass. "You’re supposed to focus on keeping my daughter safe and away from all that business."
“Have you met your daughter?”
His lips twitch upward. “Yes, well, our goal is to protect her and La Corona. Surely, that’s not too much for you to handle.”
“With all due respect, Don Ferraza, I believe there’s more to your wife's death. Something that puts La Corona at risk."
"Your job is to protect her, not encourage her obsession with the past. She should be raising your child. Maybe having one of her own."
"A child won't make her drop this, and even if it did, I wouldn't. There's something going on, Don Ferraza." I lean forward. "Whoever killed your wife is still out there, still targeting La Corona."
Leonardo sets his glass down. "My daughter has suffered enough. I won't have her dragged further into this mess."
"She's already in it," I counter. "Has been since her mother was killed. The only way out is through."
“You seriously think there’s some sort of conspiracy out there?”
“Why do you think your wife was killed?” I have this unsettling feeling that maybe Don Ferraza is behind his wife’s murder. Why else would he care so little about finding her killer?
His dark eyes bore into me. “I don’t believe you did it like the FBI wants my daughter to believe.”
“Good to know, but someone did kill her. Surely, you’re curious.”
He sits back and studies me. “I think she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“You don’t think she was the target?” I haven’t heard this theory before.
He shrugs. “The world we live in, Roman, is filled with danger. You and me, we’re more likely to be killed by a rival or perhaps even from within, but it’s possible we’ll be hit by a car or struck by lightning. Same for our family.”
“Your wife wasn’t hit by a car or struck by lightning. She was gunned down in broad daylight.”
“Your point?”
Fucking hell. I decide to move on to the real purpose of my visit. “Isabella mentioned her mother kept a notebook. A journal of sorts."
“She kept many notebooks," he says dismissively. "She was always writing. Shopping lists, social engagements, household matters."
"This one was different," I press. "This one the police have kept. It makes me wonder what she had in it.”
"What exactly are you implying, Roman?"
"I'm not implying anything. I'm asking directly. What was in her notebook? If the cops kept it, it must be important."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
I study him, looking for signs of deceit or guilt. But I don’t see it. Of course, that doesn’t mean he’s not lying.
“Did you know your wife was hoping to have Isabella leave this life?”
His eyes narrow. “You should watch yourself. My family business is just that. My business.”
“Isabella is my wife. Her business is my business.”
His face hardens. "You're overstepping, Roman. Don't forget who you're speaking to."
