Page 22 of Mafia Daddy's Christmas Bride
Roman's eyes meet mine. Something flickers in their depths.
Hesitation?
For a split second, I see uncertainty in this man who has never seemed uncertain about anything.
His hand rises slowly to my cheek, his fingertips barely grazing my skin. I brace myself for my first kiss to be rough, a kiss that reminds me who I belong to now.
It never comes.
Instead, his lips touch mine with unexpected gentleness. Soft. Almost… respectful.
The pressure is light. My eyes flutter closed against my will, my body betraying my mind's resistance.
The kiss lasts only seconds, but it's enough to scatter my thoughts.
When he pulls away, I'm left disoriented, confused by the tenderness from a man I've only ever associated with violence.
"Breathe," he murmurs, so quietly only I can hear.
I realize I've been holding my breath. I inhale shakily as polite applause ripples through the room.
Roman's hand finds the small of my back, steady and warm. The touch is proprietary but not crushing.
Like everything about his kiss, it's not what I expected.
I glance up at him, searching his face for mockery or triumph, but find neither. Just that same unreadable expression, though something softer lingers around his eyes.
For the first time, I notice that while he’s older, he’s attractive.
He’s the epitome of a romance novel Alpha male with a strong, chiseled jaw, piercing gray eyes, and short, dark hair with a hint of gray along the temple.
An odd feeling flutters in my gut. My heart stutters.
I give my head a shake, hating having a reaction that is anything but loathing toward the man. I can’t afford to forget who he is, what he represents.
The reception passes in a blur of false smiles and veiled threats disguised as congratulations.
I recognize faces from La Corona gatherings throughout my life, men who decided my fate over brandy and cigars, women who watch me with either pity or calculation in their eyes.
I cling to the champagne flute in my hand, taking small sips to maintain composure without dulling my senses.
Roman stays close, his hand occasionally finding the small of my back when someone approaches. His touch is light but ever-present, a reminder of my new reality.
Sometimes, it feels like he's trying to be reassuring, but I dismiss that thought. His touch shows everyone that my ownership has changed from my father to him.
When it's finally over, I'm ushered into a sleek black SUV. Roman sits beside me.
"We're going home," Roman says, the first words he's spoken directly to me since our vows.
Home. It’s not my home. It’s my prison.
We arrive at a luxury high-rise in the heart of the city. The doorman nods respectfully as Roman guides us through the lobby, his hand on my elbow. The elevator ascends silently.
He opens the door. “It’s not as big or lavish as you’re used to.”
We enter the apartment. It's surprisingly warm with rich woods, comfortable furniture, large windows showcasing the city lights. Not the sparse, cold space I'd imagined.
“Let me show you around.” After a quick tour that ends in a large bedroom with floor-to-ceiling windows, Roman turns to me. "This is our room."
