Page 43 of Mafia Daddy's Christmas Bride
Instead, I'm here, Mrs. Roman Ginetti, a glorified prisoner with a wedding ring.
The doorbell rings, startling me from my thoughts. I hesitate, unsure whether I should answer.
This isn't my home, not really. Is it even safe?
I remember Roman explaining the security protocols of the building, and no one can get up here without approval from his men stationed in the building’s lobby. I pull the door open.
Two men in suits stand there, flanking several large boxes.
"Mrs. Ginetti?" one asks.
I flinch at the name. "Yes?"
"Delivery for you. Where would you like these?"
I step back, confused. "I didn't order anything."
The man checks his clipboard. "Instructions were to bring these to the main bedroom. From the Ferraza residence."
My things?Before I can respond, they're moving past me, carrying box after box into Roman's bedroom. I watch, stunned, as they stack them neatly against the wall.
"That's the last of it," the lead man says, handing me a note. "Mr. Ginetti said you'd want to unpack these yourself."
Roman arranged this?I unfold the note.
Thought you might want some of your things. Let me know if there's anything else you need. - R
The men leave, and I'm alone with pieces of my old life. I approach the boxes.
The first one contains clothes, my favorite sweaters, dresses, the comfortable things I wear when designing.
The second box makes my breath catch. My sketchbooks. My fabrics. My sewing machine and dress forms.
Everything I need to create.
I pull out a half-finished design, running my fingers over the stitches.
Something warm and unexpected blooms in my chest.
Roman listened. He remembered our conversation about my designs. More than that, he acted on it.
I sit cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by my supplies, flipping through a sketchbook filled with ideas I'd thought I might never pursue again.
For the first time since this marriage began, I feel something like hope.
How am I supposed to hate a man who does this? Who brings me the one thing that makes me feel like myself?
It would be easier if he were the monster I'd imagined, not this man who tucks his daughter in at night and works so hard to make me welcome.
I press my palms against my eyes. Nothing about this situation makes sense anymore.
Especially not the flutter in my stomach when I think about thanking him.
I'm arranging my fabrics by color when I hear the front door open.
Checking my watch, I note that it's barely past noon. Too early for Angelica to be home from school or Roman from work.
And I believe Mrs. Rossi said she’d be out until two.
