Page 74 of Mafia Daddy's Christmas Bride
Another child to protect in this life. Another complication in an already impossible situation.
Then again, maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing. If she's carrying my child, La Corona would never touch her.
Marco, Leonardo, none of them would allow harm to come to the mother of my baby. It would bind her to me permanently.
But is that fair to her? To trap her even more thoroughly in a life she never wanted?
I run a hand over my face. No. I can't think like that. I can't use a child as a shield or a chain. And yet… the thought of Isabella rounded with my baby sends an unexpected warmth through me despite the cold water sluicing over my skin.
How the hell did this get so complicated?
This marriage is supposed to be business. Protection for her, information for me.
Not this maddening mix of desire and doubt. Not lying awake at night, aching to touch a woman who still keeps secrets.
This is the hell I've created for myself. Wanting a woman who might be using me, protecting someone who might betray me, craving the touch of hands that could be my undoing.
I exit the shower and dress. It’s the weekend, but I have a meeting planned with Marco. Good thing. I need some distance.
I head to the kitchen and start breakfast. Today is waffles. I mix the batter and start ladling it into the waffle iron. The kitchen smells like sweetness and coffee, normal weekend stuff. But nothing about this situation is normal.
Isabella reminds me of that as she enters the kitchen. “Do you ever sleep in?”
“Never.” I keep my focus on the waffles.
“Can I help?”
“There are some strawberries over there.”
Isabella stands at the counter, slicing strawberries. Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, a few strands falling around her face. She looks up, catches me watching, and something flickers in her eyes.
Is it desire? Is it distrust? What a crazy dance she and I are engaged in.
“I think we have enough to feed an army already,” she says, nodding toward the tower of waffles.
I shrug. “Angelica can put away more than you'd expect.”
On cue, my daughter bursts into the kitchen, still in her unicorn pajamas, hair wild from sleep. “Waffles!” She climbs onto a stool at the counter, her eyes bright. “With chocolate chips?”
“Strawberries today,” I tell her, setting a plate in front of her. “Isabella cut them up for us.”
Angelica looks at Isabella, then back at the strawberries. “Did you wash them first?”
“Of course,” Isabella answers, a hint of amusement in her voice.
“Good.” Angelica grabs the butter. “Mommy always said dirty strawberries make your tummy hurt.”
I freeze, wondering if Angelica is trying to be cruel to mention her mother.
“Your mom was very smart,” Isabella says.
“So,” I say, clearing my throat as I serve Isabella a plate, “what are you two planning for today while I handle some business?”
“I want to watch Christmas cartoons. Can I, Daddy?”
“Sure. Why not?” I glance at Isabella. “What about you?” I haven’t gotten any notifications that she’s been on her phone, but I’ve been around a lot more lately.
Today will be a perfect day for her to do so if she still intends to defy me.
