Page 75 of Mafia Daddy's Christmas Bride
“I… I'm working on a Christmas dress,” Isabella says tentatively.
Angelica’s brow furrows. “A Christmas dress?”
“Yes. I’m sewing it. For you, actually.”
“Me?” Angelica’s eyes widen in surprise. “What does it look like?”
“It’s red velvet with silver?—”
“Sparkly silver?” Angelica asks, suddenly animated.
“Yes.”
“Can I see? Will you show me how to sew?”
“Sure.” Isabella smiles, and it looks genuine. “We could make something for your dolls.”
I watch them, waffles forgotten, as Angelica peppers Isabella with questions about fabric and needles. The shift is so sudden it makes me suspicious.
Is Isabella changing tactics and using my daughter in her game?
Fucking hell. I’ve become paranoid. Angelica doesn’t know anything and Mrs. Rossi will be here.
“Can we start now?” Angelica hops out of her seat.
“Sure. Why not?”
I watch them disappear out of the kitchen, Angelica chattering excitedly about sequins and ribbons, Isabella nodding along with genuine interest.
I rise to do the dishes.
Something is shifting in this place. The house feels different somehow. Warmer.
Mrs. Rossi appears and shoos me away from the dishes. “The little one seems to be warming up to your wife.”
“Looks that way,” I mutter, still processing it myself.
“About time. That child needs a mother.”
I bristle at her words, though I know she means well. “She had a mother.”
Mrs. Rossi gives me a look I've seen a thousand times, part pity, part exasperation. “Had, Mr. Ginetti. Past tense.”
The truth stings, even after all these years. No one will ever replace Emilia.
The way she'd sing Angelica to sleep, how she'd known exactly when to push and when to comfort.
The fierce love she had for our daughter from the moment she knew she was pregnant.
And of course, for me, a man who didn’t deserve such a sweet woman but somehow got her.
But Mrs. Rossi, for all her cooking skills and efficiency, isn’t a mother. She’s a kind and gentle woman who loves us both, but she’s also hired help.
From down the hall, I hear Angelica's delighted laugh, followed by Isabella's softer one. My mind goes to a place it shouldn’t.
Maybe this arrangement could be more than just business and survival. Maybe Isabella could give Angelica something I can't, a woman's perspective, a gentler touch.
Someone who understands what it means to lose a mother too young.
