Page 17 of Mafia Daddy's Christmas Bride
I stare into my whiskey. "A monster."
Mrs. Rossi doesn't contradict me. She's too smart for empty reassurances.
"My priority is Angelica," I say firmly. "No matter what happens with this marriage, she comes first. Always."
"As it should be."
The city lights blur as I lose myself in thought.
For six years, it's been just Angelica and me, our little family of two.
Now I'm bringing a stranger into our home.
A woman who believes I murdered her mother, who's been feeding information to the Feds.
A woman who might still need to be eliminated if she proves too dangerous.
Fucking Marco.
I love the man as a brother. I respect him as my boss. But of all his men he could have chosen for this duty, why me?
Why expose my daughter to Isabella’s uncertainty?
"Everything's about to change," I murmur, more to myself than to Mrs. Rossi.
"Change isn't always bad," she offers.
I think of Isabella's defiant eyes, the way she fought me in that park. Not just the mugger, but me.
There was something in that fight, something beyond fear. Something I might admire if she weren’t using it against me.
If I thought she’d show the same fierceness in protecting Angelica.
"No," I agree quietly. "Not always bad."
The next morning, I’m up early as usual, making breakfast for my baby girl. I miss a lot of dinners, so I make sure I’m always there for breakfast.
I flip the pancake with a practiced flick of my wrist, watching the golden-brown disk land on the finished stack.
"Is it ready yet, Daddy?" Angelica bounces on her stool at the counter, still in her unicorn pajamas, dark curls wild from sleep.
"Almost, Angel. Just one more." I pour the last of the batter into the pan. "Want to add the chocolate chips?"
Her face lights up as I hand her a small bowl. She carefully places the chips in a smiley face pattern, her tongue poking out in concentration.
It's these moments that keep me anchored when everything else feels like it's spinning out of control.
"Perfect. Go sit at the table. I'll bring it over."
She climbs onto her chair, legs swinging beneath the table. I slide a pancake stack in front of her, already cut into bite-sized pieces the way she likes.
"Daddy makes the best pancakes in the whole world," she declares, drowning them in syrup.
I pour myself a cup of coffee and sit across from her, watching her eat with enthusiasm.
My chest tightens thinking about what I need to tell her.
The wedding is happening fast, just two days.
