Page 32 of Mafia Daddy's Christmas Bride
My plans—my career goals, my independence, my search for justice—all of it feels out of reach now.
Even my FBI contact has abandoned me, pushing me to stay in this marriage for his case rather than helping me escape.
"You're still awake." Roman's voice startles me. I thought he was asleep.
I quickly wipe away my tears. "So are you."
"Hard to sleep when someone's thinking so loudly next to you."
I turn to face him, finding his eyes open, watching me in the darkness. "I don't want to die," I whisper.
His expression turns concerned.
"But what am I living for? I'm trapped. I can't leave. I can't pursue my career. I can't even find out what happened to my mother without being labeled a traitor."
Roman shifts, propping himself up on one elbow. "You had a life before all this FBI business."
"A life where I was expected to be the perfect Mafia princess? Where I smiled at family gatherings while pretending I didn't know what my father and the others did? Waiting for him to marry me off…" My voice cracks. "I wanted something different."
"And now?"
"Now I'm more confined than ever." I stare up at the ceiling again. "Married to a stranger who's been ordered to watch my every move and possibly kill me."
"I told you I'd help you find out what happened to your mother."
"Why would you? What's in it for you?"
He's quiet for a moment. "Maybe I don't like being accused of murder."
I turn back to look at him, studying his face in the dim light. "I don't know how to live like this," I confess.
“How would you live if you weren’t in this situation? This life? What are your hopes and dreams?”
I stare at Roman in the darkness, confused by his question. "My dreams? Why would you care about those?"
"Humor me. What do you want from life?"
I hesitate, wondering if this is some kind of trap. But something in his tone makes me answer honestly.
"I wanted to be a designer. Fashion design, specifically."
Roman shifts slightly, his interest seemingly piqued. "Really?"
"Is that so hard to believe?" I can't keep the defensiveness from my voice.
"No, just… unexpected. I figured it was something like law or business."
It feels like a compliment. Like he thinks I’m smart. Or maybe it comes from my need for justice for my mother.
"I've been sketching designs since I can remember. I even went to design school, though my father wasn't thrilled about it. He was just humoring me, keeping me occupied."
"Why fashion?" He sounds genuinely interested, but I can’t forget that he’s a master at manipulation. Perhaps this is all a ploy to make me feel safe, to forget how lethal he is.
"Because when I design something, I'm creating more than just clothing. I'm creating how someone feels when they wear it. Their confidence, their comfort, their identity."
I wait for him to laugh or dismiss it, but he remains silent, listening.
"My mother always encouraged it," I continue, surprised by how easily the words flow now. "She said creativity was a gift that shouldn't be wasted. After she died, it became even more important, like I was keeping part of her alive through it."
