Page 36 of Mafia Daddy's Christmas Bride
The silence of early morning surrounds me. I'm used to the quiet hours before Angelica wakes, before the house fills with her chatter and energy.
But having Isabella here makes the silence feel different. Less empty.
I stare at her, feeling odd to have a woman's scent on my pillows again. Isabella smells like sunshine and flowers, nothing like Emilia's perfume. It should feel wrong, but it doesn't.
What would Emilia think of all this?
A marriage of convenience to a woman who might be plotting against us. A woman I might have to kill if she proves to be a genuine threat.
My jaw tightens at the thought.
You do what you have to, Roman.I can hear her voice in my head.
Emilia understood this life better than most. Her father had worked for the Calabresi family too. She knew what loyalty meant.
But this feels different. I take in Isabella, her dark hair spread across the pillow that was once Emilia's.
Guilt twists in my gut, not for marrying again, but for the deception. For bringing another woman into our home under false pretenses.
Isabella stirs slightly, her brow furrowing in sleep. What's she dreaming about? Escape? Her mother? Me?
I've spent my life reading people, assessing threats. It's kept me alive.
But Isabella confuses me.
One moment she's defiant, the next vulnerable. Her passion for design seems genuine. There was no calculation there, just pure enthusiasm.
And the way she noticed Angelica's outfit, that wasn't someone playing a role.
Is it possible she's been manipulated? Fed lies about her mother's death?
The thought sits uncomfortably. I've always seen the world in black and white. Loyalty or betrayal. Friend or enemy. Isabella exists somewhere in the gray.
Emilia would tell me to look deeper. She always saw the best in people, even when I couldn't. "Not everyone's trying to play an angle, Roman," she'd say. "Sometimes, people are just hurting."
Whatever Isabella's motivations, whatever truths or lies she believes, I need to find out. For Angelica's safety. For the family.
And maybe, just maybe, for Isabella too.
I watch Isabella's chest rise and fall with each breath, her dark lashes resting against her cheeks.
There's a softness to her in sleep that she never shows when awake.
A vulnerability she keeps hidden behind walls of defiance and determination.
She’s brave, too. Foolishly so, perhaps.
But beneath it all, though, I sense a profound sadness.
She's lost not just her mother, but her sense of purpose, of belonging.
Last night, when she spoke about design, I glimpsed the woman she could be without all this weight on her shoulders.
I glance around my bedroom, mentally rearranging the space. Could Isabella set up a design space in here?
She shifts again, turning away like she did last night when I climbed into bed with her. I smile at the memory of her reaction last night when I told her I wouldn't touch her.
The way her voice pitched higher. "Why not? What's wrong with me?" before she caught herself.
