Page 40 of Mafia Daddy's Christmas Bride
"Every detail," Isabella says softly. "Her smile, her perfume, how she'd sing when she thought no one was listening."
"My mommy smelled like cookies," Angelica offers. "Daddy says I have her eyes."
"You do," I confirm, throat tightening as I watch this unexpected exchange. "Exactly the same."
Isabella smiles at Angelica. "That's special. It means you carry a part of her with you always."
Angelica considers this. "My mommy got sick. Did your mommy get sick too?"
Isabella's face freezes for a fraction of a second.
So briefly, most people wouldn't notice, but I'm trained to catch these micro-expressions. Her fingers tighten around her coffee mug.
Shit. This conversation just veered into dangerous territory.
I’m instantly on edge wondering if she’s going to tell Angelica how her mom was murdered and how she thinks I did it, or that Marco ordered it.
"Angelica," I interject, trying to sound casual, "why don't you go get dressed? Mrs. Rossi will be taking you to school today."
But Angelica, stubborn as ever, ignores me. Her eyes remain fixed on Isabella, waiting for an answer.
Isabella takes a slow sip of coffee, buying herself time. I can practically see her mind working, weighing her words carefully.
"My mother…" she begins, and my muscles coil with tension. "My mother left very suddenly."
It's not a lie, but it's not the whole truth either. Smart. I feel a strange mix of relief and respect.
"That's sad," Angelica says with the straightforward empathy only children possess.
Isabella nods. "Yes, it was. It still is."
I clear my throat. "Angelica, go get dressed. Now, please."
Something in my tone must finally register because she slides off her chair without argument. "Okay, Daddy." She puts her plate in the sink and then skips out of the kitchen.
After Angelica disappears down the hallway, Isabella sets down her coffee mug with deliberate care.
"Thank you," I say quietly. "For not?—”
"For not telling her that my mother was murdered?" Her voice is low, controlled. "I wouldn't do that to a child."
Our eyes meet across the table. For a moment, neither of us speaks. I hate that I can’t read her.
“I’ll do the dishes.” I clear the breakfast dishes.
Isabella rises from the table and goes to the refrigerator, studying the photographs and Angelica’s artwork posted on it.
Most photos are of Angelica—at the beach, riding her first bike, blowing out birthday candles.
A timeline of my daughter's life, preserved with magnets.
"You're good with her," Isabella says, tracing the edge of a photo where Angelica sits on my shoulders at the zoo. "She adores you."
"She's my world." I stack plates in the dishwasher, the domesticity of the moment almost surreal given who we are, what we do.
Isabella hesitates, fingering the hem of her sweater. "Have you thought about what happens when she's older? When she starts asking questions about what you do?"
My hands still on the silverware. "What do you mean?"
