Page 58 of Mafia Daddy's Christmas Bride
I feel like an intruder, yet something in Roman's gaze invites me to stay. To witness this other side of him.
The father.
The man who makes snowman pancakes and laughs at his daughter's jokes.
I never expected to find this warmth in the home of a killer.
I pour a cup of coffee and sit alone at the table. Moments later, Roman brings Angelica’s plate to the table and they both join me.
“Daddy, can I have a pony for Christmas?” Angelica asks, cutting the head off her snowman pancake.
“Where will you keep it? Your room? You know they poop a lot.”
Angelica laughs. “Daddy, no. Amy Peretti has a pony out at a farm.”
“You’ll have to write Santa for that,” Roman says in what I suspect is his way of getting off the hook.
“What do you want for Christmas?” I ask him, although I’m not sure why. I’m his wife. I live in his home. But I’m not family.
His brows narrow, and I wonder if he’s thinking that he hadn’t planned to get me any present. “Health and happiness.”
“You can’t wrap that,” Angelica says with a roll to her eye.
“The best things in life can’t be bought, Angel.”
He’s right about that. I can’t buy my mother’s life back. I can’t buy freedom.
Mrs. Rossi enters the kitchen. “Time to finish up, Angelica.”
Ten minutes later, I stand in the doorway watching as Mrs. Rossi helps Angelica into her coat.
The little girl is chattering about a class project, something about papier-mâché planets—while deliberately avoiding eye contact with me.
“Have a good day at school, Angelica,” I offer tentatively.
She gives me a sideways glance, not quite hostile but nowhere near friendly. “Bye,” she mumbles before darting out the door with Mrs. Rossi close behind.
Roman grabs his suit jacket from the back of a chair. “I’m at the office today.” His eyes meet mine briefly, and I wonder if he's thinking about last night. My cheeks warm at the memory.
“I'll be here,” I respond, because where else would I go?
He nods, hesitates like he might say something more, then simply leaves.
The apartment falls silent. I'm completely alone.
Just me and my thoughts. And my supplies.
I walk to the bedroom where Roman had his men deliver my design materials.
The fabric bolts lean against the wall. My sewing machine sits on a small desk that wasn't there before.
Roman must have had it brought in specifically for me.
Another sweet gesture from the man who could kill me. It’s odd to feel gratitude toward my captor, but it’s there.
I’m a prisoner, but at least I’m able to enjoy my passion.
I unpack my supplies, arranging them in the corner of the bedroom. It's not the studio I'd dreamed of, but it's something, a small piece of myself I can hold on to in this strange new life.
