Page 64 of Mafia Daddy's Christmas Bride
She deserves something more than just sex, and yet that’s all this should be. I've had plenty of it since Emilia died, meaninglessencounters that satisfied a physical need without touching anything deeper.
This was different.
I glance down at Isabella's sleeping form, her dark hair spilling across my chest. She trusted me with something precious, and I took it.
Not just her virginity, but her trust.
What the hell am I doing?
This woman is my assignment. She's potentially working with the Feds. She could be the downfall of everything I've built.
Yet here I am, holding her like she belongs in my arms. Like I want to protect her from the very people I've sworn loyalty to.
What the hell is happening to me? I'm supposed to be investigating this woman, not falling into bed with her. Not feeling this… whatever this is.
Part of me wants to believe she's innocent, just a daughter seeking justice for her mother.
The way she hesitated on that call with Blackwood, how she told him she'd find another way… it felt genuine.
But I've been in this business too long to trust feelings. How many men have I watched fall for a pretty face, only to end up with a knife in their back?
Isabella could be playing me, drawing me in so I lower my guard. She's still hiding that phone, after all. Still keeping secrets.
And then there's Angelica.
She's everything to me, the only pure thing in my life. What if Isabella is playing me? What if she's gathering intel by using me? I've brought a potential threat into our home. Into our lives.
I glance down at Isabella's sleeping form. She looks peaceful, vulnerable. Not like someone plotting destruction.
But appearances can be deceiving. I should know. I've cultivated my own for decades.
If Isabella betrays us, if she puts Angelica in danger…
I don't finish the thought. I know what I'll have to do. It's my job. It's who I am.
But for the first time in years, the thought of killing someone turns my stomach. Not because I've gone soft, but because I'm afraid I might actually care about her.
And that makes me more dangerous than I've ever been—to myself, to my family, and to everything I've sworn to protect.
I ease myself from beneath Isabella, careful not to wake her. Her dark hair spills across my pillow, and for a moment, I allow myself to stare.
She looks peaceful, innocent, even.
Nothing like the threat she could represent.
I shake my head, disgusted with myself. This wasn't part of the plan. Sex complicates things, especially with someone I'm supposed to be investigating. I need to get my head straight.
I dress quickly, pulling on sweatpants and a T-shirt. My gun goes into the waistband at my back, a habit I can't break, even in my own home. Especially now.
In my office, I pour a whiskey and sit at my desk.
The evidence Isabella provided sits in a folder before me, shell casings matching Calabresi hits, witness statements about cars registered to our shell companies.
It's compelling stuff, but it’s off. Wrong caliber. Wrong gun. Plus, it’s all too neat. Too convenient.
I pull up my own files, cross-referencing dates and operations. I add in the police records obtained through one of my contacts.
Something isn't adding up.
