Chapter 8 Isabella
ISABELLA
Awkward doesn’t begin to describe the first morning in my new home.
My new… family.
No, not family. At least not with me as a part of it.
Two days later, it’s still strange.
But I know it could be worse.
While I don’t doubt Roman would become the full-on enforcer he is toward me if I gave him a reason, he seems to be trying to make me feel comfortable.
So it wasn’t very smart of me to challenge him the first morning about Angelica one day learning what he does for a living.
I could see so much love between them that I know when she discovers the type of man he is, she’ll be angry and profoundly disappointed.
At least I was when I figured out my father lived on the wrong side of the law and hurt people to succeed.
The busyness of the morning gives way to a deafening silence in the apartment once Mrs. Rossi takes Angelica to school, and Roman leaves for work with a warning to me to stay put.
Two days into this forced marriage, and I'm suffocating. I stand at the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
So close to freedom, yet completely trapped.
The emptiness is all encompassing, inside and out.
No work to do.
No friends to call.
My phone confiscated after he caught me that first night.
I make another cup of coffee and take in the kitchen Mrs. Rossi scrubbed clean before taking Angelica to school.
The woman is everywhere in this house, cooking, cleaning, caring for Angelica and Roman with efficiency.
She's been with them for years, that much is obvious.
The way she anticipates Angelica's needs, knows Roman's schedule without asking…
I open the refrigerator and stare at the neatly organized contents.
Even the food isn't mine to control.
Mrs. Rossi does the shopping, the meal planning.
Not that I’ve ever done that as my father's chef was the same way. But it would be nice to have something to do.
I close my eyes, trying to imagine what I'd be doing right now in my old life.
Sketching new designs, perhaps. Building something that was mine.
Instead, I'm here, Mrs. Roman Ginetti, a glorified prisoner with a wedding ring.
The doorbell rings, startling me from my thoughts. I hesitate, unsure whether I should answer.
This isn't my home, not really. Is it even safe?
I remember Roman explaining the security protocols of the building, and no one can get up here without approval from his men stationed in the building’s lobby. I pull the door open.
Two men in suits stand there, flanking several large boxes.
"Mrs. Ginetti?" one asks.
I flinch at the name. "Yes?"
"Delivery for you. Where would you like these?"
I step back, confused. "I didn't order anything."
The man checks his clipboard. "Instructions were to bring these to the main bedroom. From the Ferraza residence."
My things? Before I can respond, they're moving past me, carrying box after box into Roman's bedroom. I watch, stunned, as they stack them neatly against the wall.
"That's the last of it," the lead man says, handing me a note. "Mr. Ginetti said you'd want to unpack these yourself."
Roman arranged this? I unfold the note.
Thought you might want some of your things. Let me know if there's anything else you need. - R
The men leave, and I'm alone with pieces of my old life. I approach the boxes.
The first one contains clothes, my favorite sweaters, dresses, the comfortable things I wear when designing.
The second box makes my breath catch. My sketchbooks. My fabrics. My sewing machine and dress forms.
Everything I need to create.
I pull out a half-finished design, running my fingers over the stitches.
Something warm and unexpected blooms in my chest.
Roman listened. He remembered our conversation about my designs. More than that, he acted on it.
I sit cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by my supplies, flipping through a sketchbook filled with ideas I'd thought I might never pursue again.
For the first time since this marriage began, I feel something like hope.
How am I supposed to hate a man who does this? Who brings me the one thing that makes me feel like myself?
It would be easier if he were the monster I'd imagined, not this man who tucks his daughter in at night and works so hard to make me welcome.
I press my palms against my eyes. Nothing about this situation makes sense anymore.
Especially not the flutter in my stomach when I think about thanking him.
I'm arranging my fabrics by color when I hear the front door open.
Checking my watch, I note that it's barely past noon. Too early for Angelica to be home from school or Roman from work.
And I believe Mrs. Rossi said she’d be out until two.
"Isabella?" Roman's deep voice calls out.
I scramble to my feet, suddenly self-conscious about the creative chaos I've spread across his bedroom. "In here."
He appears in the doorway, suit jacket slung over one shoulder, tie loosened. His eyes sweep over my supplies scattered across the floor, and I brace for criticism.
"I see the boxes arrived," he says instead, the hint of a smile playing at his lips.
"Yes. Thank you for…" I gesture at everything around me. "This was unexpected."
He shrugs like it's nothing. "Do you have everything you need?"
"More than I expected to have again."
Roman steps closer, examining a sketch I'd left open. His proximity makes my pulse quicken, a reaction I refuse to analyze.
"This is good," he says, surprising me. "But I imagine you need more supplies. A workspace."
"Eventually, maybe," I admit cautiously.
"I cleared my afternoon. We could go shopping now if you want."
I stare at him, trying to reconcile this thoughtful gesture with everything I know about Roman Ginetti, the feared enforcer who makes people disappear.
The man I'm convinced had something to do with my mother's death.
"Why are you doing this?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
His dark eyes meet mine. "Because you're stuck here, Isabella. Doesn't mean you need to be miserable."
Something in his gaze makes my chest tighten. It would be easier if he were cruel. His kindness is far more dangerous to my resolve.
"I…" I get caught up in his dark, penetrating eyes. I clear my throat. “Thank you.”
I freshen up, using the moment to get myself sorted. Then I leave the apartment with Roman. He drives to the garment district and to Mood Fabrics, one of the premier fabric shops in Manhattan.
“How do you know about this place?” I ask as we ride the elevator up to the third floor to the shop.
“Angelica told me. She watches some design show and said this was the place to shop.” He’d said she liked fashion, but apparently more than the average seven-year-old.
“Project Runway?”
He looks at me with amusement. “Yes. You know it?”
“Everyone who likes fashion design knows it.”
He shrugs. “Never been a fashion guy myself.”
I take in his expensive suit. “So how do you dress so well?”
He looks down at his suit and tie. “It’s not so hard for a man. Just go into a men’s store and pick a dark suit.”
I roll my eyes.
Our elevator arrives, and for the first time in a long time, I feel a sense of peace. This is my place among the never-ending bolts of fabric.
Roman follows me around as I take in the colors, the patterns, the cottons to the linen to the leather.
I run my fingers over a bolt of emerald silk, trying to focus on the fabric rather than Roman's intense presence just a few feet away.
"This would make a beautiful evening gown," I murmur, more to myself than to him.
"Get it if you want it," Roman says, his voice closer than I expected.
I pull the bolt from the shelf, adding it to the small collection in my arms.
Despite everything, I can't deny the thrill of being surrounded by possibilities again, textures, colors, patterns that could become something beautiful under my hands.
Roman's phone buzzes. He checks it, frowning. "I need to take this. Stay where I can see you."
He steps away, moving farther than I would expect him to considering I’m not just his wife but also his prisoner.
I move toward the lace section, comparing patterns.
I wonder if Angelica wears lace?
Maybe I could make something for her. Maybe I could teach her to sew. It could be a way to connect with her.
I pause as I realize the meaning of my thoughts. I’m thinking in terms of bonding with her, of being a family.
Am I falling into Stockholm Syndrome so quickly?
"The ivory would complement your coloring better than the cream."
I turn to find a woman beside me, early forties, stylish but unremarkable in a way that seems deliberate. She doesn't look at me directly, instead fingering a bolt of lace.
"I'm sorry?" I say, unsure whether she's just making conversation.
She slides a small package beneath a stack of lace samples. "Call Blackwood when it’s safe. Keep this hidden."
My heart pounds as I realize what's happening. I glance toward Roman, who's still on his call but watching me. I shift my body to block the woman from his view.
"When can I get out?" I whisper, fingers trembling as I discreetly take what I now realize is a phone. "I need witness protection."
The woman laughs lightly, as if we're discussing fabric choices. "That's not how this works. Blackwood needs you right where you are."
"But—"
"He'll explain when you call." She selects a bolt of lace. "This one would make lovely trim for that silk you're holding."
Before I can respond, she walks away, disappearing between the aisles as casually as she appeared. I slip the phone into my purse with shaking hands, feeling sick.
Not how this works? What does that mean?
Roman ends his call and returns to my side, his expression unreadable. "Find everything you need?"
I force a smile, painfully aware of the contraband in my purse. Oddly, I’m feeling guilty more than afraid. Like I’m betraying Roman.
"Almost."
I choose a few notions and then we pay. I clutch my new purchases against my chest as Roman guides me from the fabric store with a firm hand at the small of my back.