Chapter 10 Isabella
ISABELLA
I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, Agent Blackwood's voice still echoing in my head.
“Your mother would want justice, not just for her death, but for all the lives these families have destroyed.” The same words he's been feeding me for months.
But now, I’m wondering if he’s just using me. Roman’s words have made me question Agent Blackwood.
My fingers trace my lips, still tingling from Roman's kiss.
God, what am I doing?
A few days ago, I was convinced this man was a monster, possibly even my mother's killer. Now he’s not only made me doubt Agent Blackwood, but I've let him touch me in ways no one ever has.
And I liked it.
A lot.
I turn onto my side, hugging the pillow tightly. When I showed Roman the evidence Blackwood gave me, the shell casings, the car sighting, he didn't rage or threaten.
He looked confused. Thoughtful.
Like a man genuinely trying to solve a puzzle, not cover his tracks.
“Everyone knows not to leave shell casings,” he'd said. Such a simple statement, but it's been burrowing into my brain ever since.
Would professional killers make such amateur mistakes?
Would the Calabresi family, with all their resources and experience, leave such an obvious trail?
Roman is right. They don’t continue to live free to do their corrupt deeds by being stupid and reckless.
I’m feeling confused and torn about what to believe, who to believe.
But it’s clear I’m leaning toward Roman.
I’d told Blackwood I couldn’t help him. That I’d find the truth another way.
Instead, I’m putting my faith in Roman to help me find the truth.
I shouldn't trust him. He's La Corona through and through.
But when he looks at me, when he touches me… I feel safe. Protected. Seen.
God help me, I think I'm starting to trust the most dangerous man I've ever met.
For reasons that don’t make sense, knowing all this makes Blackwood's push for me to keep spying feel wrong now.
He says I’m in danger and he won’t be able to protect me if I don’t help him.
I don’t doubt that I’m in danger, and yet, I’m not dead.
I talked to a federal agent and all of La Corona knows it.
But instead of killing me, they married me to Roman.
Granted, it’s his job to keep me out of trouble and probably learn what secrets I’ve spilled, but I don’t feel in danger. I am alive.
In Roman's bed.
The man who was supposed to be my executioner instead brought me fabric and art supplies and then touched me in ways I’d never experienced.
I roll onto my back, heat flooding my cheeks as I replay what happened in Roman's office. My body still hums with the aftershocks of pleasure. His hands were so sure, so knowing despite their lethal capability. The patience in his voice when he asked what I wanted…
“Perhaps another time, I can teach you more,” he'd said, voice like gravel and honey. The memory sends a fresh wave of warmth through me.
What must he think of me?
Twenty-five years old and completely inexperienced. A virgin who melted at his touch.
I press my palms against my burning face. I should be mortified.
I am mortified, but beneath the embarrassment lies something else.
A hunger. A curiosity about what “more” might entail.
The same hands that have likely ended lives brought me to ecstasy.
How is that possible?
Roman Ginetti is a contradiction I can't solve.
The brutal enforcer who makes breakfast with his daughter.
The man who threatened to kill me, then bought me fabric and art supplies.
The monster who might have murdered my mother, yet touches me with such care I could weep.
I should hate him. I should fear him. I do fear him, his power, his capabilities, his world. But there's something else too.
Something that makes me yearn when he looks at me with those dark, knowing eyes.
My eyelids grow heavy as exhaustion finally overtakes my racing thoughts. The sheets smell like him. It's comforting in a way I refuse to examine too closely.
As sleep claims me, one thought circles.
What if Roman really is the key to finding my mother's killer?
What if, in this twisted fairy tale, the dragon is actually my protector?
I wake to an empty bed and the faint scent of coffee drifting through the apartment. Pulling on a robe, I follow the sounds coming from the kitchen. I pause at the doorway, unseen.
Roman stands at the stove, his massive frame oddly gentle as he flips pancakes. His usual severe expression is softened, almost boyish as he glances over at Angelica, who sits at the counter with her legs swinging.
“Can we make them look like snowmen?” she asks, her dark curls bouncing with excitement.
“Snowmen, huh?” Roman's voice holds none of the cold authority I've heard him use with his men. “That's ambitious for so early in the morning, Piccola.”
“Please, Daddy?” She draws out the word, tilting her head in a way that's clearly calculated. The little manipulator already knows her power.
Roman sighs dramatically, but his eyes crinkle. “Fine. But you have to eat all three parts of the snowman, not just the head like last time.”
Angelica claps her hands, victorious. “Deal!”
I watch as Roman carefully pours batter to form three connecting circles. His hands, the same hands that touched me so intimately last night, the same hands that have likely ended lives, move with surprising delicacy.
“Hold the chocolate chips,” he instructs, passing her a small bowl. “You're in charge of the face.”
The pride on Angelica's face as she accepts this responsibility makes something twist in my chest.
I never had this with my father.
Our breakfasts were formal affairs, often with business associates present.
The closest I came to moments like this were with my mother, before…
Roman notices me then, his eyes meeting mine over Angelica's head. “Good morning.”
“Morning,” I respond, stepping fully into the kitchen.
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-maché 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.
As I unfold a bolt of red velvet, an idea forms.
Christmas is coming, and Angelica needs something special to wear.
I sketch quickly, the pencil flying across the page, a girl's dress with a fitted bodice and full skirt, perfect for twirling.
I add delicate white lace at the collar and cuffs, imagining how it would look against Angelica's olive skin.
And if I'm making something for her… My pencil moves again, sketching a matching tie for Roman. Deep red with subtle silver threads woven through.
I'm halfway through cutting the velvet when I hear the front door open. My hands freeze mid-motion, scissors suspended above the fabric.
It's barely past noon, hours before Roman should be home.
Has someone else come to do what he hasn’t?
I rise and hide behind the door, scissors gripped tightly in case I need to defend myself.
“Isabella?” His deep voice carries through the apartment.
I blow out a breath of relief. “In here.”
Roman appears in the doorway, still in his suit but with the tie loosened and top button undone.
His eyes scan the room, taking in the fabric spread across the floor, the sketches pinned to the wall.
And then me, holding the scissors like a knife I plan to stab him with.
He arches a brow. “Expecting trouble?”
I set the scissors down. “You're home early. I thought… well…”
He steps into the room. “You thought you might be in danger?”
I shrug.
“It’s good I came home, then. I want to teach you something.”
“What?”