Chapter 7 Roman
ROMAN
I wake before dawn, my body's internal alarm clock going off despite the late night.
Turning my head, I find Isabella curled on her side of the bed, one hand tucked under her cheek, dark hair spilling across the pillow.
The soft glow from the moonlight coming through the window casts just enough light to trace the delicate curve of Isabella's cheek, the slight part of her lips.
She's beautiful.
I've always known this, seen it at family gatherings across crowded rooms, but it's different up close. Intimate.
My fingers twitch with the unexpected urge to brush back a strand of hair from her face.
I don't.
It feels a little perverted. Even though we’re married, I’m well aware of how much older I am than her. She’s closer in age to Angelica than me.
But then there is Emilia.
It’s been three years since a woman has been in my bed overnight.
Since Emilia died just after Angelica’s fourth birthday from a rare aggressive cancer. I try to be grateful that Emilia and Angelica had four years together, but it’s hard.
Since then, I've kept women at arm's length.
Quick encounters in hotel rooms. Nothing permanent.
Nothing that could complicate my life or Angelica's.
Nothing that could break our hearts again.
The silence of early morning surrounds me. I'm used to the quiet hours before Angelica wakes, before the house fills with her chatter and energy.
But having Isabella here makes the silence feel different. Less empty.
I stare at her, feeling odd to have a woman's scent on my pillows again. Isabella smells like sunshine and flowers, nothing like Emilia's perfume. It should feel wrong, but it doesn't.
What would Emilia think of all this?
A marriage of convenience to a woman who might be plotting against us. A woman I might have to kill if she proves to be a genuine threat.
My jaw tightens at the thought.
You do what you have to, Roman. I can hear her voice in my head.
Emilia understood this life better than most. Her father had worked for the Calabresi family too. She knew what loyalty meant.
But this feels different. I take in Isabella, her dark hair spread across the pillow that was once Emilia's.
Guilt twists in my gut, not for marrying again, but for the deception. For bringing another woman into our home under false pretenses.
Isabella stirs slightly, her brow furrowing in sleep. What's she dreaming about? Escape? Her mother? Me?
I've spent my life reading people, assessing threats. It's kept me alive.
But Isabella confuses me.
One moment she's defiant, the next vulnerable. Her passion for design seems genuine. There was no calculation there, just pure enthusiasm.
And the way she noticed Angelica's outfit, that wasn't someone playing a role.
Is it possible she's been manipulated? Fed lies about her mother's death?
The thought sits uncomfortably. I've always seen the world in black and white. Loyalty or betrayal. Friend or enemy. Isabella exists somewhere in the gray.
Emilia would tell me to look deeper. She always saw the best in people, even when I couldn't. "Not everyone's trying to play an angle, Roman," she'd say. "Sometimes, people are just hurting."
Whatever Isabella's motivations, whatever truths or lies she believes, I need to find out. For Angelica's safety. For the family.
And maybe, just maybe, for Isabella too.
I watch Isabella's chest rise and fall with each breath, her dark lashes resting against her cheeks.
There's a softness to her in sleep that she never shows when awake.
A vulnerability she keeps hidden behind walls of defiance and determination.
She’s brave, too. Foolishly so, perhaps.
But beneath it all, though, I sense a profound sadness.
She's lost not just her mother, but her sense of purpose, of belonging.
Last night, when she spoke about design, I glimpsed the woman she could be without all this weight on her shoulders.
I glance around my bedroom, mentally rearranging the space. Could Isabella set up a design space in here?
She shifts again, turning away like she did last night when I climbed into bed with her. I smile at the memory of her reaction last night when I told her I wouldn't touch her.
The way her voice pitched higher. "Why not? What's wrong with me?" before she caught herself.
The flash of indignation in her eyes was unexpected. Endearing, almost.
For someone who claimed to want nothing to do with me, her wounded pride was telling.
I've spent enough time reading people to recognize when someone surprises even themselves with their reactions.
What did she expect? That I'd force myself on her? That I'd claim my "husbandly rights" like some medieval lord?
The thought turns my stomach. I've done many things in service to the family, things that would horrify most people, but that line I won't cross.
I watch the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she sleeps. Has she been touched by a man?
She’s twenty-five. Surely, she’s been with a man.
Then again, Don Ferraza kept a tight leash on her.
God. Could she still be a virgin?
And what the fuck am I doing thinking about Isabella’s sex life?
The sheet drapes over her body, outlining the perfect curves of a woman’s body, and I can’t look away. I’m suddenly aware of a familiar heat spreading through my body straight to my dick.
Fuck.
I shouldn't be looking at her like this. She's a job. A responsibility. A potential threat.
But my body doesn't seem to care about what she might be. It only registers the soft curves beneath the sheets, her scent, the way her eyes flashed with indignation when she thought I didn't want her.
What would it be like to touch her? To trace the line of her jaw with my fingertips, to feel her pulse quicken beneath my palm?
To claim those full lips properly, not the chaste kiss we shared at the altar, but something real. Something hungry.
The images come unbidden.
Isabella's dark hair spread across my pillows, not in sleep, but in pleasure.
Her back arching as my hands explore her body.
Those defiant eyes softening, surrendering.
My cock embedded deep inside her.
Christ.
I thrash out of bed abruptly, stalking to the bathroom. This ends now.
I'm not some teenager who can't control his dick. I'm Roman fucking Ginetti.
I've stared down men twice my size without blinking. I've negotiated million-dollar deals without breaking a sweat. I've killed without hesitation when necessary. I can damn well control my libido.
The bathroom door closes behind me with a soft click. I strip quickly, avoiding my reflection in the mirror, and step into the shower.
The cold water hits me like a physical shock, exactly what I need to regain my composure.
As the icy spray pounds against my skin, I force my thoughts away from the woman sleeping in my bed.
Away from soft curves and her summer scent. Away from her parted lips and defiant eyes.
I have a job to do. A daughter to protect. A family to serve.
Everything else is just a distraction.
But fucking hell. She’s seared into my brain.
I turn the nob up to hot and grip my cock. It’s not like I haven’t jerked off to thoughts of her. In fact, it’s a little annoying that I’m having to do it again.
What the fuck is wrong with me that this woman has me succumbing like this?
With jerky, angry strokes, I masturbate to thoughts of Isabella’s pussy around my dick, imagining pumping harder and faster until she screams my name and I empty inside her.
Once I’m done coming and then washing my body, I exit the shower. I dress in a suit and then leave my bedroom, careful not to look at Isabella so she doesn’t bewitch me again.
The apartment is silent except for the soft hum of the heating system. It's early, but Angelica will be up soon.
In the kitchen, I pull out the waffle iron and ingredients.
I miss a lot of lunches and dinners, so I make a point to always have breakfast with Angelica.
Some things in life need to stay consistent, especially when everything else is changing.
The familiar routine settles me. I can make breakfast with little input from my brain, which is good because my thoughts keep drifting back to the woman sleeping in my bed.
Isabella. My wife.
"Daddy?" Angelica's sleepy voice pulls me from my thoughts. She stands in the doorway, hair tousled, clutching her stuffed rabbit.
"Morning, Angel."
She runs to me, and I lift her onto the counter. "Waffles?"
She nods, rubbing sleep from her eyes. "With chocolate chips?"
"Is there any other way?" I tap her nose, earning a giggle.
As I fold chocolate chips into the batter, Angelica swings her legs against the cabinets, watching me with curious eyes.
"Is she still sleeping?" she asks.
No need to ask who "she" is. "Yes. She had a long day yesterday."
Angelica considers this. "Mrs. Rossi says I should be nice to her."
I pour batter into the hot iron. "Mrs. Rossi is very smart."
"But what if she doesn't like me?"
The vulnerability in her voice makes my chest tighten. I turn from the waffle iron to look at her properly. "Angelica, anyone who doesn't like you is missing out on knowing the most amazing girl in the world."
She fidgets with her rabbit's ear. "But what if she tries to take you away from me?"
Christ. I should have prepared better for this conversation.
"Nobody could ever take me away from you." I brush her hair back from her forehead. "You're stuck with me forever, Angel. That's the deal."
The waffle iron beeps, and I turn to retrieve the first waffle, placing it on Angelica's favorite purple plate.
"Besides," I add, pouring more batter, "I think Isabella might surprise you. She noticed your outfit yesterday. She said she liked how you put colors together."
Angelica perks up at this. "Really? She likes fashion too?"
"She wants to be a designer. Make clothes and things."
"Like on Project Runway?" Her eyes widen with newfound interest.
I nod, though I have no idea what Project Runway is. "Something like that."
I glance up from the waffle iron to see Isabella hovering in the kitchen doorway.