Chapter 7 Roman #2
She's dressed in jeans and a simple sweater, casual clothes that somehow look both designer and comfortable on her. Her hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, looking uncertain about whether to enter or retreat.
"Good morning," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "Coffee's fresh."
Her eyes dart from me to Angelica, watching Isabella with unabashed curiosity.
"Thank you," Isabella murmurs, stepping fully into the kitchen. She moves with natural grace, but there's tension in her shoulders, like she's bracing for something.
"Hungry?" I gesture to the waffle iron. "We’re having waffles today."
"I don't want to impose." She reaches for a mug from the cabinet, hesitating like she's not sure if she's allowed.
"Top shelf, right side," I direct her. "And you're not imposing. You live here now."
Isabella finds a mug and pours herself coffee, adding cream from the carton I've left on the counter. Her movements are careful. Like she's navigating a minefield rather than making breakfast.
"Daddy makes the best waffles. With chocolate chips." Angelica informs Isabella.
Isabella looks startled at being directly addressed, then offers a small smile. "That sounds delicious, actually."
"Coming right up," I say, pouring more batter into the iron. "Have a seat. You too, Angel. At the table.”
As Isabella slides into a chair next to Angelica, I note how she seems out of her element in this modest kitchen with this unexpected family unit we've created overnight.
"How do you take your waffle?" I ask, trying to give her something normal to focus on. "Syrup? Fruit? Powdered sugar?"
“Syrup is fine.”
I slide the fresh waffle onto a plate and place it in front of Isabella. "Syrup's on the table."
"Thank you," Isabella says, reaching for the syrup. "This looks wonderful."
Angelica watches Isabella with narrowed eyes, her earlier curiosity hardening into something more defensive.
She stabs at her waffle with unnecessary force. "You're not my mommy. I already had a mommy and she was the best mommy ever."
Isabella freezes, syrup bottle suspended mid-pour.
I open my mouth to reprimand Angelica, but Isabella speaks first.
"You're absolutely right," she says gently. "I'm not your mommy. No one could ever replace her."
Angelica blinks, clearly not expecting this response.
Isabella sets down the syrup bottle. "I lost my mom too.”
"You did?" Angelica's hostility falters.
"Yes. And it hurt so much I thought I'd never feel okay again." Isabella cuts a small piece of waffle but doesn't eat it. "Sometimes, it still hurts."
Angelica studies Isabella's face. "Do you remember what she looked like?"
"Every detail," Isabella says softly. "Her smile, her perfume, how she'd sing when she thought no one was listening."
"My mommy smelled like cookies," Angelica offers. "Daddy says I have her eyes."
"You do," I confirm, throat tightening as I watch this unexpected exchange. "Exactly the same."
Isabella smiles at Angelica. "That's special. It means you carry a part of her with you always."
Angelica considers this. "My mommy got sick. Did your mommy get sick too?"
Isabella's face freezes for a fraction of a second.
So briefly, most people wouldn't notice, but I'm trained to catch these micro-expressions. Her fingers tighten around her coffee mug.
Shit. This conversation just veered into dangerous territory.
I’m instantly on edge wondering if she’s going to tell Angelica how her mom was murdered and how she thinks I did it, or that Marco ordered it.
"Angelica," I interject, trying to sound casual, "why don't you go get dressed? Mrs. Rossi will be taking you to school today."
But Angelica, stubborn as ever, ignores me. Her eyes remain fixed on Isabella, waiting for an answer.
Isabella takes a slow sip of coffee, buying herself time. I can practically see her mind working, weighing her words carefully.
"My mother…" she begins, and my muscles coil with tension. "My mother left very suddenly."
It's not a lie, but it's not the whole truth either. Smart. I feel a strange mix of relief and respect.
"That's sad," Angelica says with the straightforward empathy only children possess.
Isabella nods. "Yes, it was. It still is."
I clear my throat. "Angelica, go get dressed. Now, please."
Something in my tone must finally register because she slides off her chair without argument. "Okay, Daddy." She puts her plate in the sink and then skips out of the kitchen.
After Angelica disappears down the hallway, Isabella sets down her coffee mug with deliberate care.
"Thank you," I say quietly. "For not—”
"For not telling her that my mother was murdered?" Her voice is low, controlled. "I wouldn't do that to a child."
Our eyes meet across the table. For a moment, neither of us speaks. I hate that I can’t read her.
“I’ll do the dishes.” I clear the breakfast dishes.
Isabella rises from the table and goes to the refrigerator, studying the photographs and Angelica’s artwork posted on it.
Most photos are of Angelica—at the beach, riding her first bike, blowing out birthday candles.
A timeline of my daughter's life, preserved with magnets.
"You're good with her," Isabella says, tracing the edge of a photo where Angelica sits on my shoulders at the zoo. "She adores you."
"She's my world." I stack plates in the dishwasher, the domesticity of the moment almost surreal given who we are, what we do.
Isabella hesitates, fingering the hem of her sweater. "Have you thought about what happens when she's older? When she starts asking questions about what you do?"
My hands still on the silverware. "What do you mean?"
"Your work, Roman." Her voice drops lower. "When she understands what being an enforcer means."
Something cold slides down my spine. "I'm her father. That's what matters."
"But eventually, she'll learn about the other side of you. The side that—"
"That what?" I cut her off, my voice sharp. "The side that kills people? Is that what you were going to say?"
Isabella doesn't flinch. "Yes."
I close the dishwasher with more force than necessary. "I protect my family. Everything I do is to keep the people I care about safe."
"Including murder?"
"When necessary." I turn to face her fully. "But I didn't kill your mother, Isabella. I had no reason to."
She crosses her arms. "You keep saying that."
"Because it's the truth." I step closer, fighting to keep my voice level. "I've done things I'm not proud of. Things I'll have to answer for someday. But your mother's death isn't one of them."
"Then who did it?"
"I don't know. But I meant what I said. I'll help you find out." I hold her gaze, willing her to believe me. "Just not with the FBI. Not by putting Angelica at risk."
I turn away from Isabella, trying to control the anger growing in me. I’m doing the best I can to make her comfortable in this fucked up situation, but she just wants to poke at me.
"You've been here less than twenty-four hours and you're questioning my parenting, continuing to accuse me of things I haven’t done, ignoring me when I offer to help?"
The silence stretches between us.
I hear Angelica's footsteps racing down the hall, then Mrs. Rossi intercepting her, their voices fading as they head toward Angelica's room.
I turn to her. “This will go easier if you can meet me halfway. You won’t believe this, Isabella, but I’m a patient man… but I have my limits.”
She nods, eyes downcast, and something in her defeated posture makes my irritation falter.
This situation isn't easy for any of us, least of all her.
Forced marriage, strange home, instant stepmother to a child who's naturally suspicious.
"This is awkward as hell, isn't it?" I say, softening my tone.
A surprised laugh escapes her. "That's one way to put it."
I run a hand through my hair. "Look, I want to make this work—for Angelica's sake, for your safety, for all of us. But you've got to make an effort too."
"I understand." She meets my eyes.
“It’s not a demand,” I say, irked at her response. “It’s a request. A suggestion.”
She nods. “I’ll try.”
“Good.”
She exits the kitchen, and I watch as she heads toward the bedroom again.
I catch myself taking in her curves, the sway of her walk.
Christ, this is complicated enough without adding attraction to the mix.
But there it is, anyway, this unwelcome pull toward her that makes everything harder and more confusing.
I can’t help but think this is going to end badly.