Chapter 8 Isabella #2
Every step is a struggle to appear normal while my mind races with questions about Blackwood's plans.
When we reach his car, he puts my purchases in the trunk.
"I need to stop by the office before we head home," Roman says, opening the car door for me.
I slide into the passenger seat, clutching my purse on my lap. "What office?"
"Calabresi Import-Export." His tone suggests I should already know this. "It'll be quick."
Twenty minutes later, we pull into an underground parking garage beneath a sleek high-rise.
Roman leads me through a private elevator that requires his fingerprint, up to a floor filled with what appears to be legitimate business operations.
Men in suits nod respectfully as Roman passes. I follow a step behind, hyper-aware of the stares tracking our movement.
"Wait here," Roman instructs, gesturing to a leather couch in a small waiting area. "I need to speak with Marco."
As soon as Roman disappears down the hallway, a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair approaches. His expensive suit can't disguise the menace in his movements.
I recognize him immediately, Salvatore Abruzzo, one of the Calabresi captains I've seen at family gatherings.
"Well, well. The little spy has come right into the lion's den." His voice is soft but laced with venom.
I straighten my spine. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Salvatore laughs, a sound devoid of humor.
He sits beside me, too close, his thigh pressing against mine despite the ample space on the couch. "Don't play dumb with me. I know about your FBI friend. Blackwood, isn't it?"
My blood turns to ice.
"I've been watching you for months," he continues, his breath hot against my ear. "Roman might be blinded by your pretty face, but I'm not so easily fooled."
"You're mistaken," I manage, though my voice trembles.
His hand clamps down on my wrist, fingers digging painfully into my skin. "If Roman doesn't have the balls to put you down like the treacherous bitch you are, I'll do it myself." His grip tightens.
"Let go of me," I hiss, trying to pull away.
"Or what?" Salvatore sneers. "You'll call your FBI handler? Tell me, did you spread your legs for him too, or just beg for information?"
"That's enough, Salvatore." Roman's voice cuts through the tension like a blade. He stands before us, his expression murderous. This is the man everyone has grown to fear.
Salvatore releases my wrist immediately, but his eyes remain fixed on me, hatred radiating from his gaze.
"Just having a friendly chat with the newest member of our family," he says, rising smoothly to his feet.
Roman steps closer, positioning himself between us. "Isabella is my wife. Any issues you have with her, you bring to me."
"Of course." Salvatore straightens his already-perfect tie. "No disrespect intended."
The tension crackles between them as they stare each other down. I clutch my purse tighter wondering if he saw the woman pass me the phone.
Salvatore turns to leave but pauses beside me. "Welcome to the family, Mrs. Ginetti," he murmurs, the threat unmistakable beneath his polite words.
When he's gone, Roman kneels before me, taking my wrist gently in his hands. Red marks are already forming where Salvatore's fingers dug into my skin.
"What did he say to you?" Roman asks, his thumb brushing over the tender spots in a surprising show of gentleness.
"He knows about Blackwood." Once the words are out, I’m surprised at having said them. I can’t trust Roman, can I?
Roman's expression darkens, but he’s quiet as if he’s thinking.
"He said he's been watching me for months,” I add.
Roman's eyes search mine. "Did he threaten you?"
I nod. “He said if you couldn’t kill me, he would.”
He lets out an expletive under his breath. "Listen to me. Stay away from Salvatore. Don't be alone with him, ever. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
He helps me to my feet, his warm hand wrapped around mine. "We're leaving."
As we walk toward the elevator, I feel Salvatore's eyes following us from across the office.
The phone in my purse seems to weigh a thousand pounds, and I wonder if I've just traded one danger for another.
I stare out the passenger window as Roman drives us home, my fingers absently rubbing the tender spots on my wrist where Salvatore's grip left marks.
The fabric store bags are forgotten.
What started as an almost pleasant afternoon has morphed into something far more sinister.
"Salvatore isn't someone you want as an enemy," Roman says, breaking the tense silence. "He doesn't forget slights, real or imagined. And he holds grudges until they're settled."
I turn to face him. "Is that a threat?"
"It's a warning. Salvatore has a grudge with your father." Roman flexes and then tightens his fingers around the steering wheel. "He once tracked a man across three states for disrespecting him at a card game. The guy disappeared without a trace."
"Like my mother did?" The words escape before I can stop them.
Roman's jaw tightens. "We're back to that?"
"How can we not be?" I gesture between us. "That's the whole reason I'm here, wearing your ring, living in your home. Because I dared to investigate what happened to her."
"I told you I didn't kill your mother."
"And I'm just supposed to believe you?" I laugh bitterly. "You're Marco Calabresi's enforcer. His right hand. If he ordered it—"
"He wouldn't have." Roman cuts me off sharply. "And even if he had—which he didn't—I wouldn't have touched your mother."
"Why not? Isn't that what you do? Follow orders? Kill people?"
Roman pulls the car over abruptly, shifting into park before turning to face me fully. "You think I'm just some mindless attack dog? That I don't have limits?"
The intensity in his eyes makes me shrink back against the door.
“I’m no saint, Isabella. Not even close. But I don’t kill women or children or innocent people. Neither does Marco. Nor does La Corona.”
“You just said Salvatore has a grudge against my father. Maybe he—”
“Salvatore wouldn't move against you without Marco's permission," he says more calmly. "And Marco wouldn't give it. That's the only reason you're still breathing after what you did."
"So I should feel grateful?"
"You should feel protected." His voice softens unexpectedly. "Whatever you think of me, Isabella, I won't let him hurt you."
I search his face, looking for deception but finding only determination.
It occurs to me that the most terrifying thing isn't Salvatore's threats or the dangerous game I'm playing with Blackwood. It's how easily Roman makes me want to believe him.
“But if I’m to fully protect you, to have Marco’s full backing to protect you, then you need to follow the rules and trust me.”
There’s something in his eyes.
Like he’s wanting me to say something. Reveal something.
Does he know about the new phone?
I swallow. “You said you’d help me find out who killed my mom.”
He gives a curt nod. “I will.”
“What if it’s Salvatore? Or what if you’re wrong and Don Calabresi ordered it?”
“We’ll deal with that if it happens, which it won’t.
” He watches me for a moment, and again I get the feeling he’s hoping I’ll say more.
I don’t. He lets out a sigh and puts the car in gear, pulling out in traffic.
“When we get home, I want to know everything you’ve learned from Blackwood and what you’ve told him.
All of it, Isabella. I can’t protect you if I don’t know everything. ”
It isn’t until late, after Angelica is in bed and Roman has returned from whatever he had to leave to do after dinner, that I sit in his office sharing everything I have about my mother’s murder.
I’m not sure it’s a good idea.
I should keep it to myself and call Blackwood, which I could have done while Roman was out but didn’t. I can’t fully explain why.
"This is what Blackwood gave me," I say quietly, pushing the first photo toward him. "Shell casings found at the scene. Apparently, they match a gun used in three other Calabresi hits."
Roman's face remains impassive as he examines the evidence.
"And this," I continue, sliding another photo forward, "is a black Cadillac spotted near our house the night before. The same car was seen leaving the area after… after they found her."
Roman picks up the grainy surveillance photo, studying it intently.
"The license plate was traced to a shell company owned by one of Marco's subsidiaries. There's more. Phone records showing calls between someone in the Calabresi organization and a known hitman. Bank transfers that—"
"This is bullshit," Roman says flatly, cutting me off.
I bristle. "I've seen the evidence with my own eyes. So have you now."
"What you've seen is what someone wanted you to see." Roman taps the photo of the shell casings. "These aren't from any gun we use. The Calabresi family hasn't used .38 specials in over a decade. Marco switched everything to 9mm after a raid nearly ten years ago."
I blink, momentarily thrown. "How do I know you're not lying?"
"Because it would be a stupid lie to tell." His eyes meet mine. "Besides, everyone knows not to leave shell casings and any Fed worth their badge would know what caliber we use. It's in every report they've ever filed on us."
He picks up the car photo next. "And this? We've never owned a Cadillac like this. Marco hates American cars, always has. Thinks they're tacky."
Something cold settles in my stomach. "But the shell company—"
"Can be fabricated. Papers forged." Roman leans forward. "Isabella, think about it. If we wanted your mother dead, why leave such an obvious trail? Why use a gun that could be traced back to us? Why drive a car that would be remembered?"
The certainty I've clung to for years begins to crumble. "Then who—"
"I don't know," Roman admits. "But someone went to a lot of trouble to make you believe it was us. The question is who and why."
I stare at the evidence scattered across the table, doubt growing. If Roman is right, if someone fabricated all this, then I've been a pawn in someone else's game. The thought makes me sick.
Roman rises from his desk and goes to the liquor cabinet to pour a drink. He sips it as he stands by the window lost in thought.
“What are you thinking?”
He downs his drink. “Just all the players who could be behind this. Blackwood has had a hard-on for La Corona for years. Maybe he’s behind this.”
“The FBI wouldn’t fabricate evidence.”
He arches a brow at me like I’m na?ve. “Some would. Some have.” He turns away. “The other possibility is that someone is manipulating him.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. Rival family, maybe. Someone from out of town wanting to get a piece of our action.” He turns to me. “You’re part of this plan too, Isabella. You see that, don’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Whether it’s Blackwood or someone manipulating him, you’ve been the inside person they’re using. They got you to spy on your father—”
“I never spied—”
“You didn’t tell them things about your father?”
“Ah… well…” God, I did. “But nothing about business. How could I? I don’t know anything.”
He lets out a humorless laugh. “You know more than you think you do. And it’s gotten even better than they hoped. Instead of killing you, you’re still in La Corona. You’re poised to destroy us all.”
He studies me and for a moment, I worry I might be more hassle, more danger to him and the families than I’m worth.
He says he doesn’t kill women, but all he’d have to do is call Salvatore.
Roman shakes his head. "Why use you, specifically? Why manufacture evidence about your mother?"
"You think someone's using me to get to La Corona?"
"I think someone needed an inside source, someone with access but who could be manipulated." His eyes lock with mine. "Someone with a personal vendetta that would blind them to inconsistencies."
My hands tremble as I gather the photos. "If you're right, then I'm in danger, not just from La Corona but from an outside force as well."
"That's why you have me now." Roman's voice softens unexpectedly. He steps toward me, and while instinct should have me stepping back, I don’t. "Whatever else is between us, Isabella, I won't let anyone hurt you. Not Salvatore, not Blackwood—no one."
There's something in his eyes I haven't seen before, a fierce protectiveness that makes my breath hitch.
For the first time since this nightmare began, I feel a flicker of hope.
"Why would you protect me?" I ask, drawn in by his nearness. "After what I've done?"
"Because you're my wife now." He says it simply, as if that explains everything. "And because you deserve justice for your mother, real justice, not whatever game is being played."
I want to believe him.
God help me, I actually want to trust this man I've feared.
"If I let you help me," I say carefully, "if we try to figure out what really happened to my mother… what happens after?"
His hand cups my cheek. “Is being married to me really so awful that you’re already planning to leave?”
The gentleness of his touch and the warmth of his gaze are like a magnet, pulling me closer and closer to him. “No.”
His lips twitch upward slightly, and then he leans toward me, his lips pressing against mine.
Tiny rockets explode through my body at his soft kiss, shocking me. I should pull away.
My hands settle on his chest. They curl into his shirt and tug him closer.