Chapter 12 Isabella
ISABELLA
I wake the next morning to an empty bed, as usual.
Roman's been up for hours and is now probably making breakfast with Angelica.
My body still hums from yesterday's… lesson.
I press my fingers to my lips, remembering how his mouth felt against mine. How his body felt inside mine.
When he touched me, I forgot everything. My suspicions. My fear. My mission.
His hands were gentle, nothing like the hands of a killer.
His eyes watched me with such intensity that I felt truly seen for the first time in years.
I close my eyes, remembering how he guided my hips, how he whispered in my ear, asking if I was okay.
The memory alone makes heat pool in my belly.
No one warned me that desire could be this consuming, this confusing.
But what if every tender touch, every considerate gesture is just another way to control me? Keep me quiet and compliant?
My father always kept me sheltered. Now I understand why.
It's hard to think clearly when your body wants something your mind says you shouldn't have.
Roman hasn't forced anything on me. He's given me space to work on my designs. He's even teaching me to protect myself. These aren't the actions of someone who means me harm.
Are they?
But I can't forget how he hid whatever he was working on when I entered his office. The way his eyes turned guarded. The way he reminded me of the wedge between us.
I'm caught between two worlds, the safety of his arms and the danger of his loyalty to the Calabresi family and La Corona.
Between the pleasure he gives me and the pain of not knowing if any of it is real.
But why would it be?
Our marriage is nothing but a business arrangement to keep me alive and under surveillance.
I might be innocent, but I’m not na?ve.
I know sex doesn’t equal love.
Still, I want to trust him. God help me, I do.
When he holds me, when he looks at me with those dark eyes, something inside me whispers that I'm safe. That he's not the monster I feared.
The evidence against the Calabresi family feels solid. The shell casings, the car. But Roman's right, it seems sloppy for professionals. Too convenient.
“I think someone is using you to infiltrate La Corona or to set up the Calabresi family.”
What if he's right? What if I've been manipulated all this time?
Blackwood seemed so sincere, so determined to help me find justice. But then, Roman seems sincere too when he says he'll help me find the truth.
Who am I supposed to believe?
I shake my head. The answer is obvious. The FBI agent is the one who lives on the right side of the law. Roman is my husband, but really, he’s a glorified guard and I’m in a gilded cage.
I think of my new burner phone lying hidden.
I should tell Roman about it. If I truly want to trust him, I need to be honest.
But something holds me back, self-preservation, maybe.
Or fear that the moment I reveal everything, I'll lose whatever leverage I have left.
My conversations with Agent Blackwood replay in my mind.
The first time we met, he showed me photos of my mother's crime scene.
I remember how he leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper as he said, “We found shell casings that match those from a previous Calabresi hit.”
But now, doubts creep in. Why would professional killers leave evidence so easily traced back to them?
The Calabresi family has survived for generations precisely because they're careful. All the families of La Corona are smarter than that.
Was I so blinded by grief and the need for answers that I didn't see the holes in Agent Blackwood’s story?
I think about how eager Blackwood was for me to marry Roman. “This is perfect,” he'd said. “You'll have access to everything.”
Not concern for my safety. Not outrage that I was being forced to marry someone connected to my mother's alleged killers.
Just excitement about the intelligence I could gather.
He’s not in it to help me. He’s in it to bring down La Corona.
It is his job, after all.
I scrub my hands down my face as I realize what a dope I’ve been. I’m nothing but a pawn in Blackwood’s attempt to rid New York of crime.
A pawn to keep my father in La Corona’s good graces.
A pawn to help Roman access whatever Agent Blackwood has on them.
I get myself out of bed, shower and dress, then make my way to the kitchen. It’s quiet now that Mrs. Rossi has taken Angelica to school.
Roman sits at the table with coffee and a plate of eggs, reading something on his tablet.
“There’s a plate of eggs in the warmer,” he says without looking up.
“Thank you.” I get the plate along with a cup of coffee and join him at the table.
Roman lifts his dark eyes, watching me over the rim of his coffee mug as he sips. “I’m meeting someone today about your mother. You should come along.”
My fork freezes midway to my mouth. “With you?”
“Yes.” He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “I've got contacts your FBI friend doesn't have. People who were around when it happened.”
My heart quickens. “You'd really help me?”
“I told you I would.” His voice is steady, matter-of-fact.
“I've already started looking into the evidence you showed me.
The shell casings, the car. Something doesn't add up.
Professional hits don't leave breadcrumbs.” He pushes his plate away.
“Someone wanted that evidence found. Someone wanted it to point to Calabresi.”
A flutter of hope rises. It’s ridiculous. All the issues that I ruminated about this morning in bed are still there. I can’t completely trust Roman.
Still, if he’s looking into this and asking me to join him, then there must be something to it.
Sure, it suggests that I’ve been looking in the wrong direction, but if Roman is right, this could lead to the answers I’m looking for.
“Today, we're going to visit an old driver who worked for all the families back then. He keeps his ears open.”
“And you want me to come with you?” I can't hide my surprise.
“It's your mother.” His eyes soften slightly. “You deserve to hear what he has to say firsthand.”
I nod, trying to process this shift.
For years, I've been searching alone, hitting walls, gathering scraps of information that never quite fit together.
Now this man, this dangerous, complicated man, is offering to help me find the truth.
“Why?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Roman's expression turns serious. “Because someone is using your grief to manipulate you. To manipulate all of us. And I want to know who.”
So not to help me specifically.
He’s doing it to protect his family and La Corona. Still, the end result is the same. I can learn who killed my mother and why.
An hour later, I fidget in the passenger seat of Roman's sleek black SUV, watching the city blur past.
We're heading to meet this mysterious driver, someone Roman claims might know something about my mother's death. My stomach knots with anticipation and dread.
“Who exactly is this person?” I ask, breaking the tense silence.
“Vincenzo Moretti. He started as a driver for Don Monti’s father and later managed all the drivers La Corona uses.” Roman keeps his eyes on the road. “If anything happened, Vinny knew about it.”
“And you trust him?”
“I trust that he knows where all the bodies are buried.” Roman's mouth quirks in a half-smile. “Literally and figuratively.”
We pull up to a modest house in an older neighborhood of Brooklyn. Nothing about it screams Mafia insider, just a tidy lawn and faded curtains in the windows.
An elderly man opens the door before we even knock. He's small and wiry with a full head of white hair and sharp eyes that miss nothing.
“Roman Ginetti.” He clasps Roman's hand with both of his. “And this must be the new bride.”
“Vincenzo, this is Isabella,” Roman says.
“Ah, yes, Don Ferraza’s daughter. I remember when you were just a baby. I drove you and your mama home from the hospital, rest her soul.”
“That’s what we’re here to talk about,” Roman says. “Isabella’s mother.”
“Right, right. Come in.” He steps aside, gesturing us in.
“I thought you drove for Don Monti?” I ask.
“I did, but La Corona shared resources. Don Ferraza asked me to ferry you and your mother home after you were born.”
The house smells of coffee and something baking. It's homey and warm, completely at odds with what I expected from someone connected to my mother's murder.
“Sit, sit,” Vincenzo says, waving us toward a worn sofa. “You want coffee?”
“We're fine,” Roman answers. “Isabella has questions about her mother.”
Vincenzo settles into an armchair across from us, his gaze settling on me. “I'm sorry about your mama. She was a good woman.”
“Did you know her well?” I ask.
“I drove her sometimes. Shopping. Charity club meetings.” He shrugs. “She was kind. Always asked about my grandchildren.”
“Do you know who killed her?” The question bursts from me, too direct, too desperate.
Vincenzo's eyes dart to Roman, then back to me. “What have they told you?”
“That the Calabresi family was responsible.” I feel Roman stiffen beside me.
Vincenzo shakes his head slowly. “No, no. That's not right.”
“Then who?” I lean forward, every muscle in my body tense as Vincenzo's weathered face crinkles in thought.
“I don't know who pulled the trigger,” he says finally, his voice low, “but I know it wasn't Calabresi.”
“How can you be sure?” My voice sounds small even to my own ears.
Vincenzo glances at Roman. “She knows who you work for, doesn’t she?”
Roman nods, his lips twitching up in amusement. “She does. She’s bold and brave, or perhaps reckless in her quest to find answers.”
Vincenzo rubs his chin. “That day, the day your mother died, I was driving Luca Monti back to the airport. He was home for meetings and then returned to Italy. We actually passed by the scene not long after it happened.” His eyes grow distant with memory.
“Police everywhere. I remember because Luca made a call immediately. He was… disturbed.”
“Disturbed how?” Roman asks.