Chapter 13 Roman
ROMAN
Another morning where I wake, staring at the ceiling, with Isabella's steady breathing beside me both torture and lullaby.
The soft curve of her body rests inches from mine, close enough that her warmth radiates across the sheets.
My hands ache to touch her. My dick throbs to fuck her.
I shouldn't want her this much.
She shifts in her sleep, her leg brushing against mine. I tense immediately, willing my body not to respond.
Three nights since I took her virginity, and I've managed to keep my hands to myself. Barely.
She turns again, unconsciously seeking warmth, and nestles against my side. My jaw clenches so hard it aches.
I slide out of bed, careful not to wake her. I head to the shower, blasting it on cold to rid the white-hot need coursing through my blood.
It’s madness. I shouldn’t have ever touched her.
Fucking hell, not only did I take her virginity, but I did it without protection like a stupid horny teenager.
The enforcer who plans every detail, who never leaves evidence, who calculates every risk, and I couldn't even grab a fucking condom from my nightstand.
I put my face under the freezing spray of water. If she gets pregnant…
Christ. A baby.
Another child to protect in this life. Another complication in an already impossible situation.
Then again, maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing. If she's carrying my child, La Corona would never touch her.
Marco, Leonardo, none of them would allow harm to come to the mother of my baby. It would bind her to me permanently.
But is that fair to her? To trap her even more thoroughly in a life she never wanted?
I run a hand over my face. No. I can't think like that. I can't use a child as a shield or a chain. And yet… the thought of Isabella rounded with my baby sends an unexpected warmth through me despite the cold water sluicing over my skin.
How the hell did this get so complicated?
This marriage is supposed to be business. Protection for her, information for me.
Not this maddening mix of desire and doubt. Not lying awake at night, aching to touch a woman who still keeps secrets.
This is the hell I've created for myself. Wanting a woman who might be using me, protecting someone who might betray me, craving the touch of hands that could be my undoing.
I exit the shower and dress. It’s the weekend, but I have a meeting planned with Marco. Good thing. I need some distance.
I head to the kitchen and start breakfast. Today is waffles. I mix the batter and start ladling it into the waffle iron. The kitchen smells like sweetness and coffee, normal weekend stuff. But nothing about this situation is normal.
Isabella reminds me of that as she enters the kitchen. “Do you ever sleep in?”
“Never.” I keep my focus on the waffles.
“Can I help?”
“There are some strawberries over there.”
Isabella stands at the counter, slicing strawberries. Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, a few strands falling around her face. She looks up, catches me watching, and something flickers in her eyes.
Is it desire? Is it distrust? What a crazy dance she and I are engaged in.
“I think we have enough to feed an army already,” she says, nodding toward the tower of waffles.
I shrug. “Angelica can put away more than you'd expect.”
On cue, my daughter bursts into the kitchen, still in her unicorn pajamas, hair wild from sleep. “Waffles!” She climbs onto a stool at the counter, her eyes bright. “With chocolate chips?”
“Strawberries today,” I tell her, setting a plate in front of her. “Isabella cut them up for us.”
Angelica looks at Isabella, then back at the strawberries. “Did you wash them first?”
“Of course,” Isabella answers, a hint of amusement in her voice.
“Good.” Angelica grabs the butter. “Mommy always said dirty strawberries make your tummy hurt.”
I freeze, wondering if Angelica is trying to be cruel to mention her mother.
“Your mom was very smart,” Isabella says.
“So,” I say, clearing my throat as I serve Isabella a plate, “what are you two planning for today while I handle some business?”
“I want to watch Christmas cartoons. Can I, Daddy?”
“Sure. Why not?” I glance at Isabella. “What about you?” I haven’t gotten any notifications that she’s been on her phone, but I’ve been around a lot more lately.
Today will be a perfect day for her to do so if she still intends to defy me.
“I… I'm working on a Christmas dress,” Isabella says tentatively.
Angelica’s brow furrows. “A Christmas dress?”
“Yes. I’m sewing it. For you, actually.”
“Me?” Angelica’s eyes widen in surprise. “What does it look like?”
“It’s red velvet with silver—”
“Sparkly silver?” Angelica asks, suddenly animated.
“Yes.”
“Can I see? Will you show me how to sew?”
“Sure.” Isabella smiles, and it looks genuine. “We could make something for your dolls.”
I watch them, waffles forgotten, as Angelica peppers Isabella with questions about fabric and needles. The shift is so sudden it makes me suspicious.
Is Isabella changing tactics and using my daughter in her game?
Fucking hell. I’ve become paranoid. Angelica doesn’t know anything and Mrs. Rossi will be here.
“Can we start now?” Angelica hops out of her seat.
“Sure. Why not?”
I watch them disappear out of the kitchen, Angelica chattering excitedly about sequins and ribbons, Isabella nodding along with genuine interest.
I rise to do the dishes.
Something is shifting in this place. The house feels different somehow. Warmer.
Mrs. Rossi appears and shoos me away from the dishes. “The little one seems to be warming up to your wife.”
“Looks that way,” I mutter, still processing it myself.
“About time. That child needs a mother.”
I bristle at her words, though I know she means well. “She had a mother.”
Mrs. Rossi gives me a look I've seen a thousand times, part pity, part exasperation. “Had, Mr. Ginetti. Past tense.”
The truth stings, even after all these years. No one will ever replace Emilia.
The way she'd sing Angelica to sleep, how she'd known exactly when to push and when to comfort.
The fierce love she had for our daughter from the moment she knew she was pregnant.
And of course, for me, a man who didn’t deserve such a sweet woman but somehow got her.
But Mrs. Rossi, for all her cooking skills and efficiency, isn’t a mother. She’s a kind and gentle woman who loves us both, but she’s also hired help.
From down the hall, I hear Angelica's delighted laugh, followed by Isabella's softer one. My mind goes to a place it shouldn’t.
Maybe this arrangement could be more than just business and survival. Maybe Isabella could give Angelica something I can't, a woman's perspective, a gentler touch.
Someone who understands what it means to lose a mother too young.
I shake my head, draining my coffee. I'm getting ahead of myself. Isabella still has secrets. Still might be playing both sides. Still might end up dead if she makes the wrong move.
I put on my coat and head out into the brutally cold December air. Twenty minutes later, I pull into Marco's private underground garage, killing the engine.
Despite his being a single guy without any plans for a family, his place is decorated with Christmas lights twinkling on the perfectly trimmed hedges.
I sit for a moment, collecting my thoughts before facing my oldest friend and boss.
The file on the passenger seat contains everything I've uncovered about Mrs. Ferraza's murder.
Not much, but enough to raise uncomfortable questions. Questions Marco might not want to hear.
I grab the file and head inside, nodding at the guards who know better than to stop me. Marco's housekeeper directs me to his study without a word.
“You look like shit,” Marco says when I enter, not bothering to look up from his desk.
I do? “Thanks.” I drop into the leather chair across from him. “Haven't been sleeping much.”
He finally glances up, eyebrows raised. “The new wife keeping you busy?”
I ignore the implication. “I need to talk to you about Isabella's mother.”
Marco's expression shifts, all traces of humor vanishing. He reaches for the decanter on his desk, pouring us each two fingers of whiskey even though it’s barely ten in the morning. “What have you found?”
“Something that doesn't add up.” I slide the file across his desk. “Isabella's evidence has to be fabricated or manipulated, but whoever created it knew details they shouldn't have.”
Marco flips through the pages, his face unreadable. “Explain.”
I explain the shell casings and car.
“Cadillac? Since when do I have one of those?” He makes a face of disgust.
“Your father had one, but I checked and it was disposed of within a year of your becoming Don.”
“Fucking American cars.” He shakes his head. “Is that the car they’re linking this to?”
“I don’t know. No model… no VIN. I checked the plate on your father’s car and it’s not the same.”
Marco sits back, his mind deep in thought. “What do you make of this?”
“Nothing concrete except that I think someone is out to get the Calabresi family.”
“The Feds?”
I see-saw my head. “That goes without saying, but I’m not convinced they’ve fabricated this info.”
“Why? They lie better than we do.”
“True, but—”
“And what better way to get inside the family than to create this evidence for your wife?”
“Also true, but it could also be that someone handed this over to them.”
Marco’s eyes darken. “You think someone on the inside of the family or La Corona?”
I shrug. “Or outside. Rival group. We can’t rule anything out.” I lean forward. “But there's something else.”
“Fucking hell. What more could there be?”
“I met with Vinny Moretti, and he shared that there were rumors of her talking to an informant… maybe even having an affair.”
Marco's brow arches. “Really. I find that hard to believe. She was always so devoted to Leo.”
I shrug. “I'm not sure I buy it either. I trust Vinny, but that doesn't mean he’s right. He did say he dropped her off at a café once and was asked to park down the street. When she returned, she was agitated.”
“What do you think it means?”