Chapter 18 Isabella
ISABELLA
I stare at my reflection in the mirror, smoothing down the dark green cashmere sweater I've paired with dark jeans.
Practical for a winter outing, but still presentable enough for a La Corona family gathering.
My stomach twists at the thought.
Talk about walking into the lion’s den. The only solace is knowing we’ll be in public.
One thing I know about La Corona is they don’t do anything that would bring attention to them. They operate in the shadows.
I pause at that, wondering why I didn’t question the evidence of my mother’s death. That was on a public street with witnesses.
I shake my head of thoughts of my mother knowing that for now, I need to keep my head down.
"Just get through today," I whisper to myself. All I have to do is smile and make small talk. I can probably even avoid Roman who’s been trying to talk to me since Elena and the kids left last night.
The last time, he knocked on the bedroom door, but I pretended to be asleep. Eventually, he gave up and retreated to his office again. Another night apart.
The bedroom door opens, and Mrs. Rossi pokes her head in. "They're waiting for you, Mrs. Ginetti."
Mrs. Ginetti. The name still feels foreign, like clothing that doesn't quite fit.
"I'll be right there," I say, taking one last look at myself. The woman in the mirror looks defeated, void of any personality. This isn't me. This was never supposed to be me.
The Winter Village is a postcard-perfect Christmas scene. Twinkling lights hang from every possible surface, vendors sell hot chocolate in festive mugs, and children squeal with delight as they glide across the ice rink.
I walk beside Roman, maintaining a careful distance.
Angelica runs ahead, excited to meet Elena's triplets. She hasn't spoken a word to me since I refused to teach her sewing.
"Isabella." Roman's voice is low. "You need to at least pretend to be enjoying yourself."
I force my lips into what I hope resembles a smile.
Around us, La Corona families mingle like any normal extended family gathering.
Don Vitale laughs heartily with Marco Calabresi.
My father stands with Don Antonio Monti, his eyes occasionally darting to me with concern.
These men who decide life and death over whiskey and cigars now sip hot chocolate and discuss Christmas plans.
The cheerful holiday music feels cruel. There is no joy in my world, no fa in my la-la-la. But no one cares.
Families skate together, couples hold hands, children build snowmen in patches of accumulated snow. Normal people living normal lives.
"Would you like something warm to drink?" Roman asks, his breath visible in the cold air.
"No, thank you." My response is automatic, distant.
A group of carolers begins singing "Joy to the World" nearby. I try not to roll my eyes at how the festive atmosphere highlights how trapped I am.
Growing up as Leonardo Ferraza's daughter, I was both privileged and isolated.
Designer clothes, private schools, vacations in Milan, all the trappings of wealth without any real freedom.
My father kept me sheltered from the family business, but I always felt its shadow.
The hushed conversations that stopped when I entered a room. The men with hard eyes who guarded our home.
My mother didn’t want this for me. And it appears she died trying to help me escape the gilded cage of Mafia life.
"Isabella." Roman's voice pulls me from my thoughts. He stands close, his broad shoulders blocking the wind. "You're shivering."
Before I can protest, he wraps his scarf around my neck. It smells like him and for a moment, my heart betrays me, softening and wishing I would lean into his warmth. His strength.
That's the problem with Roman. Sometimes, I glimpse the man beneath the enforcer.
In those moments, I can almost imagine a different life, one where I could actually care for him.
But then reality crashes back. He's La Corona's weapon.
The man who threatens my freedom, possibly my life.
The same hands that caress me have ended lives.
The same man who makes breakfast for his daughter might be ordered to kill me tomorrow.
“I’ll be back.” Roman wanders toward a group of men. I linger near a hot chocolate stand, watching him from a distance.
He joins men I don’t know, but I imagine they’re captains in La Corona.
Their conversation appears casual, but I notice how the others position themselves around Roman, slightly deferential, maintaining a respectful distance.
A younger man approaches their circle, clearly nervous. He speaks quietly to Roman, who listens with an impassive expression.
The man's hands tremble slightly as he hands over an envelope. Roman merely nods, and the relief on the man's face is immediate, as if he's just survived something dangerous.
It's fascinating how they all react to him. These hardened men who flinch when Roman's gaze lands on them too long.
They fear him. Respect him. Defer to him.
Even Marco, who's technically Roman's boss, treats him more like an equal than a subordinate.
I've heard whispers about Roman's reputation.
The enforcer. The problem solver.
But seeing it play out in front of me is different.
There's something magnetic about the quiet power he wields, the way he commands respect without raising his voice. At least to the men.
To me, he was practically ready to explode.
My attention shifts when I hear Angelica's laughter. She's at the edge of the ice rink.
“Daddy. Can you help me?”
Roman’s enforcer facade breaks when he sees her. With a smile, he trots over to her, kneeling beside her, tying her skates.
"Is it too tight?" I hear him ask.
Angelica shakes her head, her face bright with excitement. "Can you skate with me, Daddy?"
"Of course, Angel." He helps her stand, steadying her as she wobbles on the thin blades.
I watch as this feared enforcer steps onto the ice, holding his daughter's hand, moving slowly and carefully to match her uncertain steps.
When she stumbles, he catches her with reflexes that remind me of his other life, but his smile, so rare when directed at anyone else, transforms his face completely.
It's jarring to reconcile these two versions of the same man, the one who makes hardened criminals nervous with just a look and the one who now skates backward, holding both his daughter's hands, encouraging her with genuine warmth in his eyes.
They glide across the ice. Their shared laughter carries across the rink, drawing smiles from onlookers.
I can feel eyes on me. La Corona families probably wondering why the new Mrs. Ginetti stands alone while her husband and stepdaughter enjoy themselves.
Roman catches my gaze and whispers something to Angelica. They skate toward the edge of the rink where I just realize I’ve gravitated to.
"Join us.”
It's not really a question. His eyes dart briefly to where my father stands with Marco and the other Dons.
I understand immediately.
We're on display. The happy family. The successful arranged marriage.
The proof that La Corona's solution was the right one.
"I don't have skates," I say, searching for an excuse.
Roman gestures to a rental booth. "That can be fixed."
Angelica watches our exchange, her expression guarded. She hasn't forgiven me for refusing to teach her sewing, and I can't explain that her father ordered me to stay away from her.
"Please?" Roman adds, his voice lower. "It would look strange if you didn't."
Appearances must be maintained. "Fine," I say, heading toward the rental booth.
Minutes later, I step tentatively onto the ice, immediately regretting my decision. I haven't skated since I was a teenager, and my ankles wobble precariously.
Roman's hand shoots out, catching my elbow before I can fall. "Careful.” His grip is firm but not painful. "Take it slow."
I'm acutely aware of his touch, of how close we're standing, of the eyes watching us from around the park.
The perfect family portrait—the devoted husband supporting his wife, their adorable daughter nearby.
I want to scream that it’s all a lie. Even more, I wish my heart would stop wishing it were true.
"I'm fine.” I try to pull away, but his hand remains. He's only doing this for show, to make it seem like all is well in the Ginetti household, I remind myself.
"You'll fall," he says simply. "Hold on to me until you find your balance."
I cling to Roman's arm as we make our way around the rink, my initial stiffness gradually giving way to a more natural rhythm.
Despite my determination to keep emotional distance, there's something disarming about seeing him enjoying his daughter, wanting to be attentive to his wife.
"You're doing well. Just keep your knees slightly bent."
When I wobble again, his arm wraps around my waist to steady me, and I catch the hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
"What?" I ask, wishing I could pull away without risking falling on my butt.
"Nothing. Just remembering teaching Angelica to skate. She fell so many times but refused to quit."
"Stubborn," I say, watching her now as she attempts a small twirl nearby.
"Like her father," Roman admits, and there's a playfulness in his eyes I've rarely seen. "Though her mother was just as bad."
The mention of Emilia doesn't sting as I expected. Instead, it makes me sad for them. As rotten as I have it, it’s hard for him too. He’s forced to be with a woman who isn’t the love of his life.
Angelica glides over to us. “I can skate, Isabella. Watch,” she says to me.
While her tone isn’t like when we sewed, the fact that she’s talking to me at all is progress.
She pushes off with surprising confidence and manages a small spin before catching herself.
"That's amazing, Angelica." My praise is genuine, and her smile in response sends an unexpected warmth through me.
"Do you want to try?" she asks, extending her small hand toward mine.
I glance at Roman, uncertain whether his prohibition against my interaction with Angelica still stands. His expression is unreadable, but he gives a slight nod.