Chapter 23 Roman
ROMAN
I slam down the phone, barely resisting the urge to throw it across my office.
Three more shipments delayed, this time at the docks, plus two collection problems in Brooklyn, and now Salvatore's crew is having territorial disputes with the Monti family's men in Queens.
"Fuck," I mutter, rubbing my temples.
My phone buzzes again. Marco's name flashes on the screen. I answer immediately. "Yeah, Boss."
"Need you at my place. Now." His voice is clipped, all business. "La Corona meeting."
I check my watch. It's barely past two, and I'd promised Angelica I'd be home for dinner tonight. "Something wrong?"
"Just get here." He hangs up.
I grab my jacket and holster because when the boss calls, I have to respond.
Outside, I slide into my car, my mind racing through possibilities.
A La Corona meeting called mid-afternoon without warning? Either something's gone sideways they want me to deal with, or I'm about to get my ass handed to me for going to Don Ferraza directly about his wife's murder.
I pull up to Marco's place, nodding to the guards at the garage entrance. Whatever's waiting for me inside, I'll handle it. I always do.
Marco's butler, an old Sicilian who's been with the family since before I was born, opens the door before I can knock.
"They're waiting in the study, Mr. Ginetti."
I nod, removing my coat but keeping my shoulder holster on. I straighten my tie, adjust my cuffs.
Whatever this is about, I need to look composed.
When I enter the study, the conversation stops dead. Four pairs of eyes turn to me, none of them friendly.
"Roman," Marco says, his voice tight. "Sit."
I take the empty chair next to him, scanning the room. Don Vitale looks like a pressure cooker about to explode. Don Monti's face is impassive, but his eyes track me like a hawk. Don Ferraza won't meet my gaze at all, staring instead at the amber liquid in his glass.
Immediately, I’m on guard. "Gentlemen." I nod respectfully.
No one responds. The silence stretches uncomfortably.
Don Ferraza shifts in his seat, still avoiding eye contact. The ice in his glass clinks as his hand trembles slightly.
I shift in my chair, the tension in the room thick enough to cut with a knife. Something's very wrong.
"Show him," Marco orders, nodding to one of his soldiers.
The soldier hands me a phone. My blood runs cold when Isabella's face appears. She's sitting in what looks like a café.
My daughter is visible in the background, playing with toys while Isabella sits with… fuck. That’s the woman from the fabric store.
I listen but don’t hear any audio. There’s just video.
“You’re following my wife?” It’s not the response I should have, but it’s already said.
“You’re supposed to contain her,” Don Vitale growls.
I continue to watch the video. The woman is talking. Isabella looks uncomfortable but doesn't immediately shut her down.
Eventually, the woman stands and sets an envelope on the table, then leaves. The video stops.
I keep my face carefully blank, but inside I'm seething.
After everything, after I trusted her, after I fucking promised to help her, she's still playing both sides.
"That woman," Don Vitale says, "is FBI Agent Olivia Ricci. She's been trying to build a case against my family for three years." No wonder he’s pissed.
"She approached my wife at the bakery," I say, my voice even. "That doesn't mean Isabella is cooperating."
"The fact that your wife didn't immediately tell you suggests otherwise," Don Monti says coldly.
"This was taken today. I haven't been home."
"She didn't call right after?" Marco asks. His tone is hopeful.
Almost like he wants Isabella to have understood the gravity of the situation and called me ASAP.
"Maybe. I've been busy." But I know I don't have any texts or messages from her.
I stare at the frozen image of Isabella and that FBI agent, my own anger growing.
Angelica is right there in the background, playing with toys, completely oblivious that her safety is being compromised.
My little girl, my everything, dragged into this mess.
The room closes in around me. Four of the most powerful men in New York are watching me, waiting for my reaction. I can't show weakness. Not now.
"I'll handle this," I say, my voice steady despite the rage and fear churning inside me. "Today."
"This goes beyond handling, Roman," Don Vitale says, leaning forward. "Your wife is compromising all of us—with your daughter present."
The mention of Angelica makes something primal rise in my chest. I stand abruptly. “I’ll take care of Isabella.”
Don Ferraza's head snaps up, his eyes finally meeting mine. The fear there is unmistakable. "My daughter's life was spared once. Are you telling me you intend to—"
“I suppose that depends on La Corona.” But holy hell, for as angry as I am at Isabella, I can’t stomach the idea of killing her.
“I want to know what she said,” Don Vitale says. “I’m no lip reading expert, but I’m certain she mentioned my name.”
“I’ll find out,” I promise him.
I feel Marco's eyes on me, assessing. We've known each other since we were kids, and he can read me better than anyone.
He knows I'm walking a dangerous line, protecting Isabella while serving La Corona.
The fact that he hasn't called me out publicly gives me hope, but I'm not naive enough to think this won't have consequences.
"Roman," Don Ferraza says quietly, "whatever my daughter has done—"
"I gave you my word when I married her," I interrupt. "I'll find the truth. All of it."
“All of what?” Don Monti asks. “I thought this was just about keeping Don Ferraza’s daughter from revealing our secrets.”
“She knows no secrets,” Leo says defensively. He looks to me like he wants me to back him up.
Instead, I respond to Don Monti. “I think there’s something larger at play here and Isabella was targeted to help whoever it is in playing it.
She’s a pawn being manipulated but…” I continue on knowing La Corona doesn’t care that she’s being used.
“She needs to understand that. I’ll make her understand. You have my word.”
I storm into the apartment, slamming the door behind me.
Mrs. Rossi jumps, her hand flying to her chest. "Mr. Ginetti, I wasn't expecting—"
"Where is she?" My voice is deadly calm despite the rage coursing through me.
"Mrs. Ginetti is in the bedroom with Angelica. They're—"
I don't wait for her to finish, striding down the hallway. I can hear Angelica's high-pitched laughter, followed by Isabella's softer voice.
For a moment, I hesitate outside the door, noting I’m about to blow to hell what had been a lovely few days of peace.
God, we were almost a family.
I push the door open. They're sitting cross-legged on the floor, fabric and scissors spread around them.
"Daddy!" Angelica jumps up, running toward me. "Look what we're making!"
I force myself to smile, catching her as she launches herself at me. "Hey, Angel. Looks great." I set her down gently. "Can you go help Mrs. Rossi for a bit? I need to talk to Isabella."
Angelica pouts but compiles, shuffling out of the room. Isabella watches her go, then turns to me, her smile fading as she registers my expression.
"What's wrong?" she asks, standing slowly.
I close the door, leaning against it. "You tell me."
She frowns, confused. "Roman, what—"
"The bakery. Today. FBI Agent Olivia Ricci."
Isabella's face drains of color. She takes a step back, bumping into the bed. "How did you—"
"La Corona has eyes everywhere. Did you really think you wouldn't be seen?" I wonder why the fuck my own men didn’t tell me, although they probably didn’t know the woman was FBI.
I move closer, keeping my voice low so Angelica won't hear. "After everything, after I promised to help you, you're still playing both sides?"
"No! I didn't—" She takes a shaky breath. "She approached me. I didn't seek her out."
“And yet you talked to her. Then after, you didn’t think to call me immediately."
"I was going to tell you tonight." Her eyes meet mine, pleading. "I swear, Roman. I didn't give her anything."
I want to believe her. God help me, I want to. But I've seen the video. "What did she want?"
"Information on the Vitale family. Their operations or something." Isabella wraps her arms around herself. "I told her I didn't know anything."
"And?"
"And nothing. I shut her down."
I study her face, looking for tells, for the micro-expressions that would give away a lie. Her eyes are wide, frightened, but steady.
“Did she give you a phone? What was in the envelope?”
“Copies of my mother’s notebook. She was offering it in exchange for information."
This is new. My anger flickers with uncertainty.
"And did you take that deal?"
"No." She shakes her head vehemently.
“You’re lying. I saw her give you the envelope.”
“I called her out for making my mother’s justice conditional on my doing her job.” She picks up a folder, holding it out like some kind of peace offering. "This is it. I was going to show you tonight.”
I take the folder from her hands, recognizing its importance. It could reveal Mrs. Ferraza’s killer. It could tell me what the fuck is going on.
"You need to understand what this looks like from where I'm standing," I say, opening the folder. "The timing. The secrecy."
“I wasn’t being secret. I was just waiting until you came home. I swear to you, I was going to tell you tonight."
I want to believe her.
The part that's held her while she slept, watched her with Angelica, felt something stir in my heart that I thought died with Emilia.
But the other part, the enforcer, the survivor, can't afford to be wrong about this.
"If you're playing me, Isabella…" I leave the threat unfinished.
"I'm not." She reaches for my hand, her touch light but insistent. "Read it with me."
I study her wide eyes, pleading for understanding and trust, but this could be the best performance I've ever seen.
I start to open the folder when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I check the screen and curse under my breath. Paulie from the docks.
"I have to take this." I step away from Isabella, turning my back to her. "What is it, Paulie?"
"Boss, we got serious problems. The shipment from Palermo, someone tipped off the Coast Guard. They're doing a 'random inspection' right fucking now."
My blood runs cold. That shipment contains more than just olive oil and wine.
"How much time?"
"They just started. But the special cargo is—"
"Don't say another word. I'm on my way." I hang up and turn back to Isabella, who's watching me with those wide, anxious eyes.
I have to believe that Marco would want me to deal with this business first. I can deal with Isabella later.
"I have to go. Business emergency."
"But the notebook—"
"Will be here when I get back." I move toward the door, then stop. "You stay put. Don't leave the apartment. Don't make any calls. We'll go through this together when I return."
She nods, but something in her expression unsettles me. Is it disappointment? Or calculation?
"Isabella." I step closer, my voice dropping. "I want to trust you. I'm trying to. But if you're playing some angle here…"
"I'm not. I promise, Roman."
Her fingers are warm against mine, and for a moment, I allow myself to believe her. But as I pull away, doubt creeps back in. This woman has lied before. She's worked with the Feds before.
"I'll be back as soon as I can," I say, already mentally shifting to the crisis at the docks.
As I stride down the hallway, I stop briefly at Angelica's room, watching her play with Mrs. Rossi.
My daughter, innocent, trusting, the only pure thing in my life.
I'd burn the world down to keep her safe.
And Isabella?
The woman who's somehow worked her way under my skin despite every reason to keep her at arm's length?
What would I do to protect her?
I suppose the better question is would I stand up to Marco, to La Corona to protect her?
The answer terrifies me because I think I would.
Does that mean I’m in love?
Or have I been duped by a smart, conniving woman?