Page 48 of Mafia Daddy's Christmas Bride
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 naïve. “Some would. Some have.” He turns away. “The other possibility is that someone is manipulating him.”
