Page 100 of Mafia Daddy's Christmas Bride
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 Romanwho’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."
