Page 105 of Mafia Daddy's Christmas Bride

"Today was nice." I surprise myself with the admission. "At the ice rink. Angelica seemed to enjoy herself."

Something shifts in his expression, an easing of the tension around his eyes.

"She did." He hesitates. "She asked if you could teach her to sew tomorrow."

I look up sharply. "You told me to stay away from her."

"I know what I said. I was angry." He’s not apologizing. He hasn’t even retracted his order.

“And now?”

“Now?” He sucks in a breath. “Now I want peace and calm in my home. I want my daughter to be happy and for you not to walk around me like I’m about to…”

“Kill me?”

He nods his affirmation.

I should still be afraid of him. I should still hate him for the life he represents, for the prison he's made of my existence.

But today at the ice rink, watching him with Angelica, looking through these photos, I'm beginning to see the man Elena described, the one who didn't know what hit him when he met Emilia.

And that complicates everything.

I move to stand, still feeling like I've intruded on something private. "I should put this back."

"No," Roman says, placing his hand on my forearm to keep me seated.

He picks up the album and opens it, turning to a page I hadn't reached. "This was Angelica's fourth birthday." His finger traces the edge of a photo showing Angelica with cake smeared across her face. "Emilia made the cake herself. Three layers. Took her all day."

I study his profile as he looks at the image. The hardness that usually defines his features has softened, replaced by something raw and honest.

It’s breathtaking.

"She looks so happy," I say, referring to both Angelica and Emilia.

"She was." Roman turns the page. "This was our last Christmas together."

The photo shows the three of them in front of a Christmas tree much larger than the one in his apartment now.

Emilia sits on the floor with Angelica in her lap, Roman kneeling beside them.

"What happened to her?" I ask softly, then immediately regret it. "I'm sorry, you don't have to?—"

"Cancer," he says simply. "She fought. Fucking hell, did she fight." His shoulder presses against mine as he leans closer to show me another photo. "This was in Italy. Emilia had never been. She fell in love with it."

"It's beautiful," I say, taking in the stone villa surrounded by cypress trees.

"Angelica sometimes doesn’t remember her very well," he says after a moment. "These photos are all she has."

I don't know what to say to that. We sit in silence, his loss filling the space.

"You would have liked her," Roman says unexpectedly. "She was stubborn. Didn't take any of my shit."

That makes me smile despite myself. "I can imagine."

His fingers brush against mine as we both reach to turn the page. Neither of us pulls away immediately.

“She was part of this world, wasn’t she?” I ask, even as I think maybe I shouldn’t.