Page 147 of Mafia Daddy's Christmas Bride

Try to think of good things. Roman. Angelica. Our baby.

But the thoughts slip away.

The darkness is pulling me under now. I’m powerless to fight it. The last coherent thought I have is of Roman.

His strength, his protection, his unexpected tenderness.

My consciousness fractures, dissolving into darkness.

29

ROMAN

In the car, it was clear that Marco and I didn’t know where to go.

“Check the notebook,” Marco suggests as we drive toward the warehouse because it was the only place we could think he might take Isabella.

Using the light from my phone, I leaf through page after page.

And then there it is. An address used by Ernie near JFK airport. I’m glad Marco is driving and yet, he’s not going fast enough.

“Run the fucking light,” I bellow at him.

“Don’t want to die before we save Isabella,” he says through gritted teeth.

Faster, faster, fasteris all I can think.

The notebook laid it all out, Salvatore and Ernie's plot, their manipulation of Isabella's mother, their attempt to fracture La Corona from within.

Mrs. Ferraza discovered their scheme and paid with her life.

Now Isabella might pay with hers.

My mind flashes to Isabella.

Her smile when she sews with Angelica, the way she looks at me when she’s not mad or scared. Like I’ve hung the fucking moon.

“Faster, Marco.”

The area is residential and Marco has to slow down. I’m damn near ready to jump out of the car and run.

He whips into a spot half a block away, and we hoof it the rest of the way.

"Two guards outside," Marco whispers as we approach, staying in the shadows. "Your call on how we handle this."

I draw my gun, screwing on the silencer. "Quick and quiet. We don't know how many more are inside."

We split up, approaching from different angles. The first guard never sees me coming. I put him down with a single shot to the head. Across the yard, Marco takes care of the second with equal efficiency.

We drag the bodies into the shadows and move to the back entrance. I test the door. Locked. Marco produces a set of picks from his pocket.

"Like old times," he murmurs, working the lock.

As teenagers, we broke into places for fun. Now we're breaking in to save my wife.

The lock clicks. Marco pulls the door open, and we slip inside, guns ready.

We move silently through the house’s dark hallway. We stop, listen for movement. Nothing.