Page 39 of Mafia Daddy's Christmas Bride

"She wants to be a designer. Make clothes and things."

"Like onProject Runway?" Her eyes widen with newfound interest.

I nod, though I have no idea whatProject Runwayis. "Something like that."

I glance up from the waffle iron to see Isabella hovering in the kitchen doorway.

She's dressed in jeans and a simple sweater, casual clothes that somehow look both designer and comfortable on her. Her hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, looking uncertain about whether to enter or retreat.

"Good morning," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "Coffee's fresh."

Her eyes dart from me to Angelica, watching Isabella with unabashed curiosity.

"Thank you," Isabella murmurs, stepping fully into the kitchen. She moves with natural grace, but there's tension in her shoulders, like she's bracing for something.

"Hungry?" I gesture to the waffle iron. "We’re having waffles today."

"I don't want to impose." She reaches for a mug from the cabinet, hesitating like she's not sure if she's allowed.

"Top shelf, right side," I direct her. "And you're not imposing. You live here now."

Isabella finds a mug and pours herself coffee, adding cream from the carton I've left on the counter. Her movements are careful. Like she's navigating a minefield rather than making breakfast.

"Daddy makes the best waffles. With chocolate chips." Angelica informs Isabella.

Isabella looks startled at being directly addressed, then offers a small smile. "That sounds delicious, actually."

"Coming right up," I say, pouring more batter into the iron. "Have a seat. You too, Angel. At the table.”

As Isabella slides into a chair next to Angelica, I note how she seems out of her element in this modest kitchen with this unexpected family unit we've created overnight.

"How do you take your waffle?" I ask, trying to give her something normal to focus on. "Syrup? Fruit? Powdered sugar?"

“Syrup is fine.”

I slide the fresh waffle onto a plate and place it in front of Isabella. "Syrup's on the table."

"Thank you," Isabella says, reaching for the syrup. "This looks wonderful."

Angelica watches Isabella with narrowed eyes, her earlier curiosity hardening into something more defensive.

She stabs at her waffle with unnecessary force. "You're not my mommy. I already had a mommy and she was the best mommy ever."

Isabella freezes, syrup bottle suspended mid-pour.

I open my mouth to reprimand Angelica, but Isabella speaks first.

"You're absolutely right," she says gently. "I'm not your mommy. No one could ever replace her."

Angelica blinks, clearly not expecting this response.

Isabella sets down the syrup bottle. "I lost my mom too.”

"You did?" Angelica's hostility falters.

"Yes. And it hurt so much I thought I'd never feel okay again." Isabella cuts a small piece of waffle but doesn't eat it. "Sometimes, it still hurts."

Angelica studies Isabella's face. "Do you remember what she looked like?"