Page 53 of Mafia Daddy's Christmas Bride

“But I want to know how to touch you.”

“Perhaps another time, I can teach you more. Right now, you should get some rest,” I say before I follow through.

"Roman, I?—"

"We'll talk tomorrow," I say gently, cutting off whatever she's about to say. "Go on. Get some sleep."

After a moment's hesitation, she leans in and presses a soft kiss to my cheek. The gesture is unexpectedly tender, catching me off guard. Then she's gone.

I wait until I hear the bedroom door close before I move to the bar cabinet in the corner. The whiskey burns pleasantly as I pour a double and return to my desk.

I pick up my fallen papers and then drop heavily into my chair.

What the hell am I doing?

This woman is supposed to be a mission, not a lover. I'm meant to be investigating her, possibly eliminating her if necessary.

Instead, I just spent the evening teaching her about pleasure, watching her come apart under my touch.

I take another swallow of whiskey, welcoming the burn.

Isabella is innocent in ways I didn't expect. Virgin or not, there's a genuine quality to her that makes me question whether she's really capable of the betrayal she's been accused of.

What if she's being manipulated? Used as a pawn by someone with an agenda against La Corona?

The protective instinct that usually reserves itself for Angelica now extends to include Isabella.

I need to find her FBI contact.

This Blackwood character.

Something about this whole situation stinks, and I'm going to get to the bottom of it, not just for Marco or the family but for Isabella.

My mind drifts back to the fabric store. I'd taken Isabella there partly to help her settle in with me. She needed supplies for her designs, and I figured giving her that small freedom might help build trust between us.

I remember watching her face light up as she browsed through bolts of silk and cotton, her fingers tracing patterns only she could see.

But I had another reason for bringing her out into the world. I wanted to know if she was being watched, by whom, and if anyone would make contact.

My phone rang right on time, and I excused myself to take it but watched Isabella from the side as a woman approached her, mid-thirties, brown hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, nondescript clothing.

Professional. Unmemorable.

Except I never forget a face, and she moved with the practiced awareness of someone trained to blend in.

I pretended to be absorbed in my call while watching their interaction.

The handoff was smooth, a small burner phone.

Irritation flared that she’d be so fucking bold as to betray us when we’d given her a chance to live.

Except, Isabella's surprise was genuine. She hadn't expected the contact.

"Call Blackwood when it’s safe. Keep this hidden." So the FBI was still wanting to use her. Of course they would.

"When can I get out?" Isabella asked, taking the phone. "I need witness protection."

Out. She wants out. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, and yet, La Corona bent over backward to protect her when they normally would have killed her.