Page 57 of Mafia Daddy's Christmas Bride

I press my palms against my burning face. I should be mortified.

I am mortified, but beneath the embarrassment lies something else.

A hunger. A curiosity about what “more” might entail.

The same hands that have likely ended lives brought me to ecstasy.

How is that possible?

Roman Ginetti is a contradiction I can't solve.

The brutal enforcer who makes breakfast with his daughter.

The man who threatened to kill me, then bought me fabric and art supplies.

The monster who might have murdered my mother, yet touches me with such care I could weep.

I should hate him. I should fear him. I do fear him, his power, his capabilities, his world. But there's something else too.

Something that makes me yearn when he looks at me with those dark, knowing eyes.

My eyelids grow heavy as exhaustion finally overtakes my racing thoughts. The sheets smell like him. It's comforting in a way I refuse to examine too closely.

As sleep claims me, one thought circles.

What if Roman really is the key to finding my mother's killer?

What if, in this twisted fairy tale, the dragon is actually my protector?

I wake to an empty bed and the faint scent of coffee drifting through the apartment. Pulling on a robe, I follow the sounds coming from the kitchen. I pause at the doorway, unseen.

Roman stands at the stove, his massive frame oddly gentle as he flips pancakes. His usual severe expression is softened, almost boyish as he glances over at Angelica, who sits at the counter with her legs swinging.

“Can we make them look like snowmen?” she asks, her dark curls bouncing with excitement.

“Snowmen, huh?” Roman's voice holds none of the cold authority I've heard him use with his men. “That's ambitious for so early in the morning,Piccola.”

“Please, Daddy?” She draws out the word, tilting her head in a way that's clearly calculated. The little manipulator already knows her power.

Roman sighs dramatically, but his eyes crinkle. “Fine. But you have to eat all three parts of the snowman, not just the head like last time.”

Angelica claps her hands, victorious. “Deal!”

I watch as Roman carefully pours batter to form three connecting circles. His hands, the same hands that touched me so intimately last night, the same hands that have likely ended lives, move with surprising delicacy.

“Hold the chocolate chips,” he instructs, passing her a small bowl. “You're in charge of the face.”

The pride on Angelica's face as she accepts this responsibility makes something twist in my chest.

I never had this with my father.

Our breakfasts were formal affairs, often with business associates present.

The closest I came to moments like this were with my mother, before…

Roman notices me then, his eyes meeting mine over Angelica's head. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” I respond, stepping fully into the kitchen.