Page 69 of Mafia Daddy's Christmas Bride

Roman sits at the table with coffee and a plate of eggs, reading something on his tablet.

“There’s a plate of eggs in the warmer,” he says without looking up.

“Thank you.” I get the plate along with a cup of coffee and join him at the table.

Roman lifts his dark eyes, watching me over the rim of his coffee mug as he sips. “I’m meeting someone today about your mother. You should come along.”

My fork freezes midway to my mouth. “With you?”

“Yes.” He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “I've got contacts your FBI friend doesn't have. People who were around when it happened.”

My heart quickens. “You'd really help me?”

“I told you I would.” His voice is steady, matter-of-fact. “I've already started looking into the evidence you showed me. The shell casings, the car. Something doesn't add up. Professional hits don't leave breadcrumbs.” He pushes his plate away. “Someone wanted that evidence found. Someone wanted it to point to Calabresi.”

A flutter of hope rises. It’s ridiculous. All the issues that I ruminated about this morning in bed are still there. I can’t completely trust Roman.

Still, if he’s looking into this and asking me to join him, then there must be something to it.

Sure, it suggests that I’ve been looking in the wrong direction, but if Roman is right, this could lead to the answers I’m looking for.

“Today, we're going to visit an old driver who worked for all the families back then. He keeps his ears open.”

“And you want me to come with you?” I can't hide my surprise.

“It's your mother.” His eyes soften slightly. “You deserve to hear what he has to say firsthand.”

I nod, trying to process this shift.

For years, I've been searching alone, hitting walls, gathering scraps of information that never quite fit together.

Now this man, this dangerous, complicated man, is offering to help me find the truth.

“Why?” I ask before I can stop myself.

Roman's expression turns serious. “Because someone is using your grief to manipulate you. To manipulate all of us. And I want to know who.”

So not to help me specifically.

He’s doing it to protect his family and La Corona. Still, the end result is the same. I can learn who killed my mother and why.

An hour later, I fidget in the passenger seat of Roman's sleek black SUV, watching the city blur past.

We're heading to meet this mysterious driver, someone Roman claims might know something about my mother's death. My stomach knots with anticipation and dread.

“Who exactly is this person?” I ask, breaking the tense silence.

“Vincenzo Moretti. He started as a driver for Don Monti’s father and later managed all the drivers La Corona uses.” Roman keeps his eyes on the road. “If anything happened, Vinny knew about it.”

“And you trust him?”

“I trust that he knows where all the bodies are buried.” Roman's mouth quirks in a half-smile. “Literally and figuratively.”

We pull up to a modest house in an older neighborhood of Brooklyn. Nothing about it screams Mafia insider, just a tidy lawn and faded curtains in the windows.

An elderly man opens the door before we even knock. He's small and wiry with a full head of white hair and sharp eyes that miss nothing.

“Roman Ginetti.” He clasps Roman's hand with both of his. “And this must be the new bride.”