Page 9 of Mafia Daddy's Christmas Bride

I feel a little bad, but mostly, I think he’s manipulating me.

Trying to make me feel guilty.

“If you know something about Mom’s murder, I want to know.”

He shakes his head. “You lost your right to know anything about this family, about La Corona, when you started talking to the Feds, an action punishable by death. But you won’t die, Isabella. You’ll marry Roman Ginetti, help him raise his daughter, and if you don’t…”

He doesn’t have to finish. I know what happens if I don’t.

I stand abruptly, finding my strength. "I won't marry a man who might have killed my mother."

Father's expression shifts, something dangerous flickering behind his eyes.

He rises slowly, placing both palms flat on his desk as he leans toward me. "Let me be perfectly clear. If you refuse this arrangement, Roman won't be your husband. He'll be your executioner. La Corona has already authorized your death. This marriage is the only reason you're still breathing."

Ice runs through my veins. The clinical way he delivers this death sentence, my death sentence, makes it all the more terrifying.

"You would let them kill your own daughter?" I whisper, searching his face for any sign of the father I once knew.

"I don’t have a choice in the matter," he responds, his eyes never leaving mine. "La Corona's decisions are final. This marriage is your only option for survival, Isabella. Choose wisely."

He waves me off, turning his attention back to papers on his desk.

I stare at him for a moment, resenting him and this life. Then I turn and rush to my room.

I slam my bedroom door and lock it, though I know it's a meaningless gesture.

If my father wants in, the lock won't stop him.

Nothing stops a Don of La Corona when they've made up their minds.

I pace my room, searching for an escape that doesn't exist.

Three days until I'm handed over to Roman Ginetti like some medieval peace offering.

Roman Ginetti.

I know of him more than I know him.

He’s always on the periphery.

The only image of him I can conjure up from memory is an old man with dead eyes.

I shake my head in disbelief that my life has come to this, all for wanting justice for my mother.

My eyes fall on the silver-framed photograph on my nightstand.

Mom's smile beams back at me, caught mid-laugh during our last summer vacation together.

We used to take time, just the two of us going out to Long Island, enjoying the beach and shopping.

But a year ago, she was gunned down in what had to be a hit, but police called it a drive-by shooting in which she got caught up by accident.

But Agent Blackwood agrees with me. Yes, I knew the risk I was taking to talk to him.

But my mother was worth it.

I cradle the frame in my hands, tracing her face through the glass. "What would you do?" I sink onto the edge of my bed. "They want me to marry into the family that took you from us."