The first time Isabella called him "Papa," it was by accident.
Vinny had been in the kitchen, barefoot and half-awake, warming a bottle while Matthew tried to convince their daughter that cereal was, in fact, a gift from the heavens and not a personal betrayal. The morning sun spilled across the marble counters, soft and golden, making everything look gentler than it had any right to be.
Isabella sat in her high chair like a tiny queen with messy blond curls and those impossible green eyes—Vinny's eyes. She had yogurt on her cheek and cereal crushed into her tiny fist.
"Papa," she mumbled, reaching toward Vinny.
He froze.
Matthew looked up slowly.
Vinny blinked. "You heard that, right?"
Matthew swallowed. "Yeah."
Isabella slammed her spoon on the tray. "Papa!"
This time it was deliberate.
