Christmas Vows with the Devil

3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Gia

“Natalie, my darling!”

I glance up from my dog-eared romance novel and grin at Frank’s toothy smile.

“Frank, looking as handsome as ever. Did you get a haircut?”

“Now, now dear.” He grins conspiratorially, leaning on the chipped counter. “Don’t want to make people get the wrong idea.”

I laugh as he looks around in mock suspicion, even though it’s just me and him in the sunny little flower shop.

“Twelve red roses today?” I ask, happy that he made it in before closing.

Frank pops in every Wednesday to pick up a bouquet for his wife. Even though she has late-stage dementia and rarely remembers him, he still tries to make her happy.

It’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen, and the type of love I’d want. I thought I had that once. I imagined Dante and I growing old together, through thick and thin, just like Frank and Julie.

I had been wrong about love. I had been wrong about so many things.

“Let’s go with yellow this week,” he grins, his wrinkled eyes misting over. “It’s Julie’s favorite color. Oh, but tie them up with that Christmas ribbon over there. I want her to be reminded of the holidays.”

I busy myself picking twelve perfect long-stem yellow roses from the fridge, swiping away a rogue tear.

Ugh, it’s just so damn romantic. Like The Notebook or something.

“How’s that boyfriend of yours? Treating my girl well?”

“Frank, he’s not my boyfriend,” I say, already exasperated with him. “You know that Vitto is just a friend.”

“Oh yeah, a friend that regularly hangs around a flower shop pining over a beautiful raven-haired girl,” he chuckles. “Some friend he is.”

I peek over the arrangement of roses, clocking Vitto at the coffee shop across the street.

He’s sitting on the patio, pretending to read a newspaper nonchalantly. To any passing person, he’s a regular guy enjoying the last bit of sunshine on an unseasonably warm day.

To me, he’s my ball and chain.

The idea of having a boyfriend is so foreign that I almost laugh. It’s been six years, and I still can’t move on.

I finish off the bouquet with a white silk ribbon and admire my handiwork. When I ran away from New York, I never imagined I’d end up working in a flower shop. But I had to admit, I was pretty damn good at it.

Frank slides a twenty over the counter and gently cradles the bouquet.

“Tell Julie I say hello, will you?”

“Tell that grandson of mine I’m expecting him Friday night,” Frank shakes his head. “And he better be ready for at least ten rounds of chess this time.”

I chuckle as he shuffles out of the shop, leaning heavily on his cane. Frank and Julie were the first ones to adopt us when we moved to Silver Springs all those years ago.

Matteo was just a newborn and I was struggling with his contraption of a stroller on the icy sidewalk. Julie popped out of the flower shop to help me get it into my car. We started chatting and suddenly, I had a job and a set of adoptive parents.

As we got closer over the years, celebrating holidays and birthdays together, we all watched Matteo grow up. They’ve spent the last few years thinking they were helping a struggling young mother get back on her feet.

It kills me that I can’t tell them the truth.

Not about the millions of dollars in my bank account.

Not about my family back in New York.

Not even my real name.

To them, I’ll always be Natalie Davidson.

In the end, it’s all worth it, though.

I lock up the shop and climb into my car, cranking the heat up. It’s gotten cold again now that the sun has gone down. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I see Vitto strolling to his bike.

I know he’ll follow behind. He always does.

When my family insisted on protection, I refused at first. But inside information that the Manzo family had found out about Matteo made me think twice. Vitto’s been one step behind us for five years now and his presence is a huge comfort.

We both roll through the tiny town covered in Christmas cheer and decorations to the local daycare. The owner, Sophie, steps onto the porch as soon as I pull up. She has little Christmas tree earrings on and a green sweater. She shoots me a big beaming smile and I grin back.

She shoos Matteo out to the car like a doting grandmother. My insides instantly warm when I see his happy face running toward me. His hands are full of papers. No doubt more artwork for the fridge.

“Mama! Mama! Look!”

He’s clambering into the car and tossing his backpack across the backseat. A handful of papers appear in my face.

“Sophie helped me draw these cool dragons!”

“Nice work,” I say as I study them. “These are going to be worth a million dollars when you’re a famous artist one day.”

“Nope,” he counters, squeezing between the seats to kiss me on the cheek. “I wanna send them to grandma and grandpa in New York. They can be open-early Christmas gifts!”

My heart stills for a second.

“Okay, honey,” I say carefully. “Let’s do that.”

When he happily accepts the answer and doesn’t push further, my shoulders unglue from my neck and I relax. He’s been asking about his real grandparents lately—about his real family.

And I have no answers for him.

How do I tell my sweet son that his relatives are part of one of New York’s biggest mafia families? That his grandfather is a cold-blooded killer?

As if on cue, my phone buzzes in my coat pocket. I pull it out at the red light and see Mom flash across the screen. Groaning inwardly, I mute the call.

It can wait.

Later, after a bath and bedtime story, I lie sprawled on my bed, toying with my phone. I know exactly why Mom is calling me. Every year, like clockwork, in mid-November, I get the call.

I sigh and steel myself as I tap her name.

“Gia, honey, hello.” Mom’s rich voice wafts around me, filling up the room.

“Hi, sorry I missed your call.” I pause, wracking my brain for an excuse. “I was driving.”

“It’s no problem. Safety first, of course,” she brushes me off. “Listen, we’re in full planning mode for the Christmas Extravaganza. Of course, Carla is already driving me mad with all her interesting suggestions. Let’s call them…”

I zone out for a second, savoring Mom’s voice cocooning me like a warm hug. I miss her every day, but it’s better this way.

For Matteo’s sake, for mine, for everyone involved.

“Mom,” I cut her off and wince at my sharpness. “You know we can’t come.”

“But honey, I thought enough time has passed, maybe this year…”

I bite back a sob and cough to clear my throat.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I try more gently. Suddenly, I hear my father’s gruff voice in the background, demanding to speak to me.

“Gia.”

“Hi, Dad. It’s been a while.”

“Yes, well, lot going on,” he stammers for a second.

How many months has it been since he’s even said hello to me?

I can’t begin to count.

While my mother had been supportive of my plan to take up a new identity in a small town, my father had other opinions. Opinions that he had voiced loudly and aggressively, many times. He finally gave up and decided to give me the cold shoulder instead.

“Gia, you’re coming to Christmas this year. End of conversation.”

“Dad, no…”

“You’re coming,” he says, with finality. “Or we’re draining your bank accounts and donating your inheritance to one of the charities your mother is always yapping about.”

“You’re not serious.”

I can’t believe he’d stoop so low to get me back to New York. I didn’t give a shit about the money, but that was Matteo’s college fund. It was also what paid for his birthday presents, swimming lessons, and baseball camp.

Absolutely not.

“I’ve never been more serious,” he growls. “Don’t test me, Gia.”

I can’t risk going back to New York with Matteo. For a crazy second, I imagine leaving him here at Frank’s for the weekend while I fly back alone. I quickly discount that idea.

I haven’t spent a single day away from him since he was born. I wasn’t about to start now.

As much as I don’t want my father to win this battle, I know we will be relatively safe. The annual weeklong Christmas Extravaganza is always held in a secluded compound in upstate New York.

We’d be nowhere near the city—or the Manzos.

The Manzo family had it out for us since the mess with Dante’s father. One thing I couldn’t confirm was whether they actually had any knowledge of Matteo’s existence.

Whether he had any knowledge.

No, stop it. Do not even think about him.

I focus on Matteo instead, and how he’s never really met his grandparents. I know he dreams of being part of a big family. It’s always been just the two of us and “Uncle Vitto” since he can remember.

If only he knew how huge his real family is.

I sigh, curling up into a tight little ball and let the tears flow. He needs to meet them. I can’t hide him away forever.

We’ll be fine. It’s just Christmas in a middle-of-nowhere town in upstate New York.

I just hope that those won’t turn into famous last words.