Christmas Vows with the Devil

11. Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

Gia

The sun hasn’t risen yet and an inky sky envelops the lodge in a velvety softness, creating a false sense of security. But the cold seeps in despite the fire roaring in the hearth, a reminder that we’re not safe.

We’re never safe.

I’m huddled in the living room with my family, all of us silent, shaken from the night’s attack. Dante’s seated across from me, a bandage hastily taped to his side and a flannel blanket slung over his shoulders. I trail my gaze across his broad chest, then instantly feel guilty.

I know he’s hurting more than he’ll ever let on. There’s blood seeping through the bandage, but he hasn’t said a word about it.

Typical Dante, too stubborn for his own good.

I can’t stop staring at him and it’s not just because the man is pure eye candy. He saved us. Even with bullets flying, even bleeding out, he stood his ground. My family owes him everything, and I don’t know how to feel about that.

I tear my eyes and thoughts away from him and turn to Matteo curled up next to me. He’s too young to understand what happened, but I can tell he feels the tension in the room. I should bring him back to bed, but I can’t stand the thought of being away from him right now, even with Vitto close by.

Shit like this is exactly why I wanted to shelter him from this life. And it’s why I’m about to become helicopter mom of the year.

Matteo’s eyes are wide, watching Dante with a kind of fascination that makes my chest tighten. My son, looking at his father, completely unaware of the truth that binds them together.

I run my fingers through his hair, trying to calm myself as much as him. My mind is racing, forcing broken and bent puzzle pieces together, but I can’t put together a cohesive image.

Who did this? Why would they do this? What’s their end goal?

In the mafia world, attacks like this are a dime a dozen, but my family had settled down in recent years. My father had been indulging more in the illegal trade of priceless antiques than in turf wars and retribution, which is basically retirement for a mafia don.

Dante’s eyes flicker to mine, just for a second, and I feel that familiar jolt in my chest. It’s like all the years apart have only sharpened the connection between us, not dulled it. His gaze is intense, filled with something I can’t name.

Hope? Regret? Maybe both.

Before I can overthink it, my father clears his throat. His face is hard, as always, but there’s a softness in his eyes when he glances at Dante. It’s a rare thing, my father showing vulnerability, and it catches me off guard.

“I want to thank you,” he begins. “For what you did tonight. You didn’t have to. Lord knows you didn’t have to, but you did.”

Dante nods, wincing slightly as he shifts in his chair. “I have no loyalties to anyone but the Manzos, but…”

He looks pointedly at me, sending a shiver through me that pierces my soul.

“I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

The room is quiet. All eyes flicker between Dante and me as if they’re waiting for something more. There’s a tension, but it’s different now. Less hostile. Almost hopeful—like we’re standing on the precipice of something big.

My father looks around at the family. My aunts, my uncles, everyone still stunned by the attack. “We need to stay vigilant,” he says gruffly, clearing his throat and bringing us back to the present. “This was just a warning. There will be more to come.”

Dante nods, and my father leans back, satisfied with that as an answer. Before anyone else can speak, the door to the room creaks open. Aunt Carla walks in, her hands clasped in front of her, eyes wide with concern.

“They sent a message.” Her voice trembles, and she falters, leaning on a plaid armchair.

Everyone tenses. Dante straightens up, his hand drifting toward his side, probably ready to grab his gun—which has been replaced with a blood-soaked bandage.

“What kind of message?” my father asks.

Aunt Carla holds up a piece of paper, her hands shaking slightly. “It was left at the gate. A letter. No signature.”

My heart races. This can’t be good.

“What does it say?” my father asks, already exasperated by Carla’s dramatic nature.

He snatches the paper out of her hands, his expression hardening with every word he reads. His jaw tightens, and I can feel the shift in the room.

Something is wrong. Something bigger is coming.

He hands the paper to Dante.

Dante’s face is unreadable, but I can see the tension in his shoulders. He passes the paper back without a word, but there’s a darkness in his eyes now. I see the hardness, the rage creeping in and settling around his features.

“What does this mean?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

“It means they’re not done with us.”

I swallow hard, my mind racing. I thought we were safe here, tucked away in this lodge, away from the madness of New York City. Deep down in my gut I knew better, though. I knew we could never truly escape that life.

My father nods in agreement, his face hardening with resolve. “Then we prepare for war.”

The room falls into silence again. The reality of what’s coming settles over us like a thick, suffocating fog. It’s not the first time I’ve been crushed by the oppressive weight of violence, but now I have Matteo to protect.

And Dante? He’s a part of this too, whether he wants to be or not. I glance at him again, wondering if he’ll stand by the Vitale's side through all of this.

He’s hurt because of us—because of me. And I don’t know how to make that right.

After a moment, Dante pushes himself out of his chair, wincing as he does so. “I need to check the perimeter,” he says. The uncles and my father instantly rise to follow, allowing him to take the lead on this one.

“Dante, wait.”

He stops, turning to face me, his expression guarded.

I swallow, feeling the words stick in my throat. I don’t know what to say. Don’t know how to thank him for everything he’s done. For risking his life. For being here, even when things between us are so complicated.

“Thank you,” I manage to choke out.

His eyes soften just a fraction, but he doesn’t say anything. He just nods, his gaze holding mine for a beat too long before he turns to leave.

As the men head for the door, Matteo stirs beside me. He’s been quiet this whole time, but now he’s watching Dante with wide, curious eyes.

“Dante,” he calls out, his voice small.

Dante freezes, his hand on the doorknob. He turns back slowly, his eyes flicking to Matteo. Panic stirs in my chest, slowly clawing its way up my throat.

“What is it, kid?” Dante asks, his voice rough but not unkind.

Matteo makes his way over to Dante with all the confidence of a child who has no idea how dangerous the world is. His eyes are bright and full of admiration.

“Thank you,” Matteo says, shyness making him sprint back to my side as soon as the words are out.

Dante gazes at him, his expression registering a million new emotions. He slowly strolls back to where we’re huddled on the sofa and ruffles Matteo’s hair.

“Stay safe with your mom,” he says, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it.

Matteo beams, clearly pleased with the attention from his new, real-life superhero. And I feel my heart twist in my chest.

Dante doesn’t know. He has no idea that the boy staring at him in wide-eyed wonder is his own flesh and blood.

As the men disappear outside, I keep my eyes trained on the door, my mind spinning with everything that’s happened. The attack, the letter, Dante’s injury, Matteo’s innocent admiration for the man who saved us.

This is only the beginning. I can feel it in my bones.

As the morning stretches on, the family scatters throughout the house. Some go to their bedrooms to catch up on much-needed sleep, others to keep watch. I find my mom and the aunts in the kitchen, arguing over breakfast ideas and brewing a giant batch of fresh coffee.

I settle in at the counter, a steaming mug of coffee clutched in my hands. Matteo sits beside me, swinging his little feet listlessly.

Suddenly, a gentle tug at my sleeve pulls me from my daze. “Can I play outside?”

I glance out the window. Snow blankets the ground, soft and untouched. It’s peaceful, a stark contrast to the chaos we’ve just faced.

“Only for a little while,” I say. “Stay where I can see you.”

“I’ll go out with him,” my mom volunteers, worry clouding her face.

I nod as Matteo slips on his boots and rushes out the door with my mother following closely behind.

I shouldn’t have come home for Christmas. I should’ve stayed far away, protected Matteo from this life, from everything it represents. But I couldn’t say no.

Not to my father’s ultimatum. Not to Matteo’s desire to meet his family.

And now I’m stuck here, in the middle of a brewing avalanche, with the people I love trapped in the middle of it.

“That Dante sure looks delicious with his shirt off, doesn’t it?” Aunt Carla’s overly dramatic whisper tears me from my brooding thoughts.

“Even with the bloody bandage,” adds Aunt Lucia with a wink. I glare at them, wondering how they can joke at a time like this.

“What? Gia, you need to stop being so uppity and start appreciating that Greek god parading himself right in front of your nose,” Carla pushes.

“He’s not parading,” I grumble, arms crossed like a petulant teenager. “And he’s not even that good-looking.”

The aunts gasp in mock horror, acting like middle-school girls. Aunt Lucia fans herself, pretending to swoon. Aunt Carla cackles, making kissy faces out the window where the men are returning from their perimeter patrol.

“Stop it,” I toss a sugar cube at each of them, but I can feel the giggles rising inside me. When Dante walks in through the kitchen entrance, the aunts freeze, blushing like teenagers caught red-handed. I can’t help it, I burst out laughing.

That sets them off and we’re collapsing around the kitchen island, giggling like lunatics. Dante stares in confusion, his gaze darting between us. The stunned look on his face just encourages us more and I have to wipe the tears streaming down my face.

I haven’t laughed this hard in what feels like a lifetime.

Dante shakes his head and limps out of the kitchen, clutching his side. I instantly feel a little guilty for laughing.

Aunt Lucia senses the change in my emotions and wraps her arm around me, pulling me close.

“Sometimes, laughter is the best medicine.”

I nod, staring sadly at Dante’s retreating form.

“And if that doesn’t work,” Aunt Carla chimes in, winking and shoving me through the kitchen door. “You can always count on great sex with a Greek god—if you’re lucky.”