Christmas Vows with the Devil

27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Gia

I wake up with a start, soft sunlight filtering through the blinds. Outside my door, I can hear my family, up and about. The smell of coffee and pancakes fills the penthouse and I smile at the thought of Aunt Carla trying to cook in Dante’s high-tech kitchen.

Reaching across the bed, my fingers brush the empty sheets where Dante should be. My chest tightens. It feels wrong—like something's missing like he's been ripped away from me.

My heart pounds as I pad into the adjoining bathroom, hoping to find him. Empty. He’s probably out there with my uncles and father, strategizing, chugging coffee.

I brush my teeth and splash cold water on my face, noting my puffy racoon eyes. I tell myself that there will be no tears today—I need to stay strong, think clearly, for Matteo. Tossing on some clothes haphazardly pulled from a pile on the floor, I make my way to the kitchen.

Several heads turn to look at me when I enter, their eyes saying everything. No one has seen him. They don’t know where he went.

“Dante?” I say, hoping I’m wrong. My father stands, shaking his head.

“He’s not here,” he says, walking over to me with a fresh mug of coffee. “Even Rocco doesn’t know.”

Nausea curls in my stomach. It's not just his absence that bothers me. It's the weight pressing down on my chest, the cold realization that without Dante, nothing feels secure.

Somewhere along the way, he became my rock, my grounding force, always bringing me back down to Earth, always there to kiss away my tears and stroke my back.

There’s no pretending—I love him, and I can’t stand the thought of losing him. I thought I could shield myself, but it’s too late.

Uncle Tony steps forward, placing a steadying hand on my shoulder. “We’ll find him, Gia. He didn’t just vanish.”

I take a shaky breath, trying to gather my thoughts. I won’t lose him, not now. We need help, someone who can offer more than we can manage alone. That’s when Tony suggests something that pulls me out of my panic.

The Russos.

My father leads me to the kitchen table. “We need support, Gia. I’ve been out of the game too long. I have contacts, sure…but, we need someone more capable.”

“With more knowledge too,” adds Uncle Tony. He explains that they received a tip early this morning about the Russos. They’ve been working with John Manzo recently—and they’re not happy with the arrangement.

“It could be the perfect opportunity,” Uncle Roman says excitedly. “They want out of their deal with him, and he will refuse. We get them on our side and kill the same bird with two stones, you get it?”

I stare anxiously at his hopeful face, then at my father. He’s nodding along, on board with the idea. They’re not exactly our friends, but they’re not enemies either. The Russo family could be the key to bringing back Dante and Matteo.

“We don’t know anything about them,” I say hesitantly, looking around the room for backup. Everyone’s silent, my aunts and mother withdrawing from the conversations, the uncles firmly standing together.

“We’ve made tentative contact,” my father says quietly. “We’ll know soon enough.”

***

I spend the day in purgatory—waffling between scouring the streets of New York myself and trusting the Russos to help us. My father and uncles spend the day making calls, setting up meetings, and squeezing out information from all their contacts.

Rocco slips out of the apartment, under the guise of attending to business, after I beg him to try calling Dante again for the hundredth time. In the early afternoon, we get the call—Pietro Russo is ready to talk.

Two hours later, we’re slinking into the backroom of Eddy’s, a small cafe on the outskirts of Little Italy. My uncles walk ahead of me and Rocco follows behind. I’m not supposed to be here, but I threatened to leap from the Empire State Building if they didn’t take me along, and my father relented.

Pietro Russo sits at the lone table, surrounded by hard-faced men who look like they kill and torture for fun. He’s younger than I imagined, a pleasant smile on his face as he shakes my father’s hand.

“Not often that a face as pretty as yours graces the backroom of Eddy’s,” he says, cupping my hand. His slight accent is vaguely European and he moves with ease, emanating charisma and power. I don’t trust him, but I instantly know we made the right decision.

Despite the tension coiling within me, I manage to stay composed, refusing to show any weakness. I smile graciously and join the men at the table.

“I know why you’re here,” Russo says, suddenly all business. “Let’s get right into it, shall we? John Manzo hired us to intercept a shipment weeks ago. He offered good money. We accepted.”

I nod, remembering Dante telling me about the Russo fiasco.

He steeples his fingers, eyes sharp. “He was happy with the work we did, even though we lost several good men. When you go up against Il Diavolo , well… “

Il Diavolo? That can’t possibly be Dante. The devil?

“We felt it wasn’t worth it, the deal he offered,” Russo finishes, leaning back in his chair.

“What deal?” I ask before I can stop myself. My father agreed to let me come with a promise to stay quiet, but I’ve never been one to follow instructions.

“He wanted to undermine his son. He wanted us to go keep antagonizing the young Manzo,” Russo explains, sighing and rubbing his temples. “We declined. You see, we’re a newly established family here in New York, we’re not out to make enemies just yet…especially not with Il Diavolo .”

The realization hits me like a punch to the gut. All this time, Dante’s father wasn’t just content with leaving his family behind; he was working to tear it apart. He wanted to dismantle his son’s life piece by piece. Rage coils in my chest. I clench my fists, determined not to let my emotions get the better of me.

“And now he’s blackmailing you, twisting your arm to keep working with him?” Uncle Roman asks, already putting the pieces together.

“You can see why we’d want to…get rid of this little problem as well,” says Russo. “I think it would be beneficial to all involved for John Manzo to disappear once and for all. He has your little boy, correct?”

My breath catches in my throat, threatening to release the tears again but I push it down and nod.

“You know about the situation?” says my father, his eyes hardening.

“We thought it might be a good idea to keep eyes on Manzo at all times,” Russo explains, a sly smile forming on his face. “You never know when you might stumble upon something useful.”

Russo continues, “We respect young Manzo. He might be ruthless, but he doesn’t play games. John Manzo, on the other hand, is a snake. We’ve been waiting for an opportunity to return the favor.”

A surge of hope flickers within me. The Russos aren’t just indifferent to Dante’s plight; they’ve been watching, waiting for a chance to strike back. And they’re willing to help us.

Russo opens a tablet, bringing up a series of surveillance images. We watch with bated breath as he swipes through a series of images capturing Dante’s father in the shadows, meeting with various men, trading briefcases, plotting.

My stomach churns, recognizing his familiar silhouette. This is the very man who has haunted Dante’s life and, in turn, mine.

Russo leans forward, voice low. “These warehouses on the outskirts of the city? He’s got a ton of them. We’ve been tracking his movements. If he’s keeping your son and Dante, those are likely his safe spots.”

It’s reckless to charge in without more information, but I don’t have the patience for strategy or caution anymore.

“How do we do this?” I ask, leaning in, taking over the table. My father shoots me an angry glance, warning me that I’m here to listen—not participate.

Russo laughs appreciatively. “I love a woman ready to fight,” he says. “Most women I encounter in the game are only too happy to enjoy the lavish lifestyle their husband provides. They don’t want to get their manicured hands dirty.”

I reach my hand out to shake his. He raises an eyebrow but accepts. I can feel my father fuming beside me, my uncles casting sidelong glances at me.

“I’m ready to fight,” I say. “And this time, I’m fighting dirty.”