Page 19 of Christmas Vows with the Devil

“We can’t.”

“Why not?”

She swallows hard, stepping back, creating a gap between us. “Because I hate you.”

I should be angry, but her words only make me want her more. “No, you don’t.”

She glares at me, but I can see the conflict in her eyes. She wants to hate me. Maybe she even thinks she does.

But I know better.

“Go to hell, Dante,” she says, turning on her heel and storming out of the kitchen.

I stand there, watching her disappear again, my heart pounding.

This isn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

Chapter Seven

Gia

I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at the ghost in the reflection.

Last night shook me to my core. My skin is too pale and dark circles ring my eyes.

I didn’t sleep a single second after I ran back to bed. Last night’s run-in with Dante played on repeat in my mind.

I can still feel the heat radiating from his body. His gaze had felt like a touch, igniting something deep inside me that I thought I had buried.

No. I can’t let this happen.

Matteo deserves a life away from all this chaos. Away from the mafia. The lifestyle I’ve fought so hard to keep him from.

I vowed to give him freedom and safety. I want him to have everything I didn’t have.

But Dante complicates everything.

The way he looked at me—touched me— shakes me. I have to keep my distance. It would put everything at risk if he discovers the truth about Matteo. I shudder at the thought.

But how could he not know? Matteo is like a carbon copy of him, right down to his chocolate eyes and crooked smile.

I splash cold water on my face, trying to wash away the anxiety. But I can’t rinse away the lingering memories of last night.

You’ve got this, Gia.You’ve been through worse. Just get through this week and get out.

I just want to go back to the flower shop, Frank and Julie, and my quiet little life.

I slink downstairs, praying Matteo is busy building a snowmen army with Vitto instead of finding out who his father is.

The festive spirit vibrates through the house but I’m not in the mood. My aunts are already up, bustling about the kitchen. They’re in full holiday mode, preparing for the extravagant Christmas Eve party.

“Gia!” Aunt Carla’s voice cuts through the clatter of pots and pans. “Come help us with the baking!”

I force a smile, pushing my worries aside.

The kitchen is alive with color and chaos. Red and green streamers sit in a tangled heap, ready to be sorted. The smell of cinnamon wafts through the air, ticking my nose and stirring up my hunger.

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