Page 84 of Christmas Vows with the Devil

I shoot them a glance to back off and bring him inside. A smiling housekeeper directs us to a big, cozy bedroom with an adjoining bathroom and we trudge up the stairs after her.

Finally, alone with my son for the first time, I fall on my knees and pull him into a tight hug. His little body is tense, but he slowly lets go and cries in my arms. I stroke his hair, sitting on the cold tile floor, and pull him into my lap.

I want to ask him questions. I want to know what he went through. I need to make a plan for how to fix this. But I push these thoughts away and run him a warm bath instead.

His tears run dry as I gently shampoo his hair. The tension and stress wash away, swirling down the drain with the dirty water. I dry him off, get him into a set of pajamas my mother brought for him, and we settle into bed.

“Mommy?” he asks, his voice heavy with exhaustion. He’s snuggled firmly in my arms like he never wants to let go.

“Yes, baby?”

“Where’s Dante?”

Where’s Dante indeed?I wonder. I fish my phone out of my pocket, trying not to disturb him. Two missed calls and a text from Russo. I hit the button and read the text, my breath sticking in my throat and my stomach churning nauseously.

Manzo is dead.

I sit up so quickly that my head spins and bile rushes up my throat, threatening to spill out.Fucking Russo and his lack of words. Which Manzo?

Matteo eyes me warily but I comfort him softly, smoothing down his hair until he slips back into dreamland. Meanwhile, my heart thunders in my chest, the loudest sound in the room. I quickly type back a message asking for clarification.

He can’t possibly mean Dante, can he?

I wait, drumming my fingers against my thigh as I stare at the conversation on my phone. Three little dots finally appear and I cease to breathe.

John.

Relief washes over me like long-awaited rain in a drought.He’s okay. Dante’s okay.I practice mindful breathing, trying to center myself but panic still courses through me. Slipping out of bed, I tiptoe to the bathroom.

A hot shower should help, I tell myself. I crank up the temperature and let the bathroom steam up as I steady my breathing. The burning hot water feels good against my clammy, sweaty skin and I soak up the feeling.

The door creaks open and I wipe away a circle of steam, peering through the glass. I was expecting Matteo, awake and scared, but instead, I see dark wild curls framing two pools of molten chocolate.

Dante.Covered in blood.

He slowly strips off his bloody, dirty suit and slides into the large, glass shower with me. I lean into him, the water and steam enveloping us, creating a sense of safety for the first time in days. He gazes at me, stroking my wet hair.

His eyes display a myriad of emotions and I watch as he struggles with his inner demons. We stand like that in silence for several minutes, gently sliding our hands over the other’s body. It’s not sexual, I realize.

It feels like home. Comfort. Love.

“I killed him,” Dante finally whispers, his voice horse and broken.

“Shh,” I say, stroking his hair like I do for Matteo when he’s scared. Dante nuzzles his face into my hair and I feel his body start to tremble. I stay quiet, letting him cry it out, while the water washes away his sins.

He cries for the childhood he should have had and the father he deserved. He cries for the father he did have, and the life he took from him. His shoulders shake and quiet sobs fill the steamy shower.

When he pulls back, his eyes are red-rimmed but less haunted-looking. I pull his face closer to me, planting little soft kisses along his jaw and cheeks.

“You did the right thing.”

“Then why does it feel so fucking shitty?”

There’s no anger in his voice. No resentment. Just the pain of having to murder your own father, even though he never gave a damn about Dante in the first place. It must hurt like hell.

A need to make him feel better, to comfort him, bursts out of me. I whisper soothing words as I wash his body, scrubbing away dried blood and sweat. I make him sit on the built-in marble bench as I shampoo his hair gently. He stares at the drain in silence but I can feel the tension seeping out of his bones.

Once he’s clean, I climb out of the shower, pull him by the hand, and wrap him in a big towel. We dry off slowly, holding each other’s gaze. So much said with so few words.

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