Page 90 of Christmas Vows with the Devil

One Year Later

Snow dusts the windowsills of our New York townhouse like powdered sugar. Soft lights drape our home, twinkling like tiny diamonds.

It's Christmas Eve, and Gia is beside me, radiant and glowing. Her hand rests gently on her growing belly as she twirls in front of the mirror. With her hair gathered in a loose bun at the nape of her neck, and the emerald green dress draped artfully over her curves, she looks ethereal.

I duck out of the bedroom to check on Matteo’s progress with his suit. He insisted on getting ready himself and I chuckle at the soft grunts coming from his room. Peeking in, I see him struggling with his bow tie—a miniature version of mine.

“Need a hand?”

“Daaaad,” he drags the word out, frustrated. “It looked so easy on YouTube.”

I kneel in front of him, fixing the bow tie until it’s perfect and spin him around to face the mirror. His curls are neatly brushed back and he looks so much older than the little kid I met a year ago.

“Keep practicing and you’ll get it by New Year’s Eve,” I tell him, kissing the top of his head. “I promise.”

Gia wanders into the room, a serene smile on her face, and Matteo runs over to kiss her belly and say hello to his little sister. It’s hard to believe that this is our life now.

One year ago, we fought to keep Matteo safe. Now, we’re here, all together, getting ready for the Christmas Extravaganza.

“We’d better get this show on the road,” I say, checking my watch.

“Is Grandpa ready?” Matteo asks, dashing into the hall and down the stairs to check. I chuckle, thinking about how different this Christmas will be.

We initially debated where the best place for us to live would be. Eventually, we decided Matteo would have a much simpler, happier childhood in Silver Springs. So, I sold off my entire company, cut ties with the mafia, and joined my family in our new little townhome.

Gia instantly introduced me to Frank, Matteo’s “adopted grandpa” and shared how much he did for her when she was a single mother. She also told Frank the truth about her identity and he took it like a champ.

When I realized how talented he was when it came to investments, we went into business together finding and funding small businesses as silent partners. Now, Matteo has Frank Grandpa and Giancarlo Grandpa, and I’m grateful that he never has to grow up under my father’s thumb.

I smile at Gia, leading her downstairs by the hand, and help her with her coat. Once the crew is ready, we pile into our SUV and hit the road. We’re spending another Christmas week at theVitale Lodge, but this time, there are no secrets, no ghosts left to haunt us.

***

Matteo dashes past me, his little feet skidding over the polished floor, a look of sheer determination on his face. He yells to his cousins to catch him as he tries to dodge the towering gingerbread man Aunt Carla crafted.

Her insistence on making this the “first official Manzo/Vitale Christmas Extravaganza” has led to an explosion of holiday decor. Giant wreaths, ornaments the size of basketballs, candy-cane statues, and garlands woven with real pine and berries overpower the house.

The whole place smells like cinnamon, pine, and something sweet in the oven.

Gia’s family and mine have gathered in the living room, the glow of the fireplace making everything feel warm and golden. She leans into me, wrapping her arm through mine as we watch the kids race around and the families chat.

“Can you believe this?” I whisper into her hair. She looks up at me, her emerald eyes bright and warm.

“Feels like a fever dream, Manzo,” she says, her lips curling into a soft smile. “And I keep wondering when I’ll wake up.”

I bring her hand to my lips, brushing a kiss across her knuckles. “If you wake up, I’ll just pull you back here. This is where you belong, Mrs. Manzo.”

Aunt Carla enters the room, wearing a Santa hat and wielding a spatula like a wand. “Everyone!” she calls, loud and dramatic as always. “Christmas Eve dinner is served!”

Dinner is a raucous affair. Matteo insists on helping Giancarlo carve the turkey, his little hands resting on his grandfather’s as he grips the knife.

“No, GC Grandpa,” Matteo scolds, using his pet name for Giancarlo, or GC Grandpa. “Cut here first!”

Giancarlo chuckles, his eyes crinkling with warmth. His hair is whiter at the temples this year, and he’s starting to look very much like Santa Claus himself. Gia is laughing at something her mother says, her hand drifting over her belly.

I catch her eye, feeling that warm glow of love, gratitude, and pride all over again.

After we’ve stuffed ourselves, Aunt Lucia brings out a monstrous fruitcake she claims is herpiece de resistance. Matteo stares at it, wide-eyed, as if she’s unveiled some kind of magical relic.

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