Page 45 of Christmas Vows with the Devil

Shit. That’s the last thing I expected.

“Gia! Dante!” Giancarlo’s booming voice rings out above us. We both spin to face the cliffside and find it teeming with Vitale family members. “Stay there! The fire department is coming to get you up.”

We nod, shivering in the bitter cold and wind. There’s no way in hell either of us is climbing back up the embankment without help. I spot Gia rubbing her hands together, her flimsy jacket doing little to keep her warm.

Without hesitation, I pull her into my arms, cradling her head against my shoulder. She feels like she’s made from ice—frozen, delicate, ready to shatter. But I won’t let that happen.

I’ll fight to my death to make sure Gia Vitale doesn’t shatter ever again.

Chapter Fifteen

Gia

I stare at my reflection, the faint cuts on my face standing out against my pale skin. A few bandages, a little bruising. It could’ve been worse. My wrist aches with the dull throb of a sprain, but it’s nothing compared to the confusion swirling in my mind.

I can’t stop thinking about Dante—his arms around me, the way he saved me. It’s becoming a pattern, one I’m not sure I like.

He protected my family when the estate was attacked. He pulled me from the wreck and carried me to safety. Then there was...the other night. I press my fingers to my lips, remembering the heat, the way his hands had moved over me, how right it all had felt, and yet how terrifying this all was for me.

Dante Manzo. The boy I once loved. The man I shouldn’t. The father of my son.

I’ve been trying to push the thought away, to ignore the truth sitting heavy on my chest. It’s only getting harder to keep Matteo’s identity a secret. The way Dante looks at Matteosometimes, like he senses something, it breaks my heart. And I’ve noticed how Matteo gravitates toward him, as if they both know, deep down, that they belong together.

It’s absolutely unbearable.

They both deserve to know, my brain screams at me. But I push the thought away and slip on my dress instead. I walk out of my bathroom to find Matteo badgering Vitto, who’s slumped in a chair, studiously ignoring him.

“Mom! Can I go play with Vinny and the cousins?” he blurts out as soon as he sees me. He’s so young, so excited to know his family, excited to learn that he has kids his own age to play with.

I nod softly and Vitto unfolds his giant body with an exaggerated groan, trudging after a bouncing Matteo. I take one last look in the mirror, fluffing up my hair and fixing a lipstick smudge. I know I’m procrastinating, but I don’t want everyone’s worried stares fixated on me again.

Why did you do it, Gia?

Why did you take the Mustang?

Is everything all right?

I had no answers for these questions that didn’t involve Dante, so I kept my mouth shut.

Downstairs, the chaos of another family dinner drowns out my thoughts, and I sit next to Aunt Lucia at the table. My mother shoots me a soft, pitiful smile from the head of the table. It’s highly likely that she’s figured everything out but is choosing to stay silent. That’s the kind of woman she is.

Matteo sits at the children’s table with the cousins, happily eating his dinner and chatting with Vinny. I feel Dante’s intense gaze before I know he’s there. I look up and he’s studying me. He’s looking at Matteo and back to me.

When our eyes meet, I can see the question in them, but I drop my gaze. What if I tell him? What will it mean for Matteo?He’s been safe so far, kept far from the mafia world. But if Dante knows...everything could change.

His life could be turned upside down. He could be dragged into the dangerous world his father lives in.

I can’t let that happen. I won’t.

But hiding it forever? That doesn’t feel right either. Not now, after all that’s happened, after everything Dante’s done to protect us.

I tear my attention away from questions I don’t have answers to and try to tune into the celebration. The table is set with platters of food. Wine glasses are clinking and laughter is filling the space. Aunt Carla and Aunt Rosa are already bickering over some family recipe, and my father is talking business with one of his cousins.

But Dante—he looks off.

Not that he’s the biggest fan of a Vitale family dinner, but he’d become more open over the past few days. Tonight, he sits woodenly across from me, picking at his chicken. His brows are furrowed in thought. Barely concealed anger emanates from him like a pungent cologne.

“What’s wrong?” I whisper across the table, praying everyone around is too busy with their own conversations to hear.

---