Page 5 of Christmas Vows with the Devil

The man I am now? I owe it to him. His cruelty shaped me. But the monster I became—Il Diavolo—that’s all me.

Il Diavolois the part of me who absorbed his father’s lessons and losses. And sharpened them into something far deadlier than he had ever imagined.

A knock on the door pulls me from my thoughts. Rocco steps in, his weathered old face as cold as mine.

“It’s time, boss.”

I nod, tossing back the rest of my drink and setting the glass down on the desk. Slipping my bespoke silk blazer on, I double-check my holster, making sure my gun is tucked inside.

We ride the elevator down to the parking garage in silence and I thank my father for surrounding himself with men who don’t like to chit-chat. This is the last thing I want to be doing right now, but business is business. I don’t have the patience to explain anything to anyone right now.

We slip into the dark sedan and move silently through the hushed streets of my city. We are like a caravan of death driving past the Christmas lights twinkling in the storefront windows.

The sight of the holiday trappings decorating the streets creates a strange discontent in my gut. I close my eyes and lean back against the luxurious Italian leather, shutting out the sensation.

I amIl Diavolo.I don’t celebrate Christmas. I don’t celebrate anything other than death.

The car slows to a stop and I breathe a sigh of relief.Let’s get this shit over with.

We pile out of the cars, the cold November air circling me and biting at my skin.

Silk was a stupid choice.

The snow starts falling harder, blanketing the shitty warehouse where these bastards are holding my stolen goods.

My men surround me, shadows moving in sync. We canvas the warehouse, ready to do this clean and fast. There are ten of them inside, but we only need one alive to accomplish our goal.

We need to know who these new kids are. We need to find out why they think they have the balls to cross the Manzo family.

I throw Rocco a stealthy smile and fling open the flimsy metal doors.It’s go time.

“Hello, boys,” I toss out, strolling into the warehouse. The room is buzzing with activity and I look around, spotting pallets upon pallets of my stolen rare wines.

I grin like I’m meeting my boys at the bar for a few beers and the kids freeze, confused by my demeanor.Where the hell is their ringleader?

“Dante Manzo,” one of the men finally sneers. He’s a thick, stocky guy with a handlebar mustache. “I thought the devil didn’t come out in daylight. Or is that vampires? Or maybe it’s just rats.”

“Lucky for me, we still have three minutes until sunrise.”

He barks out a laugh but I can tell he’s nervous.

Il Diavolowanders into your warehouse full of his stolen shit alone, acting friendly? Shit, I’d be nervous too.

His hand automatically goes to the hidden holster on his hip, but my men are too fast. The first shot is loud—too loud in the hollow space—and then all hell breaks loose.

Bullets fly, bodies hit the ground. I don’t stop moving, firing with precision. I’m taking down anyone stupid enough to aim at me. My heart pounds, but my mind is calm. This is what I was trained for.

It doesn’t last long. It never does when I’m involved.

In minutes, it’s over, and the warehouse is filled with the stench of gunpowder and blood. I step over the bodies, the warmth of victory settling into my bones, but there’s no joy in it.

A kid cowers in the corner, hiding behind a pallet gushing million-dollar wine across the dirty floor.

“Take him,” I instruct, straightening out my jacket and tucking my gun away.

I stroll out of the warehouse but my mind keeps looping back to my father and how he raised me with violence, pain, and fear. And how Iwould neverraise my child this way.

Granted, I don’t have a kid—and there’s no chance of me having one anytime soon.

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