Page 7 of Christmas Vows with the Devil

But my father’s voice floods my mind, encircling my throat. It forces me to continue.

“Wrong answer.”

I stab the knife into his side this time, slow and deliberate. I twist it just enough to make sure the pain is excruciating. His scream echoes through the room, but I stay calm, watching him writhe.

Rocco stands in the corner, silent. He’s seen this too many times to flinch.

So have I. But I always make it personal. I want them to feel it, to know that they didn’t just cross any man. They crossedme.

“I’ll ask one more time.” I squat in front of him, staring into his bloodshot eyes. “Who are you working for?”

His breathing is shallow now, blood soaking his shirt. He’s close to breaking. I can feel it.

He whispers something that’s barely audible.

“What was that?” I ask, pressing the knife against his throat.

“P—Pietro…it’s Pietro Russo.”

I smile, satisfied. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

I stand up and nod at Rocco. He knows what to do. The boy won’t be leaving this room alive, but I got what I came for.

Pietro Russo. The new guy in town.

I shoot Enzo a quick look and he nods. He’ll have Russo’s entire history in a matter of hours: phone numbers, properties, net worth, hidden bank accounts, family members, GPS location. That’s why he’s the best in the business.

Russo thought he could steal from me and not pay the price? Now he’ll learn the hard way.

My father would have been proud of the man I’ve become, I tell myself. The thought sends a wave of bitterness over me instead of the pride I wanted to feel.

But as much as I hate him for the way he raised me, he taught me something too—if I ever have a kid, they won’t know this life.

They won’t be shaped by violence or fear. They’ll be better than me.

Better than the Manzos.

Because I’ve seen what this life does to a man.

It turns him into a monster.

Chapter Three

Gia

“Natalie, my darling!”

I glance up from my dog-eared romance novel and grin at Frank’s toothy smile.

“Frank, looking as handsome as ever. Did you get a haircut?”

“Now, now dear.” He grins conspiratorially, leaning on the chipped counter. “Don’t want to make people get the wrong idea.”

I laugh as he looks around in mock suspicion, even though it’s just me and him in the sunny little flower shop.

“Twelve red roses today?” I ask, happy that he made it in before closing.

Frank pops in every Wednesday to pick up a bouquet for his wife. Even though she has late-stage dementia and rarely remembers him, he still tries to make her happy.

---