Page 68 of Christmas Vows with the Devil

“And Matteo?” she asks, already knowing the answer but still hanging onto hope.

My eyes snap shut as my fists clench. I pull her closer to me, kissing the top of her head, stroking her hair. She sobs harder.

“We’ll get him next, Gia, I promise,” I say through clenched teeth. “I’ll get Matteo back, and I’ll make sure my father never lives to see another day.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Gia

Back in Dante's penthouse, the silence feels suffocating. My body is tense, every nerve stretched to its breaking point.

We were so close. So fucking close.

Matteo was right there. I imagine his small figure slipping out of sight, helpless, frightened. The sight replays in my mind, a loop that fuels a simmering, helpless rage I can't ignore.

I sit cross-legged on Dante’s bed, my head in my hands, trying to block out the image. But it’s impossible. The realization of how close we were hits me like a punch to the chest. Before I know it, my face is buried in my hands, and I’m sobbing so hard I can barely breathe.

The anger and frustration tear through me, clouding my judgment. I hurl my phone across the room, watching with satisfaction as it shatters into pieces.More,my mind screams. I grab the water glass on Dante’s nightstand and throw it against the wall as well.

Suddenly, I’m in a rage, sobbing, throwing items around, completely destroying my surroundings, but it’s not enough. The door rips open and I collapse on the plush carpet, curling into a ball. I must sound like a feral animal because Dante’s face is a cocktail of confusion, concern, and fear.

I screw my eyes shut, trying to regulate my breathing. The sound of footsteps reaches me, and then Dante settles beside me. He doesn’t say anything, just sits close, his hand warm on my back.

I lean into his touch and grab at his hands, trying to hold onto something solid.

“It’s not your fault, Gia,” he says, voice low, steady as he rubs my back in soothing circles. “But it is mine. I should have been quicker, smarter. I should have known he’d have a backup plan.”

“We couldn’t have known,” I whisper between sobs, but my voice cracks, and I’m not sure if I believe my own words.

Dante’s arm pulls me closer, onto his lap. I feel his heartbeat, strong and steady against my cheek. I cling to it, using it to ground myself, to remind myself that we’re not done.

“I won’t let him get away with this,” Dante mutters, more to himself than to me. His jaw is clenched, his eyes hard, dark. “Not after this.”

A shiver runs down my spine at the intensity in his voice. This isn’t just about Matteo; it’s about all the years of betrayal, the lies, the manipulation. I can see the storm building in his eyes, a rage so raw it feels like it could tear the world apart.

I nod against his chest, my fingers running up and down the buttons on his shirt. If we got so close this time, next time, we’ll be more prepared. We’ll strategize. We’ll use all of our resources. I clear my throat to tell Dante so, but he gently stands and carries me to the bed.

“You need to rest,” he says, brushing away my tear-soaked hair and tucking me in.

“You need to rest, too,” I sniffle back, lifting the blanket for him to join me.

His eyes dart around the room. He’s agitated, I can feel the tension rippling through him. He’s going to do something stupid.

“I’m fine,” he says, his voice light. “I’m going to go talk to your dad—see what we can come up with.”

Instinctively, I grab his wrist as he pulls away. “Please don’t do something rash.”

“Gia,” he laughs, a fake sound that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I never do anything rash. I’m always planning.”

I watch him walk out the door, the soft light making him look like a ghost, a figment of my imagination. A heavy pit settles in my stomach and I feel sick.He’s lying.

I struggle with indecision for a few minutes, but my gut feeling tells me to follow him. I spring out of bed, shoving my sneakers on and grabbing a jacket. Quietly, I open the door and sneak down the hallway to the living room.

Inside, my uncles are seated around the table, talking in low voices. My father stands at the head, sorting through papers and photographs. My aunts and my mother are passed out on the low sofas and in arm chairs.No Dante.

I keep walking toward his office. The door is cracked open and I peer inside. It’s dark and empty. The pit inside my stomach grows, forcing me to pick up the pace. I race to the front door where one of his men stands guard.

“Did Dante go out?”

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