Page 9 of Christmas Vows with the Devil

“Mama! Mama! Look!”

He’s clambering into the car and tossing his backpack across the backseat. A handful of papers appear in my face.

“Sophie helped me draw these cool dragons!”

“Nice work,” I say as I study them. “These are going to be worth a million dollars when you’re a famous artist one day.”

“Nope,” he counters, squeezing between the seats to kiss me on the cheek. “I wanna send them to grandma and grandpa in New York. They can be open-early Christmas gifts!”

My heart stills for a second.

“Okay, honey,” I say carefully. “Let’s do that.”

When he happily accepts the answer and doesn’t push further, my shoulders unglue from my neck and I relax. He’s been asking about his real grandparents lately—about his real family.

And I have no answers for him.

How do I tell my sweet son that his relatives are part of one of New York’s biggest mafia families? That his grandfather is a cold-blooded killer?

As if on cue, my phone buzzes in my coat pocket. I pull it out at the red light and seeMomflash across the screen. Groaning inwardly, I mute the call.

It can wait.

Later, after a bath and bedtime story, I lie sprawled on my bed, toying with my phone. I know exactly why Mom is calling me. Every year, like clockwork, in mid-November, I get the call.

I sigh and steel myself as I tap her name.

“Gia, honey, hello.” Mom’s rich voice wafts around me, filling up the room.

“Hi, sorry I missed your call.” I pause, wracking my brain for an excuse. “I was driving.”

“It’s no problem. Safety first, of course,” she brushes me off. “Listen, we’re in full planning mode for the Christmas Extravaganza. Of course, Carla is already driving me mad with all herinterestingsuggestions. Let’s call them…”

I zone out for a second, savoring Mom’s voice cocooning me like a warm hug. I miss her every day, but it’s better this way.

For Matteo’s sake, for mine, for everyone involved.

“Mom,” I cut her off and wince at my sharpness. “You know we can’t come.”

“But honey, I thought enough time has passed, maybe this year…”

I bite back a sob and cough to clear my throat.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I try more gently. Suddenly, I hear my father’s gruff voice in the background, demanding to speak to me.

“Gia.”

“Hi, Dad. It’s been a while.”

“Yes, well, lot going on,” he stammers for a second.

How many months has it been since he’s even said hello to me?

I can’t begin to count.

While my mother had been supportive of my plan to take up a new identity in a small town, my father had other opinions. Opinions that he had voiced loudly and aggressively, many times. He finally gave up and decided to give me the cold shoulder instead.

“Gia, you’re coming to Christmas this year. End of conversation.”

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