Page 3 of Silent Night With Alessio

“In two weeks, it’ll be a hundred years since Winter Haven was founded. This town…it's been more than just a place for us. It’s been woven into my family’s history over generations. And my family has woven itself right back into the fabric of this town. Every twenty years, the cardinal families stamp their signet rings into the town’s history book. No family is more central to Winter Haven than the Lucianas... which is why, every twenty years, we stamp first.”

He pauses, the room quiet but for the faint crackle of burning tobacco, his gaze drifting to the ceiling as if searching the past. “It’s the first one I’ll be doing. The first I’ll witness without my father.”

There’s bitterness in his voice, and it lingers in the air like the smoke. He shifts his attention to me, his eyes steady. “Do you know why I’m telling you this, Alessio?”

I answer, but he continues, cutting through my half-formed thoughts, “I’m telling you this because this ceremony must go off without a hitch. No mistakes. Not with history on the line, not with everything we’re up against. The Lucianas must present a strong front, show we’re unbreakable. There will be no interruptions, no problems.”

His voice is firm, leaving no room for doubt. He gestures to the ring. “Go on, have a look.”

I hesitate but reach out, lifting it from the case. The weight settles in my hand, immediate and unmistakable.

The jewels catch the light, and the engraving, a Phoenix, rising, eternal, is as bold as the legacy it represents.

I commit every detail to memory; the ring burning itself into my mind’s eye, etching a place in my photographic memory. Nothing I’ve seen has felt more worthy of it.

“That’s 24 karats of pure gold, encrusted with diamonds,” he says, letting the moment stretch. There’s a rare softness to his words, almost as if he’s giving me a moment to savor it. Then his voice sharpens, pulling me back.

“Take it to the Marino jewelry shop. Federico will look at it. The Marinos always looked over the ring before the ceremony. Their family’s been with us for years.”

I nod, but there’s a tug of remorse in my gut, knowing I have to bring up the news. “Boss… Federico Marino passed away three years ago.”

Massimo’s brows pull slightly, and though it’s subtle, I catch the shadow of sadness in his eyes.

“Now, his granddaughter runs the shop,” I finish, my voice quiet. “I sent flowers on behalf of the family when it happened.”

He just nods, taking a slow drag from the cigar, the smoke lingering as he waves me away. I carefully place the ring back in the case and pick it up, turning toward the door. As I reach it, his voice calls out behind me.

“Alessio…”

I stop, glancing back.

“Thank you,” he says, the gratitude heavy. “For sending flowers on behalf of the family.”

I give him a nod and step out, the significance of the ring’s history settling within me as I close the door behind me, carrying not just the ring, but the responsibility it stands for.

2

Isabella

I'm working on aneckpiece, one of Nonno’s old designs, but it feels like it could just as easily be one of mine.

My hands move, familiar and steady, weaving through the tiny details, the little filigree, the stones set just so, almost like they’re born into the piece rather than added.

It’s hard to explain to anyone who hasn’t done this; it’s like… every piece has its own heartbeat, its own breath.

As I work, I can almost hear him. “Attenta, Isabella,” his voice says, urging me to pay attention, to feel the metal and the weight of it, to let it guide me.

My Nonno, Gaetano Marino, master craftsman, silver-haired storyteller with hands like oak roots and a laugh that could shake the walls.

He taught me everything: how to twist metal like it’s soft as butter, how to watch for the tiniest imperfections, to respect each stone and setting.

Sometimes, the memory feels so close, like I could turn around and he’d be right there at the workbench next to me, his eyes sharp and twinkling.

But he’s not here, not anymore. He’s been gone three years now. Three years. Just a heartbeat, a breath, and he was gone. I was with him at the end, thank God. It was peaceful, or as close to peaceful as it could be.

We’d sat together, and he held my hand, and he went as gently as he’d lived. That’s what I tell myself.

But there’s a minor ache that doesn’t go away, a space in me that still reaches for him, still expects to see his face when I open the door in the morning. I have his picture here in the shop, framed and tucked away in a corner.

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