Page 4 of Silent Night With Alessio

He wouldn’t have wanted it front and center; he always said, “Isabella, it’s the work that matters.” But I can’t help it. I want him here with me.

I think about everything he did for me, everything he gave. When my parents died… Dio Mio, I was so young, a little girl lost in the world. It was a snowstorm, one of those terrible, freak things. The kind people say shouldn’t happen, like nature got too angry or something.

They were gone in an instant, and I was left behind. Nonno took me in, raised me here in the shop. He taught me how to work metal, how to listen to its voice, how to find the soul in a piece of jewelry.

He saved me, really. He filled my life with stories, with laughter, with love. And now here I am, sitting at his workbench, running this shop. Marino Jewelry, just like it’s always been.

But it’s mine now, isn’t it? He left it to me. For three years now, I’ve been carrying on. Doing my best to make him proud, to keep the Marino name as solid and respected as he did.

It’s strange, you know, how the world keeps spinning, even after the people you love are gone. Sometimes, I feel like I’m just following his shadow, trying to fill it in, to make it solid again.

The neck piece is almost complete, just needing that last look at the centerpiece, a ritual that never fails to bring me a rush of satisfaction. I pull out my jeweler’s lens, bringing it close to the intricate jewel.

It’s a habit that Nonno passed down, telling me that looking into a gemstone was like staring into a soul, peering into the time and devotion poured into it by another craftsman’s hands.

To anyone else, it’s just a stone, at best a beautiful one. But to me it’s a little piece of art, a glimpse into a world only those of us who work with these treasures understand.

I fit the piece beneath the lens, peering into it with the precision that’s become second nature. And it’s perfect, every detail in place, every line sharp and clear. Satisfaction blooms inside me, a quiet triumph.

Then the doorbell rings. Its familiar jingle pulls me out of my focus, and I look up, already settling my face into that practiced, welcoming smile. But as I look to the door, I feel the smile falter, my throat catching on any word I’d meant to say.

The man standing in the doorway is… breathtaking. He’s tall, and even through the thick black coat wrapped around him, I can tell there’s a certain strength to his frame, a kind of presence that fills the room.

Snow dusts his black hat, a few flecks lingering on his shoulders like stars scattered across a night sky. His eyes, hazel and intense, lock onto mine and hold me there, still, as though he’s reached across the room and put a hand on me without so much as moving.

We’re frozen, just staring at each other in a silence charged with something I can’t quite name. There’s an intensity, an unfamiliar pull. And as if he senses it too, he’s the first to break the silence.

“Isabella Marino?” His voice is low, smooth, yet somehow roughened by the cold outside, carrying a sense of quiet authority that says he’s a man who’s used to being listened to.

I clear my throat, pulling myself together. “Yeah,” I say, my voice sounding a little too soft, a little too hesitant. I can feel theembarrassment creeping up my neck, warming my cheeks.Dio mio, he must’ve seen the way I’d been staring.

“I’m here on behalf of The Luciana. I need you to look at the signage ring ahead of the ceremony.”

The Luciana… Of course. My cheeks cool as the reality settles in. His black coat, his hat, the air of mystery…that’s the Luciana Mafia’s unmistakable style, their quiet, looming presence that speaks more than words ever could.

Grandpa always made it clear that the Luciana was “family,” in the way you don’t question; they’re a part of our history, a bond that stretches back through generations. “They’re one of us,” he’d say. “We take care of each other.”

And they did, without question. When Nonno had that accident years ago, skidding on ice and injuring his leg, the Luciana was there. They made sure he received treatment at the best hospital and ensured all his bills were paid.

And I’ll never forget the day they came to our door after my parents died…Nonno holding me close, my small hand in his as I peeked out at these dark clad figures, half afraid, half in awe.

Their patriarch had spoken to Nonno in a way that felt as gentle as it was firm. He’d promised to look after us, and he’d kept his word. The Luciana paid for my schooling, from the first day of grade school right up through college.

A debt I’ve never forgotten, nor one I have stopped feeling grateful for.

But Nonno’s words ring in my ears, like a quiet warning:

“The price of their kindness is loyalty,” he’d say, a reminder to keep a respectful distance.

The Luciana doesn’t walk a safe path; they have enemies, those who’d hurt anyone close to them to gain the upper hand.

I’ve been careful over the years, walking that fine line, grateful but cautious, honoring our connection without making myself too visible.

I remind myself of that caution now, clamping down on the attraction that sparks through me like a live wire.

If this man is with the Luciana, he’s someone I need to keep my distance from.

“Let me look,” I say, keeping my tone professional as he steps closer and places a small, elegant case on my workbench.

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