Page 17 of Mistletoe in the Mafia

He stares at me like he’s taking apart every single word I said. And then his eyes gleam with amusement.

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“Pretty sure I did,” I shoot back. “You asked how I found myself in that line of work. And my reply is that it just happened.”

“You just fell into working with the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he drawls. “For no specific reason.”

“Of course there’s a reason,” I correct. “I did it to put food on the table and a roof over my head. We can’t all be rich and handsome.”

“That’s the second time you’ve commented on my looks. Careful, I might think you have a crush on me.”

I make a face. “Kindly get over yourself.”

He smirks back. “Alright, next question. Why did you get so scared when you saw the knife?”

“I told you, I didn’t,” I grit out. “You seriously need to let that go.”

“You’re pretty dishonest for someone who’s wearing a cross around her neck.”

I look down, and sure enough, the silver cross is dangling across my front. I hurriedly tuck it back into my clothes before glaring at him.

“I didn’t think you’d be religious,” he states.

“I’m not. And even if I was, it’s none of your business.”

“Easy with the defensiveness. I haven’t even done anything and you’re already riled up.”

I huff out a breath before downing my entire glass of wine. Then I shift forward for another pour.

“You know what? I was wrong. I don’t want to talk anymore. Let’s just sit in silence and drink,” I mutter.

I was trying to gain some information on him, but instead he ended up unravelling me and pissing me off.

Why can’t I leave again?The front door is looking more enticing with each moment that passes.

Like I asked, we stay silent. Twenty minutes and three glasses of wine later, I’m the one who ends up breaking it.

“What are your Christmas plans?” I ask him.

His brows furrow. “What?”

“Your Christmas plans,” I repeat.

He pauses to stare at me, probably trying to figure out why I’m asking about that of all things.

“Even if I cared about the holiday—which I don’t—Christmas is, like, a month away,” he answers blandly.

I make a short sound of disbelief. “What do you mean you don’t care about Christmas?”

“I mean I don’t care about Christmas,” he repeats.

“That’s, like, blasphemous, Dominic. Everyone should care about Christmas.”

He smirks at that.

“What?”

“That’s the first time you’ve used my name,” he clarifies. “Why?”

---