Page 3 of Mistletoe in the Mafia

Nicholas: He’s AWOL. Careful, I might actually think you have a heart.

My lips thin.

Me: Of course I have a heart. Do you want me to find him or not?

Nicholas: Leave him be. As long as he’s not causing trouble, it might be good for him to have some time to himself.

Me: Alright. What do you plan to do with the Russians?

Nicholas: What do you think I should do?

I ponder it for a couple of seconds. On one hand, a partnership between us is highly beneficial and the Russians would be a bad enemy to have. On the other hand, their leader fucked up by denying Adrian his revenge. There’s a code in the mafia, and he broke that code. He broke a deal. I also don’t believe both the Cosa Nostra and the Bratva can coexist for long without a fight breaking out eventually. But perhaps that’s just the cynic in me.

Me: You should put it to a vote.

It’s a dicey situation. One man can’t decide what is to be done on his own.

Nicholas: I plan to. Which is why I’m asking you what you’re leaning toward.

Me: The meeting is tonight, right? I’ll tell you my answer then.

Nicholas: Okay.

The conversation ends and I slide my phone into my back pocket. I walk to the parking lot, finding my car and getting in. I debate heading home before meeting up with Joshua in two hours, but decide against it.

We’re meeting in public, at a small restaurant in the middle of town. It’s probably a good idea for me to arrive early. Survey the place before he arrives, just in case there’s danger lurking.

It’s how I’ve lived my life for as long as I can remember. Looking over my shoulder constantly, with the belief that the same shadows I find solace in will eventually consume me.

The door chimes as I step inside the small restaurant. What hits me first is the scent of pine, cinnamon, and vanilla sugar, swirling together in an overload of Christmas cheer. Red and gold lights hang everywhere, and there’s a Christmas tree in the corner, flashing obnoxiously with loud multi-colored LED bulbs. I pull my coat a little tighter, my gaze drifting to the back corner. More people gravitate to the windows, or the big fireplace in front, leaving me to stalk toward the back alone.

I slide into a seat, keeping my back to the wall and my gaze on the door. Joshua isn’t here yet, so I settle in, fingers tapping on the table in a steady rhythm. I’m used to blending in, finding the edges of places where no one will notice me. It’s pretty easy to do so here, with the restaurant’s crowd too busy oohing and aahing over the Santa figurines and fake snowflakes.

What the hell kind of restaurant did Josh pick?

Ten minutes later, he appears. I spot him at the door, watch as he does a casual, half-irritated scan of the room. His eyes findmine and he nods, making his way through the maze of festive chaos. When he sits across from me, he’s already frowning at the holiday music playing in the background.

“Festive, isn’t it?” I say, deadpan.

“Yeah, if you’re five,” he mutters, scowling.

“You picked this place,” I remind him.

His scowl deepens. “I didn’t know it turns into the Christmas Wild West this early. It’s still November. Thanksgiving is still, like, a week away.”

I’m about to respond when, from the middle of the room, a group of kids—six, maybe seven years old—gather in front of the Christmas tree, wearing red and green hats. They start singing “Jingle Bells” in that loud, high-pitched, overly enthusiastic way kids do, waving their arms and bouncing with the music.

Joshua groans softly, crossing his arms and slouching in his seat. I keep my face blank.

It’s just noise, I tell myself, staring at the tabletop as the kids hit the chorus even louder.But also, can they please fucking stop?

“Can they please shut up?” Joshua grits out.

I arch an eyebrow, leaning back in my chair. “You’re a little bundle of joy, aren’t you?” I drawl. “They’re little kids trying to earn money. Don’t be a dick.”

At least I had the grace not to say it out loud.

“But I’m so good at being a dick.”

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