Page 139 of Till Death Do Us Part

He opened it. His eyes scanned the grainy black and white picture. “This has your name on it.”

“Yours too.” I smiled even bigger.

He turned to me slowly, his eyes finally understanding the cause of the happiness in mine. He ran his knuckle down my cheek. It was a touch so tender, so full of everything he couldn’t say, it made me cry.

“You’re fucking glowing.” His voice was gruff, the exact opposite of his hand.

“You lit the flame,” I whispered.

He leaned in and kissed me. The moment between us froze in time. Maybe that was what made winter special. A memory could be preserved and kept as a mental ornament.

Felice held my hand the entire way, constantly kissing my fingers, a grin appearing on his face every so often, for apparently no reason. We both knew, though. Our blood vow had taken on a life of its own.

He kissed me again before we got out of the car. He refused to let me carry any of the boxes. He never had, though. He took as many as he could carry in one hand, and took my hand in the other, leading us to the front door.

The house was packed. Laughter rang out deep inside, and a bunch of kids whizzed by.

“We’re having a brat of our own,” he said, probably because the kids nearly knocked the boxes out of his hand.

I exploded with laughter, nodding.

Joseph rushed toward us, grabbing some of the boxes. Sandro offered to help with the rest. He said he didn’t want the filling to freeze. Gino said he’d help too. Felice took my coat, hanging it up, before he went back out with them to get our stuff.

Babbo was shaking his head, holding a life-size dancing Santa under his arm in a choke hold. He was mumbling at it. I kissed his cheek, and he tapped my face.

“What happened?” I asked.

“One of those brats,” he said, shaking his head even harder, “broke my damn Santa!”

The kids giggled and ran from him.

“That’s okay,” he called after them. “You’re getting onions from Befana. Since you hurt poor Santa and he can no longer deliver gifts!”

One of the kids started crying. He smiled at me, satisfied.

I exploded with laughter. He studied my face.

“You eat a flame, my darling girl?”

Carlo interrupted the moment, letting Babbo know he was ready to assist with Santa’s surgery. Felice, Gino, and Sandro came back through the door, arms filled with stuff.

“Come with us, Felice!” Babbo said, trying to use his hands to talk, but only knocking Santa around. “I need an extra set of hands.”

Felice nodded, set our bags down, and went to help.

I stared in the direction they went in, so complete, I almost couldn’t breathe. Lo met me in the hall and placed an arm around my neck, pulling me toward the kitchen.

“Where you been, bish? My mother-in-law is chasing me around, making not so subtle remarks about grandchildren.”

“When is it happening?”

She pushed me away. “Traitor. You’re supposed to be my armor.”

I started laughing, and she narrowed her eyes at me.

“Are you drunk?”

“No.”

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