Page 33 of Silent Snowfall

I choked on a laugh. “I don’t think I can take any more.”

His smile slid down my cheek and pressed against the dip between my jaw and ear. “You could, but I won’t prove it to you tonight.”

While I was mildly relieved, I also ached that this felt like goodbye.

“I will never be done with you, my beautiful rosebud.” He pressed one more kiss against me. “But go to sleep now. Rest. You’ve earned it.”

He shifted his weight to one side, withdrawing carefully, and disposed of the condom somewhere I didn’t track. Then he was back, pulling the duvet down and shifting me under the covers.

I was beyond words. Beyond thought. My body was used, limp, and heavy. The blood coursing through me hummed with the ghost of pleasure in every vein. My eyelids dragged downward, too heavy to hold open, and the last thing I registered was the warm solidity of his body beside mine, one arm draped over my waist, his breath stirring the hair at the nape of my neck.

He called himself San Nicola.

Saint Nick. What the hell! That was ridiculous. I wanted to needle him until he revealed his actual name. But instead…I yawned. I didn’t push him on the false name. If he wanted to play into the seasonal magic, who was I to take that away from us?

Sleep took me like a tide, pulling me under into a weightless abyss, and the last coherent thought my brain managed to form before everything went black was that I’d made a deal with the devil.

One that I would make again in a heartbeat.

Chapter 11 – Rosetta

Nonna pursed her lips. “No, we’re not getting those.”

Mat frowned, looking at the bag in his hand. “Mom lets us.”

I died a little inside. Having an honest child was supposed to be a blessing. But sometimes, it would just be nice if they had a filter.

“I can make them myself,” Nonna huffed, snatched the bag of organic, whole grain chocolate chip cookies, and tossed them back on the shelf. “We’ll bake some. Together.”

Oli’s eyes rounded. “Men can bake?”

“We’ve baked before,” I insisted, feeling smaller and smaller.

“When?” my darling boy prompted.

“I—” Merda. How long had it been since I’d had the boys in the kitchen with me. We’d been on a fixed budget since their dad died. And it was easier to drown my sorrows in a bag of cookies than make a mess in the kitchen. But before our world turned upside down? Surely, we’d baked together.

Before I had a chance to defend myself from the scathing glares my grandmother was giving me, a cough broke our little discussion.

“Lucian!” Nonna beamed, looking around me. “How nice to see you!”

“Signora,” a rich bass intoned.

A prickle formed at the base of my spine. The voice could be familiar. If it was huskier…. Breathing more deeply…. In the bedroom?

I turned slowly, giving myself time to brace for impact.

The mafia don wore a bespoke suit. Clean cut, with jet black hair and a sharp jawline, he was model perfect.

With my unwashed hair hiding under my winter hat, my mom jeans and sweater, I felt like a bum.

He stared at Nonna, who was making small talk. My pulse buzzed in my ears. That wasn’t the masked man. No way in hell. Besides, as my hearing came back, my stomach stopped threatening to spill, and my gaze drank him in, I was convinced this was just another good looking Italian-American man. One I hadn’t properly studied the other day at the café, because I was in shock after my grandmother shot four men like it was no big deal.

That memory made me squeezy, and I immediately shoved it to the recesses of my mind.

Nope, it was far better to think about the masked man and how he most certainly was not the same one standing in front of me now.

Besides, Lucian Ravello—the king of the local mafia—would have no interest with a single mother like me who skipped wash day with her hair and wore a navy-blue sweater because it hid the lasagna stains on her tee. The last time I’d seen Lucian, we were teens. There were no more pimples on his face—or mine—and he was twice the size now that he was all grown up.