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“Mmkay.”
Ten
Erin
Five years later
“Leah and Nico have got the kids in a snowman competition,” Holly says, nudging the door open. She slips into the den where we’ve gathered after lunch—one of the rooms on the top floor of the mansion, scattered with squashy armchairs and a fire dancing in the hearth. Torn wrapping paper lies in piles on the floor. “You okay, baby?”
Diego groans from where he’s stretched out on one sofa, a cool washcloth draped over his scarred face. He ran interference with the kids all morning, absorbing the holiday mania like a champ, and the brutal mobster is ruined.
“Poor thing,” Holly coos, crossing to sit on her husband’s chest. “Such a hero.”
“Vom,” Allegra says from her position in Raul’s lap. She narrows her eyes. “Falasca doesn’t complain, and he’s got twins.”
Diego flips her off, still buried under his washcloth.
The room is warm, and my eyelids keep drooping. I’m propped against Santo’s side, treating my husband like a pillow, and I’m so full from lunch. So comfy and calm. A shriek of laughter floats up from the grounds, and I stifle a smile, burrowing deeper into the sofa.
Maybe I’ll nap.
No hit men this year. There’s been nothing so dramatic for a long time. Since settling down, the De Rossi empire has gone legitimate.
Well. Ish.
“Remind me why we all reproduced at the same time,” Santo mutters, stroking my hair. He sounds grouchy, butIknow better. It’s his pleased-grump tone. His happy bitching.
“So we can all palm them off on Nico whenever we need a break,” Allegra says. Raul grunts in agreement, nibbling on her ear. “Bit late for second thoughts now, big brother.”
“No second thoughts,” Santo says mildly, his thumb rubbing against my side. Hey, he doesn’t need to tellmethat. I’ve seen the reverent way he looks at our daughter with her ice blue eyes; the way weallgo gooey over our kids. “But maybe we should lock the doors—trap Nico out there for a while.”
Diego snorts. It’s an empty threat and we all know it.
And I could sleep here so easily, could drift off and drool on Santo’s shoulder in front of everyone, but I force my limbs back into action, standing up on wobbly legs. I have a plan, after all. “Come with me for a second.”
My husband takes my outstretched hand right away. Whistles follow us out the door, but Santo ignores them all.
We pass oil paintings and chandeliers. Marble statues and bustling maids. The mansion hums with conversation, delicious smells drifting from the kitchens, and I squeeze my husband’s hand as I lead him through the halls.
“Bored of the cold weather?” he asks when I nudge the conservatory door open.
“Make sure we’re not disturbed, Rocco,” I tell the man standing watch.
“Yes, boss.”
The sudden blast of heat makes sweat prickle under my sweater. And Santo hasn’t recognized what I’m wearing yet, hasn’t put the pieces together, so I fight a smile as I lead him through the explosion of waxy green leaves.
A bird flutters overhead. The glass walls have steamed over, and I can hear the trickle of distant water.
“You’re being very mysterious, Erin.”
“Oh, you know me.” I stop by the swing bench and wait for him to notice the pile of black fabric. The holiday sweater he wore to ruin my father years ago with a holiday card; the one with a reindeer on it. I’m wearing its twin, and I beam as Santo huffs out a laugh, shoulders dropping. “Put it on.”
A dark eyebrow ticks up. “Since when do you give the orders, sweetheart?”
It’s true: we both like it when he’s the one bossing me around. But I want to relive our first cuddle, and I planned this weeks ago. I fold my arms and fix my husband with a glare.
“Don’t make me set my goon on you.”
