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“December? I’m a December baby.” I smile, eager to edge her into the conversation as she chops onions like a beast.
“All this time, that hasn’t come up between us,” Santino says from the couch in the living room. “I’ve kept telling myself I’ll get you to Italy by March at the latest.”
I arch a brow. “March?”
“EvilAries, Bella.”
Not a believer in horoscopes, I purposefully ignore him. “So, when’s your birthday?”
“April.” She snorts, setting aside the onions to mince garlic. “What are you doing on your birthday? Spending all my uncle’s money and then speeding oodles of your ownon yourself?”
Standing up from the couch, Santino snarls. “An-to-ni-ahhh . . .”
“Well, I’ll probably take myself on an unnecessary shopping spree and spend a mini fortune on stilettos.” I stop kneading dough to grab Santino as he enters the tiny kitchen. My fingers subtly squeeze; well, at least I hope my attempt is a sign for him to stick his nose into his own business. “But I was kind of hoping this year would be different than usual. I was born a day after Christmas.”
“Why? Isn’t every Christmas a white Christmas for people like you? Snow falling,icesparkling in the form of tennis bracelets and the likes?” Antonia chuckles.
“Toni!”
“Santino,” I say softly. “Your ma went to change her slippers. You should check on her.”
He growls. “No.”
We’re at a face-off, eyes squinting, jaws jutting. It’s pretty comical, except Antonia snorts. “So?”
I reply, “Christmas is about family to me, Toni.”
She snaps, “You can’t call me—”
“Then I won’t call you Toni either,” Santino retorts, stoking the fire burning across her olive skin.
I mumble, “We have our traditions, same as most families. One year, I was a little depressed about said traditions. The Christmas tree and the décor looked too perfect—a setting for an ostentatious magazine. The presents below were composed as if nothing’s inside them. So I burned down the Christmas tree. And no, Santino, I’m not a friggin Aries. I’m not any of those signs. I’m just me.”
Toni levels me a gaze. “You’re lying . . .”
It’s on the tip of my lips to say, ‘little girl, I’ve had enough of your ass.’ To call me a liar? Even my momma would get in that ass. Seconds later, Mom would lift her pinkie finger to a 60-degree angle while sipping tea from her China cup. A smile rushes across Antonia’s face.
“That’s cool.” She nods her head. Her expression is hopeful. Seems like she’s digesting my words in a new light, until she mutters about checking on Nonna.
Bumping my hip against Santino, I groan, “I think I did okay.”
“No, Gina. That was uncalled for. I’ll handle it.”
“Don’t you dare, Mr. Morelli.” Looking up at him, I press my lips onto his jaw, working my way over the tensed area. “You’re not the only one who has an amazing uncle. My Uncle Alex will champion for me. Not my real uncle, but he’s one of my father’s oldest friends. Girls are extra protective of their uncles.”
Santino catches my bottom lip with his teeth and sucks it into his mouth. “I’m extra protective of you, Gina. So, does that Christmas have anything to do with your father?”
“Yes.” I’ve unraveled the hurt I’ve felt at the hands of my oblivious father. “Geraldine . . .”
“Your eldest sister, right?”
I look up at him with trepidation in my eyes as a bittersweet smile plays the edges of my lips. Damn, Santino’s honestly interested inknowingme.
“Yup. The only female Daddy treated as his equal until her sexual liberation in Jamaica. Geraldine had come home from vacation to quit Galloway Enterprises. I’d graduated with my bachelor’s in business in December—a little early. You could walk in December and June at the university. Dad didn’t come to my graduation.”
Santino’s palms slide across the nape of my neck, then clutch my hair. He doesn’t manipulate the combustible spark between us. In exchange for kissing my lips, his mouth hovers a fraction away before pressing to my forehead. He asks, “Tell me about it, Gina.”
“On the day before Christmas, I asked him why he missed my commencement. God, I had never seen him look so heartbroken, and I had just graduated from his alma mater. He shrugged and told me, bachelor’s were the new high school diplomas.” I snort. “It wasn’t the Christmas tree’s fault, but I took a candle to it.”
