Page 65 of Ho Ho Mafioso

We sat down and Enzo frowned at me. “I can’t believe you put yourself in front of a gun for me. Don’t ever do something like that again, Gia.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “I was protecting you.”

“I don’t need you to protect me. I had it under control.”

I scoffed. “Yeah, right. My dad was about to shoot you.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time a Genovese put a bullet in me,” he retorted.

I smacked his good shoulder. “That was an accident.”

He chuckled, draping his arm around me and pulling me against his side. “I know.”

We sat there for a few seconds in silence, letting everything sink in. “I can’t believe we’re sitting in my living room right now.”

“Tell me about it. I never thought I’d be having dinner with your family.”

“It’s a Christmas miracle,” I replied with a giggle.

“The fact your father didn’t shoot me is a Christmas miracle,” he joked with a playful scoff.

My smile fell a bit when I thought about everything that was said. “Did you mean what you said?”

Enzo’s eyes met mine and he nodded. “Yeah, kid.” Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, he smiled. “I love you.”

Warmth filled me, my chest tightening so much I thought it might burst. I leaned up to kiss him. “I love you, too.”

I wasn’t sure what would happen between us, but I was happy that we had a chance.

A chance neither of us thought we’d ever get.

Epilogue

Enzo

Five years later

The cabin looked different now.

Not because the mountains had changed, or the snow, or the old wooden beams I finally replaced after five winters. It looked different because it felt lived in.

Warm.

Safe.

Full.

Like a place that had a heartbeat.

Snow drifted outside the windows like wispy curtains, glowing gold in the late afternoon sun. Inside, the kitchen smelled like gingerbread, vanilla, and the faint pine scent of the tree I’d cut down the week before.

Gianina helped our son, Nico, roll out gingerbread dough on the counter. “Like this, Mama?”

“Yes, just like that, sweetie,” she replied, wiping some flour off his cheek.

While the cookies were baking, he helped her make the icing. “You have to make sure it’s not too thin,” I said. “It has to be able to hold the walls of the house up.”

“Okay, Dada.”