“ Pass the baccalà before Aunt Cat mistakes it for a weapon,” Niki calls from across the table, eyeing our aunt who’s gesturing so wildly with her fork that the poor cod might get airborne.
“That was a simple misunderstanding,” Aunt Cat protests, finally setting down her fork. “How was I supposed to know Carlotta’s hairspray was flammable?”
“Everything about Carlotta is flammable,” Uncle Jimmy drawls, raising his wine glass in a mock toast to Carlotta, who responds with a gesture that definitely doesn’t belong at a Christmas dinner table.
My mother’s house in Grimstone Heights looks like Christmas and Italy had a collision at approximately ninety miles per hour, with no survivors.
Every surface is covered with either doilies, Capodimonte figurines of shepherds in various poses of ceramic surprise, and a whole lot of Christmas decorations that have been in the family since before electricity was invented.
The tree in the corner drips with tinsel and ornaments and has so many lights that I’m pretty sure it’s visible all the way to Honey Hollow.
The dining room table stretches to its absolute limits under the weight of the Feast of the Seven Fishes, the traditional Italian Christmas Eve extravaganza that my mother prepares with the precision of a military operation.
Platters of fried smelts, stuffed calamari, octopus salad, shrimp scampi, clams casino, mussels marinara, and the aforementioned baccalà cover every inch of tablecloth not occupied by wine glasses, bread baskets, or arguing relatives.
The smell of garlic, olive oil, and seafood permeates the air so thoroughly that I’ll probably still be detecting notes of anchovy in my hair three shampoos from now.
The sound of multiple conversations in varying degrees of volume creates a symphony of Italian-American holiday cheer that’s simultaneously heartwarming and headache-inducing all at once.
And yet, somehow, we’ve achieved the Christmas miracle of gathering both the Canelli and Lazzari families around one table without a single gunshot. So far.
“I still can’t believe you invited both families,” I whisper to my mother, who’s busy refilling wine glasses as if alcohol poisoning is the only thing that could prevent a mob war at her dining table. And she might be right.
“Family is family.” She shrugs, topping off my glass with enough Chianti to drown my inhibitions. “Besides, your father and Santino were friends before all this turf war nonsense.”
I glance down the table where my father, Big Tom, is engaged in animated conversation with Cooper’s father, Scary Santino. They’re discussing cement versus concrete with the passion most people reserve for religion or politics.
“It’s not the material, it’s the application,” my father insists, hands gesturing expansively.
“The aggregate makes all the difference,” Santino counters, his infamous scar crinkling as he smiles.
Next to them, Luke Lazzari—the infamous rival crime boss to my uncle’s empire—is somehow engaged in what appears to be a civil discussion with Jimmy “The Candy Man” Canelli about the merits of different cannoli fillings.
If the FBI could see this, they’d think they’d stumbled into an alternate universe. Come to think of it, so do I.
“Ricotta with chocolate chips, now that’s traditional,” Uncle Jimmy argues, pointing his fork for emphasis.
“Yeah, but custard with a hint of limoncello is more sophisticated,” Luke rebuts, looking more like someone’s kindly grandfather than a man who allegedly once had someone concrete-shoed for stealing his parking spot.
Cooper slides into the chair beside me, his warmth a welcome presence against the chaos. His hand finds mine under the table, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Your family gatherings make the precinct’s drunk tank on New Year’s Eve look organized,” he murmurs into my ear.
“Just wait until Aunt Cat starts with the Christmas carols,” I warn him. “Last year she did ‘Santa Baby’ as a dramatic interpretation. Three neighbors called the police thinking someone was being murdered.”
Cooper chuckles. “I like your family.”
“That might be a sign of early-onset dementia,” I reply, but I can’t help smiling back at him.
Watson snoozes beneath the Christmas tree as his golden fur collects fallen tinsel.
A mountain of presents awaits us, wrapped in paper ranging from tastefully elegant (my sister Serafina’s contributions) to looks-like-it-was-wrapped-by-raccoons-on-a- bender (definitely Nico’s handiwork). And I can’t wait to get to them all.
“Smart dog,” Cooper observes, following my gaze. “Strategic position.”
“He’s been taking lessons from Nona Jo.” I nod toward my grandmother, who has positioned herself at the head of the table where she can simultaneously monitor all conversations and have first access to every dish.
As if summoned by our attention, Nona Jo taps her glass with a spoon, the chiming sound somehow cutting through the dozen simultaneous conversations like a hot knife through burrata.
“Attenzione!” she commands, rising to her impressive height of four-foot-eleven. “I would like to propose a toast.”
The table quiets, all eyes turning toward the matriarch who, despite her diminutive stature, commands respect in a way that military generals would envy.
Her black dress with its traditional lace collar stands in sharp contrast to her snow-white hair, styled in the same beehive she’s worn since the Kennedy administration.
She raises her glass of vino and the deep red liquid catches the light from the chandelier overhead.
“To Effie and Cupertino,” she begins, using Cooper’s given name with the satisfaction of someone who knows it makes him squirm. “Two young people who have brought our families together at last.”
“Through food, not firearms,” my brother Nico calls out, earning him an elbow from Serafina.
“May the new year bring health, happiness, and many, many Italian babies,” Nona Jo continues, while for reasons unknown forgetting all about the holiday at hand. “At least five, I think. Start with twins to be efficient.”
Cooper waggles his brows my way. “Play your cards right and by this time next year, we could be drowning in triplets.”
“Now that sounds like a threat.”
“To Cooper and Effie!” Nona Jo concludes, raising her glass higher. “Merry Christmas to one and all!”
“ Salute! ” roars the table in unison, glasses clinking in a chaotic crash of crystal.
Everyone drinks deeply, then dives back into the feast with a renewed enthusiasm. The conversations resume at full volume, plates are passed, wine is spilled and mopped up with a little good-natured cursing, and the Christmas Eve celebration continues its cheerful descent into controlled chaos.
Hours later, after the last mussel has been consumed and enough wine has flowed to float a small battleship, we move to the dessert phase. Platters of struffoli dripping with honey, crisp pizzelle, rich cannoli, and my mother’s famous panettone appear as if conjured by Christmas magic.
“I can’t eat another bite,” I groan, even as I reach for another cannoli.
“That’s what you said after the fifth fish course,” Cooper points out, helping himself to a slice of panettone.
“It’s different,” I explain through a mouthful of sweet ricotta. “There’s a separate stomach for dessert. It’s science.”
After dessert come the presents—a free-for-all that resembles a contact sport more than it ever does a gift exchange. Paper flies, ribbons are weaponized, and Watson prances around collecting discarded bows on his collar until he resembles a canine Christmas decoration.
In the festive mayhem, I spot Uncle Jimmy slipping away toward the kitchen.
Perfect timing.
“Be right back,” I tell Cooper, who’s busy examining a hand-knitted sweater from my mother with admirable enthusiasm considering it features a portrait of Watson wearing a Santa hat.
I follow Uncle Jimmy into the kitchen, catching him as he’s refilling his wine glass once again.
“Hey, Uncle Jimmy,” I say with a sweet wave before my mood takes an abrupt U-turn. “Quick question—why in the world would you want Loretta Spaghetti on my hit list?”
He takes a leisurely sip of wine before answering. “I knew you wouldn’t pull the trigger, and I figured this might put me on her radar.” He shrugs with the confidence of a man who’s never questioned his own brilliance. “I think she’s cute.”
I suck in a quick breath.
My uncle, the notorious crime boss with a body count higher than my credit score, has a crush on Cooper’s sister? It’s like discovering Darth Vader has a thing for Princess Leia, except creepier and with more hair product involved.
“You put a hit out... as a flirting technique?”
“It worked, didn’t it?” He nods toward the doorway where Loretta has appeared, as if summoned by some cosmic force or possibly the scent of criminality mixed with cologne. And money. Lots and lots of money.
“ Jimmy ,” she purrs, sauntering into the kitchen in a dress so tight it defies both physics and good taste. “There you are. I was looking for something—strong.” The way she says “strong” makes it clear she’s not talking about the liquor selection.
“I can help with that,” Uncle Jimmy responds with a smirk that makes me want to douse my eyes with hand sanitizer.
Loretta giggles like a teenager discovering boy bands for the first time, and before I can process what’s happening, they’re retreating to a dark corner. And just like that, her hands are already wandering toward places that will give me nightmares until next Christmas.
“I guess Christmas really is a time for miracles,” I muse to myself, watching the most unlikely couple since Beauty and the Beast—except in this case, both parties are arguably beasts.
Cooper’s arms wrap around me from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder. “What’s the miracle?” he asks.
“Oh, that our families have exchanged gifts instead of bullets,” I reply, choosing to leave Loretta’s latest conquest out of the equation for now—and in perpetuity if I can help it. Some images are too disturbing to share, even with someone who investigates homicides for a living.
“Speaking of exchanging things,” Cooper murmurs, his voice dropping to a register that sends pleasant shivers down my spine. “Want to head back to your place and unwrap a few more gifts?”
“Is that a euphemism, Detective Knox?” I ask, casually strolling him back into the living room lest a homicide get in the way of that good time I think he just promised.
“That depends,” he replies as a smile curves on his lips. “Is it working?”
“Let me think,” I tap my temple as I pretend to ponder. “Leave this circus of food, family, and potential felonies to be alone with you? I think I can be persuaded.”
We say our goodbyes, collect Watson from beneath the tree where he’s drowsily guarding his new bone, and slip out into the cold December night.
The sky above is clear and the stars glitter like diamonds against black velvet. Snow crunches beneath our feet as we make our way to Cooper’s truck with Watson prancing ahead and leaving paw prints that look like nature’s Christmas decorations—and maybe a trail of yellow snow.
Cooper pulls me close before we reach the vehicle and our breath forms little cute clouds in the frosty air.
“Merry Christmas, Effie,” he says softly before his lips find mine in a kiss that warms me despite the winter chill.
We pull apart and I give his ribs a little tweak.
“Merry Christmas, Hot Stuff.” I’m about to make an indecent proposal when something in the sky catches my eye.
A moving light, too fast for a plane, streaks across the starry backdrop.
“What in the world?” I point upward, stunned. “Is that a shooting star?”
Cooper follows my gaze with his arm tightening around my waist. “Or Santa’s sleigh,” he suggests with a smile.
“Flying away from my family gathering as fast as possible? Smart man,” I quip. “I guess even immortal magical beings have their limits.”
The light disappears beyond the horizon, leaving only the quiet beauty of the winter night around us. I lean into Cooper’s warmth, thinking about the true gifts in my life—this man, our dog, and somehow, miraculously, the chaotic blend of both our families without bloodshed. For now.
Watson barks suddenly, breaking the spell of the moment with his tail wagging as he stares up at the roof of my parents’ house.
“What is it, boy?” Cooper asks, following the dog’s gaze.
We look up just in time to see a shadow move across the roofline—too large to be a cat, too nimble to be a burglar. For just a moment, I could swear I see the silhouette of what appears to be...
No. It couldn’t be. Could it?
In a town where hitmen celebrate Christmas with cops and rival crime families share cannoli recipes, perhaps anything is possible—even a little true holiday magic.
“ Ho, ho, ho ,” a voice chimes from the sky. “ Merry Christmas to all—and to all a good night! ”
Cooper and I exchange a look.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say. “I think there’s still time to get on the naughty list.”
Cooper whisks us away and we land on that list in no time.
Ho, ho, ho, indeed.
Merry Christmas!
Thank you so much for reading! C