Page 60 of Secret Baby for the Mafia Don

"Really?" She raises an eyebrow. "Then why are you working so hard to protect my father? Why did he mentor you when you became Don?"

I don't have a good answer for that.

"Face it, Marco. You've built walls so high, you can't even see the family standing on the other side." She opens my office door. "Maybe instead of hating Christmas, you could try actually experiencing it for once."

"I experienced plenty of Christmases as a child," I mutter. "They weren't worth repeating."

"Then make new memories. Better ones." She says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Surely, you have at least one good Christmas memory.”

I do have one good one, but it’s one I’ve spent the last year trying to forget.

Last Christmas. The library. Gabriella.

For those stolen hours, Christmas wasn't about disappointment or abandonment.

It was warm skin, breathless laughter, and the way she said my name when I made her come.

Now she stands before me again, unaware she's become another reason I hate Christmas.

Because this year, I know exactly what I'm missing.

I guide Gabriella through the east wing of my house to her room.

"Is your room satisfactory?” I ask, stopping at the door farthest from mine.

A deliberate choice.

“It’s fine. I don't think I've been in this one before." She lifts her brows suggestively, and immediately, I’m filled with memories of all the locations I touched her in my home.

The library wall, my office desk, the leather couch in the living room, the kitchen table, the shower, even once on my workout bench.

But she’s right, we never made it to this room.

"No," I manage, my voice rougher than intended. "You haven't."

She reaches for the handle, but I beat her to it, my hand brushing against hers.

The contact sends electricity up my arm, and I freeze as our fingers touch, eyes lock.

I should step back. Open the door. Say goodnight. Walk away.

Instead, I find myself moving closer, drawn by some magnetic pull I’m helpless to resist.

Her breath catches as I reach up, brushing a strand of hair from her face, letting my fingers linger against her cheek.

Time slows. The hallway narrows until there's nothing but her.

A flush spreads across her skin.

Her lips part slightly.

Her eyes fill with challenge, daring me to admit I still want her.

And God help me, I do.

My thumb traces her lower lip, and she leans into my touch, eyes fluttering closed.

One step closer and I could taste her again, feel her body pressed against mine, lose myself in her warmth.