Chapter 5 Yuletide Tension
Yuletide Tension
La Serenata smells like memory.
Garlic, saffron, sweet tomato, and warm bread, it lingers in the walls, in the polished wood, in the folds of the white linen napkins.
The same playlist hums low through the speakers, old Italian ballads my mother used to sing while cooking.
I close my eyes for a second, just to breathe it in.
This place always brings her back to me.
Angelo taps his ring against his water glass, already scowling like the mere existence of December sunshine offends him.
“No snow,” he mutters. “Do you understand the severity of that?”
I arch a brow. “What are you talking about?”
“Florida. No snow. No coats. No peppermint-scented cold air. Just palm trees with tinsel and inflatable reindeer melting in the heat.” He picks up his wine like it personally betrayed him. “It’s sacrilege.”
I smirk. “You’re being dramatic.”
He glares. “The only thing getting me through this is knowing her mother’s going to make those empanadas again.”
I chuckle, leaning back in my chair. “Adriana’s mother’s empanadas are worth the trip.”
“Not in December.” Angelo reaches for the bread, tearing off a piece. “This was Adriana’s idea. ‘I want to be warm for the holidays,’ she said. Like Christmas is meant to be spent sweating.”
“Your wife’s happy, though.”
His expression softens slightly. “Yeah. She is. She’s worth the heat.”
I watch my brother, this man who spent his life believing love was a weakness, now willingly following his wife to Florida for Christmas. Marriage has changed him. Softened some edges while sharpening others.
It’s changed me too.
“How’s Tiny?” he asks about my wife.
“Good. Happy.” I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips. “Baking everything in sight.”
“Adriana too.” He sighs through a laugh. “What is with holidays and them baking?”
He shakes his head. “My kitchen’s exploded and Adri, bless her fucking heart, but my wife can’t bake for shit. The other day I was forced to choke down...what had to be a cinnamon-flavored brick. I almost chipped a tooth.”
I laugh, picturing the scene. Angelo’s never been one to suffer in silence. “Dea’s not bad, her treats are costing me more time in the gym, but she destroys the kitchen. Like a bomb went off. She’s not capable of not making a mess.”
Angelo nods, understanding in his eyes. “You clean it up after?”
“Sometimes. Other times I pay Mrs. Keen extra to do it when she’s not looking.” I take a sip of my wine. “She gets upset if she thinks she’s causing extra work.”
“Adriana doesn’t give a fuck. Just leaves it for me or Nico to handle. And God forbid I ask Ruby or Clara to do it, then I’m mishandling staff. She starts listing legalities and I doze off.”
At the mention of Nico, I lean forward slightly. “Speaking of your shadow, where is he?”
Angelo’s eyes narrow, suspicion immediately flaring. “Why?”
“I need to borrow him.”
“For what?”
I set my glass down, choosing my words carefully. “I need someone I trust for a delicate situation.”
“What kind of delicate situation requires my right hand?” His voice drops lower, eyes scanning the empty restaurant.
“The kind that needs to be perfect.” I meet his gaze steadily. “It’s for Vasilisa.”
Angelo tosses his hands in the air. “For a fucking present? I thought this was something about the Armenians and I could get out of the Florida trip.”
“Yeah, because we need another shitstorm. Don’t speak that into existence.”
He sighs, rubbing his jaw. “You know Nico’s been... distracted lately. He may not want to help you.”
“Distracted by what?”
“Not what. Who.” Angelo shrugs. “Luna.”
“Vasilisa’s Luna?”
Angelo nods.
Interesting.
I file this information away for later. “This works though, I can lure him in with her.”
“What do you need though?” Angelo leans back, studying me. “You gonna tell me, or do I have to guess?”
“I’m proposing to Vasilisa.”
Angelo’s eyes narrow. “Pretty sure you’re already married.”
“Says the man who also proposed after already being married.”
“Fair, getting her a new ring? What are you going to do with ma’s?”
“No, I stole the ring away from her, she’s been a wreck without it, but I need it to propose again. It’s at the jewelers. I need Nico to get it and bring it to me at Christmas eve dinner since Vasilisa won’t let me out of her sight after today.”
Angelo leans forward, intrigued. “So you want to propose to your wife... with her own ring... that she already owns.”
“Exactly,” I say, watching understanding dawn on his face.
“That’s either the cheapest or most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.” He takes a long sip of his wine. “Depending on how you pull it off.”
“I have a plan,” I assure him. “Just need Nico to get the ring from the jewelers.”
Angelo shakes his head, but there’s amusement in his eyes. “You’re a sentimental bastard, you know that?”
“Only for her,” I admit. “Always for her.”
“Fine. I’ll send Nico your way,” Angelo says. “But you owe me.”
“I don’t owe you shit,” I reply. “Any new news?”
“No, and that’s bad.” Angelo’s expression darkens. “It’s been quiet. Too quiet. The Armenians haven’t made a move since... well, you know.”
Since they almost killed my wife and his. The words hang between us, unspoken but heavy.
“And Maksim?” I ask, keeping my voice neutral.
“Something’s going on and that bastard is keeping shit close to the vest. But he’s also distracted.” He tears another piece of bread. “I promised Adriana a pause for the holidays, but—”
He sighs.
I nod, mind already calculating. “It’s that girl he’s with.”
“It’s always a fucking girl.”
Angelo’s phone vibrates, and he checks it. “Got to go,” he says, pushing back from the table.
I stand too, watching him finish the last of his wine.
He claps a hand on my shoulder, firm and familiar. “Since I won’t see you… Merry Christmas, little brother.”
My throat tightens just a little. “Merry Christmas, fratello.”
Angelo nods once, then heads for the door, coat slung over his arm, already muttering about palm trees and heatstroke.
I stay behind, letting the hum of old ballads and the scent of my mother’s kitchen settle around me.
Three more nights.
Then I give my wife the proposal she always deserved.
***
“Dea!”
I call out as I shut the door behind me, the scent of cinnamon and vanilla hitting me before I even make it to the kitchen.
She’s slow to answer, which is never a good sign.
“Dea,” I repeat, stepping into the hallway.
She peeks out from around the corner like a child caught stealing frosting, her eyes too wide, her smile a little too bright.
Crumbs cling to her dress like confetti.
Suspicious.
Too suspicious.
I narrow my eyes. “What did you do?”
“Nothing,” she chirps, entirely unconvincing.
Her voice is breathless, flushed, not the kind that comes from baking. The kind that comes from nerves.
I know the difference.
I know her.
I step closer, scanning her face, the twitch of her mouth, the slight shake in her hands as she adjusts the cookie tray for the third time.
“Where’s Luna?” I ask, quiet now, trying to read between the lines.
She turns toward the counter, stacking cookies that don’t need stacking. “Nico took her home.”
My brows lift. “You weren’t going to tell me about them?”
Her whole body exhales. The tension drops from her shoulders so fast I nearly miss it. Her relief is too visceral.
So that wasn’t it.
Whatever she’s hiding, it’s not Luna.
“Oh,” she says, casual now, too casual. “They’re not a thing. Just… you know, hooking up.”
“Hooking up?” I echo, still watching her.
She heads for the living room, avoiding my gaze. “Yeah. You know, what you used to do before me.”
That hits harder than it should. I follow her, lips tugging into something faintly self-deprecating. “Dea, I didn’t know you existed.”
She shrugs, curling up on the couch like she didn’t just twist a knife in my ribs with that sweet mouth of hers.
“Should’ve predicted the future, Santo,” she smirks.
I stand there for a second, staring at her.
At the way she clutches that cookie plate like it’s armor.
At the flush still painting her cheeks, the slight tremble in her fingers as she bites into one but doesn’t taste it.
She’s definitely hiding something.
Not Luna. Not Nico. Something more. Something big.
She’s a terrible liar, but she’s stubborn. She won’t give it up until she’s ready.
I could push.
I probably should.
I decide against pushing. For now.
Whatever she’s keeping from me is making her nervous, and my Vasilisa doesn’t handle pressure well when she’s already on edge.
Instead, I move to sit beside her, pluck the plate from her hands, and set it on the coffee table.
“Cookies before dinner, Dea?” My voice drops, a soft warning. “That could earn you a punishment.”
She relaxes a little, the corners of her mouth curving. “Hmm… from Scythe?”
My jaw clenches.
Fuck.
I curse myself for the surge of heat that pools low in my stomach, and the stupid twist of jealousy.
Of myself.
Of the part of me she craves when she’s feeling wicked.
I groan under my breath, dragging a hand down my face. “Dea, I am Scythe.”
She shakes her head slowly, eyes gleaming with mischief. “No. Santo is soft for me. Scythe is more fun.”
That does it.
I lunge, pinning her back against the couch with my hands on either side of her. She squeals, laughing as I nip at her neck.
“Don’t make me jealous of myself,” I growl against her skin.
“You’re ridiculous,” she giggles.
“And you’re bratty.” I kiss along her jaw, then lower, catching her earlobe between my teeth. “Fun, huh? Let’s see how fun you think he is when I ruin you for cookies.”
Her gasp is quickly swallowed by my mouth, crashing over hers. Hot, possessive, mine.
She kisses me back like she wants to swallow the growl in my throat.
Until her foot nudges the coffee table.
Clatter.
The cookie plate crashes to the floor, a few treats rolling under the coffee table.
She gasps and jerks up. “My cookies!”
I pull back just enough to see the devastation on her face, and I almost laugh.
My poor Dea and her love of treats.
I scoop her up into my arms before she can protest.
She yelps, hands flying to my shoulders. “Santo!”
“I have something better than cookies for you.”
My voice is low and dark and full of promise as I carry her up the stairs.