Chapter 1 #2
Angelo’s other best friend, Thad Worthington, was a real estate mogul who—had it not been for Jared daring him to ask out a barista without the intention of just sleeping with her—might have missed out on Veronica, a young widow with a four-year-old daughter who’d captured his heart.
Now Thad was in Disney World for the holidays, filled with hope and a ring in his pocket, planning to make his new family official.
Angelo was happy for them, of course, but sometimes that happiness felt bittersweet. He wanted what they had—the joy of belonging to someone the way they did. He had so much love to give, but no one to give it to.
“Angelo.” His mother’s voice drew him back into the kitchen. She was hovering near his double ovens, and he could practically feel his eye start to twitch.
He gently steered her away from the ovens when she tried to open one. “Yeah, mom?”
“This year you promised me you’d find a nice girl and settle down,” she reminded him. “And yet I see no pretty girl in this kitchen for you to cook for. No woman helping to decorate your home or make you smile.”
She searched his face as though looking for the same answers he sought, making his stomach pitch and his skin heat with embarrassment. He desperately tried to divert her focus from his face to his words, and he said the first thing he could think of…which was absolutely the wrong thing to say.
“Perhaps I’ve met a nice girl.”
He hadn’t of course, that was a lie. Why the heck had he just said that? His mother’s face lit up and he knew it was a mistake.
“Oh Angelo… really? Why haven’t I met her yet?” Francesca asked.
Scrambling for a rational response his dug his proverbial grave deeper. “I… I’m not ready for you to meet her yet. You can be a very intimidating mother.” She wasn’t actually, his mother was a sweetheart, but teasing her might get her off her quest to marry him.
“Oh hush! I am not! And you have no woman,” she said, but didn’t look entirely convinced. “Do you?”
“Aye, mama…” he sighed, slipping back into the old familiar Italian tone that came from all those summers spent with his Nonna. “Let’s not talk about it right now.”
Francesca eyed him seriously, her dark brows lowered as she seemed to be thinking about whether he might in fact have a secret girlfriend.
Let her think it. It will give her something to do and keep her out of my kitchen.
“Your father and I are not getting any younger. I want more grandbabies.”
“You have three other boys with wives and children,” he reminded her gently.
“Yes but…” his mother’s lips quivered. “You are my favorite,” she whispered, her eyes over bright.
“You don’t have favorites, mom,” he said, and it was true. She never had a favorite. She’d loved him and his three younger brothers equally.
“My best boy.” She cupped his face. “Remember when you were in high school, I sent you to that prep school? I wanted you to have some space, to get away from your silly brothers. To grow without the burdens of being the eldest. Like me. Like your father. We wanted you to have a life of your own.” She smiled as her eyes grew watery.
“I want you to be happy, and you will be the happiest when you are in love.”
She wasn’t wrong. But he had no say in that regard, only a fool would think they could control the most powerful force in the universe.
“When it happens, mom, it will be at the right time with the right woman.”
“Angelo!” His father shouted across as he raised his arm and pointed at his watch. “Aren’t you supposed to leave for the soup kitchens by six o’clock?”
“Yes! Thanks, I almost forgot.” Angelo leaned down and kissed his mother on the cheek. “Take the food out of the oven when the oven timer goes off, not a second before. I’ll be back in two hours. If I’m running late, start without me.”
He’d timed his dishes to all finish at the right time so his mother would only have to pull everything out and serve it. It paid to be a professional chef and have two large ovens and a massive kitchen.
He hugged his niece and nephew, then slung on his favorite camel-colored coat.
Outside, the snow was falling harder, but he knew the buses would still be running.
He could have taken his own car, but he didn’t want to dig his car out of the snow if it got too deep.
He went down to the nearest stop and boarded the bus that came just as he arrived. Perfect timing.
He leaned against the window, watching the houses and apartments pass by.
Bright Christmas lights glowed on the rooftops and in windows of the houses and apartments.
The night was quiet, beautiful. It felt like a sacred night, carrying the promise of amazing moments to come in the new year.
Families, friends, and loved ones all sharing the winter holidays together.
His heart swelled as he headed to the soup kitchen where, for at least a few hours, he’d offer the homeless and the hungry a place of refuge, warmth, and welcome.
For now, that was enough to ease his lonely heart.
The snow fell harder around Kara Gallagher as she paused at the entrance to the North Clifton Avenue Soup Kitchen.
Her gloved hand was on the door. Frigid air filled her lungs as she remembered so many years when she’d been alone and hungry on Christmas Eve.
Even when her mother had been alive, they’d had to make it through the holidays on empty bellies, shivering in cold little motel rooms while her mother did her best to keep them both alive.
Having to move every year to start over and the inconsistency of work meant Kara and her mother hadn’t been strangers to food banks and soup kitchens.
She let out the breath she’d been holding and watched its brief life as a cloud before it vanished.
Tonight her belly was full. She had a job at a local bodega and a small apartment to call home, for now.
She’d found some stability in her life, and she wanted to give something back whenever she could.
That’s why volunteering was so important to her.
It reminded her how lucky and grateful she was for her life right now.
Kara blinked away the snowflakes that clung to her lashes and opened the soup kitchen door. A tiny bell jingled above her head, letting everyone inside know that she’d entered, but only a few heads turned her way.
The director of the kitchen, Paul Hill, spotted her right away. He was a thin, lively man with a kind face and a warm smile, sporting a Santa hat and eyes that were as bright as his smile.
“Merry Christmas Kara!” He waved for her to put her coat up on the rack and join him and the other volunteers.
“Merry Christmas, Paul,” she said with a laugh over her shoulder, hanging her old navy blue peacoat on the coat rack. She tossed her scarf on the peg next to her coat.
When she faced the main room of the soup kitchen, her eyes roved over the volunteers taking in the boxes of food and metal cooking trays that held the food they served hot.
She had only moved to Chicago last month and started working at the soup kitchen three weekends ago.
She knew a local restaurant donated most of the food, and usually sent hot food on the weekends or for special holidays.
Her nose twitched at the mix of smells in the room.
They were serving Italian tonight. The sweat and the odor of unwashed bodies was also present, buried beneath the overwhelming power of Evergreen air fresheners.
Kara joined a line of volunteers who served spaghetti and meatballs at the far end of the kitchen.
“Kara, why don’t you help me hand out cookies?
” Mabel, one of the other volunteers, said.
“We have some extra help coming in shortly to handle the pasta.” Mabel was a petite, kind-hearted woman and Kara had liked her immensely upon first meeting her.
She abandoned the pasta station to join Mabel at the cookie trays.
The cookies were stunningly designed, looking like Christmas wreaths with intricate icing.
“These are beautiful,” she said to Mabel as she admired the cookies.
Mabel chuckled as the people waiting at the front of the line began moving down the row toward her and Mabel. “They are, aren’t they?”
“Any fun holiday plans?” Mabel asked.
“Nope. Just a quiet night for me.”
“Is your family coming to see you?”
Kara shook her head. “My mom died five years ago, and my dad passed just this year. It’s only me now.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. You could come with me to my daughter’s house if you want.” Mabel smiled invitingly. “We always have plenty of room.”
“Thanks, Mabel. I appreciate the offer, but I’ll be okay.”
It wasn’t exactly a lie, but wasn’t exactly the truth, either.
Her mother had died five years ago from a sudden brain aneurysm.
As for her father… Kara had never met him.
Both of her parents were Irish and had lived in Ireland when they met.
Her mother had fled Dublin the moment she learned she was pregnant, because the father was the infamous mobster, Sean O’Brien.
O’Brien had wanted the child—and that prospect had been scary enough that her mother had fled to America and worked endlessly to keep Kara hidden from her father.
Kara had lived her entire life on the run… the specter of a father she didn’t know and his men always two steps behind her. He’d died six months ago in Ireland, and she had thought she would be safe then, but her mother had warned her years ago that she might never be safe.
“You are Sean O’Brien’s only child. He’ll never let you escape. You can be used as a bargaining tool. His second-in-command will want you to justify his claim to take over your father’s empire. Trust me. That’s how it works.”
The warning had terrified Kara. She had wanted no part of her father’s life. He’d run the Irish mobs on both sides of the ocean from Dublin and the Irish Westies in New York.
“Keep moving,” her mother had always said. “Never stay put too long, or he’ll find you.”