Chapter 29 #2
Even in the Texas heat, the inside glows with twinkling lights and trees covered in ornaments.
For a moment, I’m transported back to my childhood, when my mother was alive. She loved the holidays, and she insisted we put up the tree every year on November first.
Even though my father insisted we could hire someone to help, she always refused. Instead, she dragged all of us into her preparations.
And once she was gone, so were our holiday celebrations.
Feeling a wave of nostalgia, I look at him. “Do you mind?”
He tips his head to one side. “If it makes you happy.”
“This place is ridiculous,” I say, grinning once we’re inside, surrounded by the scent of pine and the festive ho-ho-hos coming from animated Santas.
Even as I say that, I’m already walking toward the nearest tree.
Glass ornaments shimmer everywhere—angels, snowflakes, stockings, elves, shining stars.
Then I see it.
A small ornament shaped like a globe, painted in ted soft yellow and green. Across the front, delicate script reads: Baby’s First Christmas.
My breath catches.
Dante appears beside me and follows my gaze.
Though he looks at me, he says nothing. Then he gently lifts it from the branch. The ornament is unbelievably fragile in his strong grip.
“Dante…” I can scarcely breathe. “Really, you don’t need—”
“We’ll take this,” he tells the clerk who’s suddenly nearby.
After she wraps it carefully in tissue and places it in a small white bag, he takes it from her.
My chest feels strangely tight as we step back out onto the street.
“It matters to you.” He says the words simply.
“I…” Yes. It does. And suddenly I’m thinking about trees, and laughter, and hot cocoa with my children.
What this man does to me…
We continue on, window shopping, browsing, passing the time like any other ordinary couple.
Which we’re not.
Even though I’d like to pretend otherwise, there’s a slow-moving SUV keeping pace with us, and soldiers shadowing our every move.
“Are you hungry?” he asks when we’ve walked the entire length of the tourist area, and back again.
“I shouldn’t be.” The coffee and the crepe should have kept me going until the morning, but I can’t help but glance down the street.
“I understand Fredericksburg is famous for its German food.”
The restaurant on the corner seems to embrace its heritage completely.
White tablecloths cover the patio tables, lanterns glow softly above them, and the scent of grilled sausage and roasted onions drifts into the evening air.
Laughter spills from the open windows while servers move between tables carrying enormous plates of schnitzel and potato salad.
“You talked me into it. How about we go there?”
He studies the building for a moment, assessing ingress and egress points. Counting windows.
The same calculations I find myself making automatically as well.
Evidently satisfied, he nods once.
The host seats us outside, on a second, back patio, beneath a string of warm lights that sway gently in the breeze, at the table that Moretti selects. Nearby a guitarist plays something slow and country-soft.
I order a Pellegrino with lime, the bubbles cool and sharp on my tongue. If Dante has his way, I’m already pregnant, and alcohol is the last thing I should be drinking.
He orders a deep red wine.
For a moment I wonder if it came from our vineyard, and I’m surprised by how much I like the idea. Already I’m thinking about the villa and its lands as ours.
When the waiter leaves, he studies me across the table.
“You’re enjoying yourself.”
“I am.”
“That surprises you.”
“A little.” I squeeze another lime into my glass. “To be fair,” I add lightly, “I didn’t expect my honeymoon to begin with an abduction.”
His mouth twitches. “That wasn’t the honeymoon.”
I meet his gaze. “No?”
“No.”
The single word lands between us like a promise—low, deliberate, threaded with the quiet certainty that when we are alone again, he intends to prove exactly what he means.
The waiter returns with food that looks like it belongs in a Bavarian feast hall—golden schnitzel the size of the plate, buttered spaetzle, warm pretzels with dark mustard, and roasted potatoes fragrant with garlic and herbs.
Conversation drifts between us with surprising ease, the kind of slow rhythm that belongs to people who have known each other far longer than a handful of days.
Dante tells me about the villa.
Why he bought it.
How he walked the property for the first time and knew immediately that the land had potential.
“The vineyard rows run along the southern slope,” he explains, tracing the shape of the hills in the air between us. “The soil changes depending on where you dig. Limestone in the upper fields. Clay farther down. Good drainage. Good sun.”
He pauses before taking another sip of wine.
“I bought it with you in mind.”
My fork stills halfway to my mouth.
“That’s impossible,” I say quietly.
“On the contrary.”
Just how long had he been planning to marry me?
At some point during the meal, I realize something startling.
I’ve stopped thinking about escape.
And I hang onto the small glimpses of the future that he keeps painting for us, even though part of me wonders if life could possibly be that perfect.
Dante orders another glass of wine, and the easy warmth of the evening stretches between us as the sun sinks lower in the sky.
By the time the horizon begins to glow gold and pink, Fredericksburg itself seems to soften into lantern light and music.
Once the check is settled, we walk back toward the SUV slowly, the small white bag with the ornament swinging gently from Dante’s hand.
His palm settles at the small of my back as we cross the street, the warmth of his hand steady and guiding, the gesture subtle enough that anyone watching might miss the quiet claim in it.
With Dante, nothing is accidental. The pressure of his fingers is protective, possessive, and it settles something deep in my chest.
For once, I’m at peace.
The driver opens the rear door.
The interior of the SUV smells faintly of leather and the lingering trace of Dante’s cologne as I slide onto the seat, smoothing my skirt automatically. The small white bag with the ornament rests carefully beside me, the tissue paper inside rustling softly as the car shifts.
Dante follows.
He closes the door behind him with quiet finality before settling beside me, his shoulder brushing mine as the vehicle pulls smoothly away from the curb.
Fredericksburg’s soft lights fade behind us as we leave town, the road unwinding into the wide, dark stretch of Hill Country night.
The headlights carve clean ribbons of pale gold through the darkness ahead, illuminating the curve of the road, the low fences, the rolling shapes of vineyards sleeping beneath the evening sky.
Content, I let me head lean against the seat.
I’m pleasantly tired from walking the streets, from laughing more than I expected, from the lingering heat Dante left in my bones long before we ever left the villa this morning.
Without speaking, he places a hand on my knee. The gesture is casual, but my reaction is instant. My breath catches before I can stop it, and I glance at him. “Dante Moretti, you are insatiable.”
Even in the darkness, I see the flare in his eyes as he looks at me. “Are you complaining?”
I grin. “Not exactly.”
His thumb brushes slowly along the inside of my knee. “Then perhaps you’re enjoying yourself?”
“Maybe just a little,” I admit.
The corner of his mouth lifts slightly, the expression dangerously satisfied.
I laugh softly, and the moment feels far too light for the life we both live.
Outside, the darkness thickens and the road narrows.
In the distance, the familiar shapes of the land surrounding the villa begin to emerge, shadowed rows of vines stretching along the slopes like dark ribbons across the hills.
And for one quiet, suspended moment…
Everything feels steady.
Safe.
The kind of fragile calm that feels almost too perfect to last.
Then the world explodes.
The first shot shatters the windshield.
Glass bursts inward in a violent spray as the driver jerks the wheel.
For one disorienting instant my mind refuses to understand what I’m seeing—only that the peaceful darkness outside the car has suddenly turned violent and bright with flying shards of glass and the scream of twisting metal.
“Down!” Dante roars.
His arm slams across my chest, forcing me flat against the seat as the SUV fishtails violently across the asphalt.
Gunfire erupts from the darkness on both sides of the road. Sharp. Rapid, and terrifyingly close.
An ambush.
The realization lands like ice in my veins as the driver curses.
Another shot cracks.
The vehicle swerves hard.
Dante’s body covers mine completely now, shielding me as the sound of bullets tearing into metal fills the car.
T The small white bag with the ornament tumbles from the seat beside me, sliding across the floor as the SUV jerks sideways.
The tissue paper spills open.
For a split second the tiny star ornament flashes in the dashboard lights—yellow and green, innocent and fragile—before it rolls beneath the seat.
Baby’s First Christmas.
The thought slams through my mind with cruel, impossible clarity.
Then—
A brutal impact slams through him.
His body jerks.
His breath leaves him in a harsh grunt against my shoulder.
My brain struggles to make sense of the movement, of the sudden weight pressing harder against me, of the strange hitch in his breathing.
Then warmth spreads across my arm.
No. No. God, no! “Dante—” My voice breaks on his name as tears sting my eyes.
The SUV careens wildly as the driver fights the wheel. “Hold on!” the soldier shouts.
Another round of gunfire erupts behind us.
The SUV’s engine roars, and the car rockets forward down the dark road.
The gunfire fades slightly behind us, but inside the vehicle the chaos hasn’t stopped. There’s glass crunching beneath the tires, Dante’s breath is harsh against my shoulder, and the metallic smell of blood flooding the air.
And beneath me—
Dante’s weight is suddenly too, too heavy.