Chapter 9 In His Arms
In His Arms
Ijolt awake.
“The decorations!”
My heart races as I scramble upright, sheets tangling around my legs.
Santo’s hand curls around my waist and he pulls me back down.
“You’re okay Dea,” he murmurs.
“But my garland—”
“Is hung,” Santo says, his voice a rumble against my back. “Everything’s done.”
I twist in his arms to face him. “What do you mean ‘done’?”
His eyes are tired, shadows beneath them that weren’t there yesterday.
He’s been up all night.
“The garland, the wreaths, the foyer tree,” he lists, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my hip. “Everything is exactly where you wanted it.”
I narrow my eyes. “How would you know where I wanted things?”
A small, satisfied smile crosses his lips. “Luna helped.”
“Luna was here? When?”
“Last night,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “After you fell asleep.”
I push against his chest, sitting up despite his attempt to keep me in bed. “I need to see.”
“Dea, it’s early—”
“It’s Christmas Eve,” I counter, already sliding my feet to the floor. “And I need to make sure everything is perfect.”
Santo sighs but doesn’t try to stop me as I grab my robe and cinch it around my waist. I pause at the bedroom door, looking back at him sprawled across our bed, his dark hair mussed from sleep, eyes tracking my every movement.
“Are you coming?” I ask.
“I’ll be right there,” he promises. “Just give me a minute.”
I don’t wait. I’m too anxious to see what they’ve done to my vision. I hurry down the hallway and stop at the top of the stairs, my breath catching in my throat.
It’s... magical.
Garland swoops elegantly along the banister, woven with twinkling lights and velvet ribbon exactly the shade I wanted.
The foyer tree stands proud and perfect, each ornament placed with care, not a single branch left bare.
Wreaths adorn every door, and soft light glows from lanterns placed strategically throughout.
“Do you like it?”
Santo’s voice comes from behind me, and I turn to find him watching me with an intensity that makes my heart skip.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper, my eyes filling with tears. “How did you do all this?”
He shrugs, as if sending his men on a garland rescue mission and orchestrating a midnight decorating operation is nothing unusual. “I had help.”
I launch myself into his arms, and he catches me easily, his hands steady on my waist. “Thank you,” I breathe against his neck. “It’s everything I wanted.”
“You deserve everything,” he says simply.
I pull back to look at him, noticing again the shadows beneath his eyes. “You didn’t sleep at all, did you?”
“I had more important things to do.”
“Like hanging garland?”
“Like making sure my wife has the perfect Christmas.” His voice is soft but there is something more behind it.
“What’s wrong?”
He sighs. “You’re learning to read me too well, Dea.”
“Tell me.”
He doesn’t answer with words.
He just holds me tighter and carries me back down the hall.
He takes us to the bathroom instead of bed and sets me gently on the counter. The marble is cool beneath my thighs, grounding.
He reaches for my toothbrush, squeezes the toothpaste like he always does. Then hands it to me.
I take it slowly.
He grabs his own, does the same.
This is our routine.
The soft buzz of the fan. The clink of toothbrushes. The faint scent of mint.
But he’s stalling.
I feel it now.
He’s pretending this is just another morning, but his movements are too careful. Too quiet. His eyes don’t meet mine.
We brush in silence.
When we finish, I rinse and spit, the taste lingering bitter on my tongue despite the mint.
“Santo Amato,” I start, voice sharp with rising fear, “are you going to tell me—”
Before I can finish, he reaches up and gently wipes the foam from the corner of my mouth with his thumb. Then he steps between my legs, hands cupping my shoulders, rubbing slow, soothing circles.
He still doesn’t speak.
All my alarms go off at once.
My chest tightens. My throat closes. Thoughts spiral hard and fast.
“Who’s dead?” I whisper, breath catching. “Angelo? Adriana?”
He swallows, jaw clenched.
My heart freefalls.
“Mimi?” I choke, voice shattering as instant tears spring to my eyes. “Is it Mimi?”
His thumbs rise, catching the tears as they fall, brushing them away with aching gentleness.
“No. No Dea, I’m doing this all wrong.” He takes a breath.
“Capo Romero and his sons were ambushed and killed last night by their rivals. Romeo is on his way to Chicago, Angelo had me send Marco too. Romeo will be there from now until the foreseeable future.”
I blink, trying to process what he’s saying.
“Romeo is… leaving?” The words feel hollow in my mouth.
Santo nods, his hands still on my face. “ He left. He’ll be back from time to time, but he’ll have to take over as Capo there.”
Relief floods through me. No one I love is dead.
Guilt follows immediately after.
Romeo’s family is dead.
Right before Christmas.
“That’s horrible,” I whisper, leaning into his touch. “Poor Romeo.”
“I know,” Santo says softly. “It’s not how I wanted today to start.”
I close my eyes, trying to steady myself. Christmas Eve. Our first real one together without chaos or recovery. And now this shadow hangs over it.
“It’s not connected to us?” I ask, opening my eyes to search his face. “To our war with the Armenians?”
“No,” he says firmly. “Different war, different city.”
I nod, processing. “Wait, you said Marco too?”
“He’ll be back sooner. Romeo needed backup.”
I slide my arms around Santo’s waist, pulling him closer. “I’m sorry. I know Romeo is... important to you.”
Santo scoffs. “I like the kid…but Dea, come on…one less man who’s a little too close to you the better.”
I gasp “Santo Amato! He saved my life last year!”
“I’m not saying I don’t appreciate what he did,” Santo replies, a hint of petulance in his tone. “I’m saying I won’t miss the way he looks at you.”
I roll my eyes, but can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips. “He respects me because I don’t treat him like he’s invisible. Unlike someone I know who orders him around like a robot.”
Santo’s hands slide to my waist, squeezing gently. “I respect my men. I also respect boundaries.”
“You’re impossible,” I mutter, leaning forward to rest my forehead against his chest. The steady thump of his heart calms me, grounds me in the midst of this unexpected news.
“I know it’s terrible timing,” Santo murmurs into my hair. “But I promise, today will still be perfect.”
I pull back to look up at him, studying the determination in his eyes. “You can’t control everything, Santo.”
“Watch me try,” he says with that slight curve of his lips that never fails to make my stomach flip.
I shake my head but lean up to kiss him softly. “Fine.”
I sigh.
“Wait, everything is still coming from La Serenata?”
“Yes Dea, all the catering will be here. Far too much if you ask me, most of the men will be with their families.”
“Not Maksims men,” I say quietly
Santo steps back bit. “You have Maksim’s men coming to my home?”
I frown. “Our home and yes! Pietro, Sergei, Vaska. I can’t have Christmas without all my surrogate brothers.”
Santo’s eyes narrow. “You and your surrogate brothers… Korsakov is not invited.”
“He’s literally my family Santo, but yeah he’s not coming.”
He smirks, “Still upset at him?”
“Yes and no,” I shrug.
Santo’s palms slide to my waist as he helps me off the counter, his grip firm and warm, guiding me down like I’m something precious he doesn’t trust the world to catch.
The marble drops away beneath me, my toes finding the floor, but he doesn’t let go right away. His thumbs stroke slow circles over my hips, steadying me, anchoring me.
For a moment we just stand there, breaths mingling in the soft bathroom light.
Quiet. Heavy. Not sad… just full.
Christmas Eve shouldn’t start with death.
But life hums louder beneath my skin, even this early.
And he feels it, not physically, but in the way my pulse quickens beneath his hands
“Dea,” he murmurs, dipping his forehead to mine, “we’re still going to have a good day.”
I nod, swallowing. “We are.”
He kisses me then, slow, sure, grounding.
A promise pressed to my mouth.
When he pulls back, his eyes are dark and focused, like he’s memorizing every detail of my face.
“Get dressed,” he says, voice low. “I want to show you something.”
“What is it?” I ask, curiosity pushing through the heaviness of the morning’s news.
“A surprise.”
I narrow my eyes. “Another one? You’re being suspiciously generous with surprises lately.”
He smirks, that dangerous curve of his lips that makes my heart race. “It’s Christmas Eve, Dea. Indulge me.”
I sigh dramatically but can’t hide my smile. “Fine. But no more baby-proofing while I’m distracted.”
“No promises,” he calls over his shoulder.
He disappears into the closet, and I shake my head, laughing under my breath as I grab my robe tighter around me.
“Dea.”
I turn.
He stands in the doorway, one hand behind his back, shoulders broad and bare, his expression softer than the morning light brushing his face.
“Come here.”
I pad across the room to him, heart already fluttering because he’s looking at me the way he always does when he’s about to ruin me with tenderness.
When I reach him, he brings his hand forward.
A small velvet box.
Deep forest green.
Tied with thin gold ribbon.
My breath catches.
“Santo…”
“Open it,” he says softly.
With careful fingers, I tug at the ribbon and lift the lid.
My heart stops.
Inside lies the most delicate silver bracelet I’ve ever seen; fine, soft and gleaming like moonlight. Tiny stars dangle from it, and in each center sits a blue gem, the exact shade of the stone on the necklace he gave me our first year of marriage.
My throat tightens.
“Santo… it matches perfectly,” I whisper, fingers drifting to the star hanging at my neck.
“Give me your wrist,” he murmurs.
I lift my arm, and he clasps the bracelet around me with such gentle precision it almost hurts. When it’s fastened, he brings my wrist to his lips and kisses the inside of it.
Soft, reverent.
“It suits you,” he says.
“I love it. I love you.”
His eyes soften, molten, stormy, full.
“I know, Dea.”
He steps back, just enough to look at me wearing it, pride warming every sharp line of his face.
I stare down at the bracelet, watching how the light catches on the tiny stars. It feels like Santo is always giving me pieces of the night sky, claiming them just for me, then placing them in my hands.
“When did you get this?” I ask, voice soft with wonder.
“I’ve been planning it for a while,” he says, running his thumb over the clasp. “I had it made to match your necklace.”
I don’t even try to stop the tears this time. Maybe it’s the hormones.
Maybe it’s just Santo, loving me with such fierce, deliberate intention.
“Don’t cry,” he soothes, cupping my face with warm palms. “It’s just a bracelet.”
“It’s never just anything with you,” I whisper, turning to kiss his hand. “Everything means something.”
His eyes darken slightly at that—like he’s thinking something he won’t say yet.
Something big.
Something that trembles beneath his steadiness.
Sometimes I still can’t read him.
Santo brushes his thumb over my cheek one last time before he steps back, his gaze lingering on the bracelet like he’s imprinting it onto his memory.
“Get dressed, Dea,” he murmurs, voice dipping low. “La Serenata should be delivering soon.”
I sniff softly, still smiling. “Already? It’s only nine.”
He shrugs, amused. “You ordered enough food to feed an army. They needed the extra time.”
“Oh hush,” I mutter, wiping beneath my eyes. “It’s Christmas Eve. We’re having a real dinner this year. No hospital food. No takeout. No—”
“Chaos,” he finishes for me. “I know.”
His expression softens. “That’s why I want today perfect for you. For us.”
Warmth blooms in my chest, filling every hollow space his tenderness always finds.
I turn toward the dresser, slipping out of my robe as I lay out my two choices, the soft cream sweater dress or the deep green velvet one he picked last month, the one that makes me feel like a fairy tale version of myself.
I can feel his eyes on me immediately.
Heat skates down my spine.
“Stop staring,” I say, trying and failing to keep my voice stern as I shimmy into one of the dresses.
“No,” he answers simply.
I glance over my shoulder.
He’s standing there still shirtless, arms crossed over his chest as he watches me like he’s cataloging every inch for later.
“You make it very hard to get dressed,” I mutter.
“That sounds like a you problem,” he says, strolling closer with that slow, sinful gait of his.
I raise a brow at him. “Aren’t you going to shower and get ready?”
He stops behind me, his hands brushing lightly over my hips, barely a touch, but enough to steal my breath.
His lips graze my ear.
“I will,” he murmurs. “After I finish admiring my wife.”
I roll my eyes, cheeks warming. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re beautiful,” he counters, voice low, eyes locked on mine in the mirror above the dresser.
I smooth the dress over my body. Santo doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just stands there clearly not in any hurry to put on actual clothes.
“You’re still staring,” I whisper.
“And you’re still beautiful,” he murmurs back, brushing a kiss against the top of my shoulder. “Go ahead, continue. I’ll shower in a minute.”
“So you say.”
“Mmm.” He smiles against my neck and my heart flutters for him like it always will.