Chapter 14 Safe, Loved, Whole
Safe, Loved, Whole
Christmas Day
When I open my eyes, the room is soft and dim, washed in the faint gray-blue glow of early snow light. Fat flakes drift past the window, slow and dreamy, like the world is trying to be gentle for once.
Santo isn’t next to me.
I huff, throwing the blankets off me about to shout at the camera about how I hate when he leaves me to wake alone, when the door opens.
He strides in, shirtless, but still in the matching pajama bottoms.
I love how he indulges me.
In his hands is a tray piled with pastries, fruit, and two mugs of cocoa.
My mouth falls open. “Breakfast in bed?”
He smirks. “Yes.”
I stare at the tray, then at him. “You want crumbs in your precious sheets?”
One dark brow lifts. “Today I do.”
I blink. “…Who are you and what have you done with my husband?”
He huffs a soft laugh and sets the tray on the nightstand next to me. “Eat, Dea.”
His eyes are molten, staring at me as if my soft pajamas aren’t wrinkled and my hair isn’t a mess.
He looks at me like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
I take a bite of a warm croissant just to tease him, letting a flake fall onto the blanket deliberately.
He pretends not to notice.
That’s how I know he’s in a frighteningly good mood.
He settles beside me, sliding an arm behind my waist and pulling me into his side like he’s magnetized. His lips brush the top of my head.
“Ready for presents, Dea?” he murmurs against my temple.
My heart flutters. I nod eagerly. “Yes! Let’s do you first.”
But he shakes his head, a faint nervousness flickering under the surface. “No. Yours first.”
He reaches down beside the bed and lifts a neatly wrapped package—brown paper, tied with twine.
Unlike his usual prepped and wrapped gifts, this one seems more… heartfelt.
“I—Santo, what is this?”
“Open it,” he says quietly.
There’s something in his voice, something warm and nervous.
I unfold the paper carefully, and when the cover appears, my breath stutters.
A leather-bound book.
Worn.
Soft around the edges.
Handwritten title in elegant script:
Lucia Amato-Dolci & Tradizioni
My throat tightens.
“Santo…” I whisper, running my fingers over the cover. “Is this…?”
He nods once, eyes softer than I’ve ever seen. “Her baking recipes.”
I blink fast. “But…I thought La Serenata had her recipes?”
“They have her cookbook,” he says gently. “Her savory dishes. But she made this one too. A whole separate one for pastries and cakes.”
My eyes go wide. “Where did you—why didn’t I know about this? Where has it been?”
He lets out a small exhale, rubbing the back of his neck. “I had to find it. I knew she had one, just never knew where.”
“What do you mean?”
“I searched our entire library,” he says, voice low. “Whenever you weren’t painting in there, I looked for it. Every shelf. Every box. I couldn’t find it.”
His jaw tightens
“Turns out it wasn’t here. It was at Angelo’s estate.”
I look up, confused. “Angelo’s?”
He nods. “My father kept it locked in his office. He didn’t want anyone else to have it. Not me. Not Angelo. Not… anyone.”
I suck in a breath, sadness and anger mixing in my chest. “Why would he hide something like this?”
Santo shakes his head, an old shadow passing through his eyes. “Control. Or cruelty. Sometimes with him, it was the same thing.”
“May I?” he asks slowly as he flips the book open.
There are recipes handwritten in Lucia’s elegant script.
Photographs taped inside. Of her kitchen, her rolling dough, her smiling with flour on her face.
My eyes sting instantly.
Then he turns to one page, marked with a little, pressed violet.
“Oh, a violet,” I say, touching it softly.
“She loved those, you know,” he murmurs. “She adored flowers.”
“Here, look,” he adds, pointing.
At the top of the page, in soft looping ink, it reads:
For my sons’ future families:
May they be loved.
May they be safe.
May they know sweetness.
My breath breaks.
An unmistakable sound escapes me, a stunned, aching gasp.
“Oh…” I lift my hand to my mouth. “Santo.”
His voice cracks when he speaks.
“She wrote that for you, Dea. I’m sure of it.”
The tears fall silently down my cheeks.
“I love it… but I can’t take it, Santo,” I whisper.
“Of course you can, she would have wanted you to have it.”
I sigh, my heart cracking open. “I’ll make her proud when I bake from this then. Thank you for finding it.”
He pulls me into his arms, holding me tight against his chest. “It belongs with you.”
I hug the book to me like something sacred.
When I finally lift my head, he smiles softly. “Your turn.”
I sniff hard, trying, and failing to look composed. “Mine… isn’t as emotional.”
He smirks. “We’ll see about that.”
I reach in to my nightstand drawer and hand him a small, flat wrapped package.
Red paper.
Green ribbon.
Obviously mine.
He arches a brow. “You wrapped this?”
“Why?”
“It’s perfect, I almost don’t want to ruin it,” he says before tearing into it.
I giggle until I catch his expression shift.
Santo stills.
Completely.
In his hands is a small leather bookmark.
Simple.
Pressed with gold scythe.
And at the bottom, embossed in delicate lettering:
Per sempre,
La tua Dea
Forever,
Your Dea.
He stares at it like it’s something holy.
“This is for…?” he asks quietly.
“For your mother’s journals,” I whisper. “So you don’t lose your place while you read them with me.”
His throat works.
His eyes go dark and soft and unbearably full.
“Come here,” he says softly, putting the bookmark to the side and opening his arms.
I climb into his lap and he cups my face, kissing me once, long and reverent, like I just handed him the sun.
“Best gift I’ve ever had, second only to you,” he says against my lips.
“Santo—”
“No,” he whispers. “You don’t understand. This… this means everything. You mean everything.”
I smile into his mouth, curling against him, our gifts around us, the past and the future, tied together with love.
Outside, the snow falls softly.
Inside, his arms tighten around me.
He presses a kiss to my hair, voice low and warm.
“Merry Christmas, Dea.”
And for the very first Christmas in my life, I’m safe. I’m loved. I’m whole.