His Christmas Reckoning (Silent Nights, Sinful Nights #2)

Chapter 1 Angelica

ANGELICA

The coffee burns my tongue, but I drink it anyway.

I stand at the counter in my Naples apartment and watch the moka pot steam while Sofia drags herself out of bed.

The radio plays Christmas carols from the station that loops the same fifteen songs all season long.

I hum along because the sound fills the silence and keeps my brain from wandering to places it has no business going.

Then I pour a second cup and check the time on my phone.

Seven fifteen.

Sofia has exactly twenty minutes before the bus arrives at the corner.

I call her name again, louder this time, and hear her groan from the other room.

She hates mornings.

She gets that from me.

Work today includes two video calls scheduled back to back.

One starts at ten with a German firm looking to expand into Italy.

The other happens at two with a French contractor who needs someone to translate building codes.

I interpret for businessmen who can't be bothered to learn each other's languages.

The pay arrives inconsistently, but it keeps us fed and hidden, which is all I care about.

Sofia appears in the doorway with her hair sticking up in every direction.

She wears her school uniform already, the white blouse wrinkled from sleeping in it last night.

The plaid skirt sits crooked on her hips.

Her brown eyes narrow at me with the kind of annoyance only a five-year-old can muster over something trivial.

"I don't know where my tights are," she announces.

I point to the laundry basket sitting by the door.

She huffs and marches over, yanking them out with a grunt of disapproval.

Then she disappears back into her room.

I hear her muttering something about the Christmas concert and how Lucia gets to be an angel with wings while she only gets to be a shepherd with a stick.

I smile despite myself.

She has strong opinions about everything, especially when she feels she's not getting what she deserves.

I finish my coffee and rinse the cup in the sink.

The thought occurs to me that Sofia will be six soon, just after the holidays.

It's a time of year I find myself remembering the night I met her father and how many times I tried to forget him.

I remember his face perfectly even though I only spent one night with him.

It's hard to forget it when his daughter looks exactly like him.

He paid off my debts without asking for anything in return.

So when he offered to have a drink with me, I figured he meant at the casino bar, but he led me to his suite where the wine and conversation flowed.

I slept with him that night after having a bit too much to drink, but he was devilishly handsome with chiseled features and dark eyes.

And yeah, he got my virginity too, though I don't regret that one.

It's not too often a woman's first time is with a man who knows what they're doing.

He had me dripping multiple times and I will never forget it.

Especially since eight weeks later, I discovered I was pregnant.

I left Rome that same afternoon with everything I owned stuffed into two suitcases.

I changed my name, found a few odd jobs here and there, and after a few years of moving around and struggling, I found this place I call home and a great job using my knack for learning languages.

Sofia comes back into the kitchen with her tights on and her backpack slung over one shoulder.

She looks grumpy as she says, "I don’t want to go to school."

She slumps onto a chair as I start gathering my things.

"Sofi, please. I know Lucia got to be the angel, but shepherds are more important. They got to see the baby Jesus first, you know?"

Her little scowl as she crosses her arms is so adorable, I almost melt and tickle her.

When she gets like this, I sometimes let her stay home and sulk, but I can't today.

My meetings are too important.

"Well, I don't care. Shepherds just get a stick. Angels get wings." The pouting continues, complete with a lip pushed out for good measure even as I grab my house key and move toward the door.

"We'll be late, baby," I tell her gently, and she stands and stalks over to the coat tree where she grabs her jacket and wads it up under her arm.

We leave the apartment together and walk down the narrow stairwell that's a balmy temperature thanks to our older landlord who likes things warm.

The street outside bursts with noise.

Cars honk at each other over nothing.

Vendors set up their carts along the sidewalk and shout about fresh bread and vegetables.

And it's mild for this time of year too.

Normally, we need heavy jackets in November, but people are walking around in light shirts and slacks.

I take Sofia's hand and cross toward the bus stop where three other mothers already wait.

They chat among themselves, probably about holiday plans and school fundraisers.

I don’t join in the conversation because I like to keep to myself.

It helps me maintain some semblance of privacy when who knows how long my former boss might hunt me.

I did owe him a substantial debt when that man stepped in to help me.

Sofia points at the Christmas lights strung across the square in zigzag patterns.

They blink on and off in a rhythm that probably looked festive to whoever installed them.

But in the Mediterranean, they look out of place, not at all like other parts of the world where trees are coated in snow and twinkling lights.

Plus, in the dawn light, they're barely visible.

"Can we get one this year?" Sofia says, pointing at the large fir tree erected in the center of the square.

It makes me sad to have to tell her that yet again, we can't have one indoors like other normal families.

I can barely afford the food she eats.

Things like that are novelties I can't spend money on.

"We'll see," I tell her, my standard response to anything she asks for that I know we can't afford.

She sighs but doesn't push the issue.

She knows what that answer means.

She's learned to read between the lines faster than most kids her age.

The bus pulls up to the curb with a loud hiss of brakes and I kiss her forehead, but before she has a chance to even board the bus, a van pulls up so fast I barely register the movement.

The side door slides open before I can react.

Two men in black masks jump out and grab me.

I scream as loud as I can manage, but one of them clamps a gloved hand over my mouth, muffling the sound into nothing.

I bite down as hard as possible, tasting the sour leather.

He swears in Italian and jerks his hand back.

The other man grabs both my arms and twists them behind my back with enough force to make my shoulders burn.

I kick backward and connect with something solid.

He grunts but doesn't let go.

And then I realize one of them has Sofia.

"Oh God," I whine. "Help!" I try to scream, but again, a hand is over mine as hands haul me off the street toward the van, toward the direction they've taken my daughter.

Then something sharp stabs into the side of my neck.

The world tilts sideways.

My legs stop working.

Everything blurs at the edges and fades into gray static.

I try to fight it, but my body refuses to cooperate.

The last thing I see before everything goes dark are those stupid Christmas lights blinking above the street.

I wake up in the back of a moving van.

My wrists are locked in metal handcuffs that dig into my skin.

My head pounds like someone took a hammer to my skull.

I blink and try to sit up, but the movement sends my stomach rolling.

I taste metal in my mouth and then feel an ache on my tongue, like I've bitten myself.

Sofia sits next to me.

Her hands are bound with plastic zip ties.

Her face is streaked with tears that have dried into pale tracks on her dust-covered cheeks.

She shakes so hard I can see her whole body trembling even in the dim light coming through the van's back windows.

When she sees me awake, she starts crying again.

Fresh tears spill over and her breath comes in short gasps.

"Mama," she whispers hoarsely, and her voice cracks.

I try to shift closer, but everything hurts. "I'm here, Amore. It's okay. I'm right here."

It is not okay.

Nothing about this situation qualifies as okay.

But I can't let her see my panic.

I can't let her know that my heart is pounding against my ribs so hard it hurts to breathe.

That every fear I've had since the day I found out I was pregnant with her is come to be reality and I'm to blame for this.

They came for me, not her, but here she is.

One of the masked men sits across from us on a bench seat.

He leans back against the wall of the van and watches us like we are cargo he needs to deliver in acceptable condition.

The other man drives.

I can hear him on the phone up front, speaking in rapid Corsican that comes too fast for me to catch more than scattered words.

Something about a delivery.

Something about the schedule.

I know bits of Corsican, but as I've taught myself languages, it isn't one that I've focused on.

I'm angry with myself now for not preparing better.

I knew this day would come, when Antonelli Gerard would hunt me down and demand that I pay my debt.

That other man gave Gerard money, but he was never satisfied that he didn't get what he wanted. Me.

"Where are you taking us?" I ask.

My throat feels raw, my mouth pasty.

The man across from me tilts his head. He looks bored. "You'll find out soon enough."

"I don't have money. I don't have anything worth taking."

He laughs mockingly. "You're exactly who we came for, sweetheart. No mistake."

My chest tightens. "I don't understand. I haven't done anything."

"Maybe you haven't," he says. He leans forward slightly. "But you know someone who has. Debts come due eventually. They always do."

I stare at him.

My brain scrambles through possibilities, trying to make sense of what he's saying.

I've been careful for six years.

I changed my name from Angelica Russo to Angelica Moretti.

I stayed out of Rome completely.

I took jobs that paid cash when possible and kept everything else minimal.

Nobody should know where I am.

No one but Gerard should care enough to come looking.

And the only thing I can think is that I'm being hauled back to Rome to face him.

The one man who was never satisfied.

"Please," I say in a broken sob. "She's just a child. She hasn't done anything wrong. Let her go."

The man shrugs. "Not my decision to make. My boss gave me orders and I follow them."

Sofia buries her face against my side.

I kiss the top of her head and whisper reassurances I don't believe because what else can a terrified mother do for her scared child?

The van slows and then comes to a complete stop.

The engine cuts off and I hear voices outside, but I can't make out what they’re saying.

The door slides open and cold air rushes in, cutting through the stale warmth inside.

One of the men grabs my arm and hauls me out onto pavement.

I stumble and nearly fall, but he keeps me upright.

Sofia gets dragged out next to me, albeit a bit more gently.

She grabs my hand with both of hers and holds on so tight it starts to cut off circulation to my fingers.

We stand in front of a villa that looks like it belongs in a magazine.

The gates rise twelve feet high and are made of wrought iron worked into intricate patterns.

The walls surrounding the property are solid stone topped with security cameras mounted every few meters.

Guards stand on either side of the entrance wearing dark suits with guns holstered at their hips.

The driveway stretches ahead of us, lined with golden lights that reflect off the pale stucco exterior of the main house.

One of the guards speaks into a radio clipped to his collar.

His eyes sweep over me and Sofia without any trace of emotion or curiosity.

He nods at whatever response comes through his earpiece as his hand moves to rest on his weapon.

The gates begin to swing open and I pull Sofia closer to my side.

My heart slams against my ribs so hard, I think it might crack through bone.

I know with absolute certainty that I should've run farther.

I should've left Italy completely.

I should've disappeared so thoroughly that no one could ever find us.

Because I don’t like the feeling I'm getting in the pit of my stomach.

I didn't run far enough.