I brush a kiss to her temple before slipping from the room.
Downstairs, the foyer looks like a shipping depot.
Romeo stands beside the front door, arms crossed. Enzo is arguing with a shipping label. Marco’s kneeling by a fragile box labeled Twinkling Ivy Co.Handle With Care.There’s a clear trail of snow across my marble floors.
“I thought it was four boxes,” I say as I step into the chaos.
Romeo shrugs. “These were all the ones with her name on it.”
Marco glances up, clutching a crushed wreath with the expression of a man who’s seen combat. “This one died bravely.”
“She said she wanted velvet ribbon!” Enzo calls out, dragging a bin the size of a toddler. “This is a ribbon library, Santo.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and exhale slowly. “Let me see the damage to the wreath.”
Marco holds it up like he’s presenting evidence at a crime scene. One side is completely flattened, gold baubles hanging precariously by threads.
“It got crushed under the garland boxes,” he explains, looking genuinely distressed. “I tried to reshape it, but...”
“It’s fine,” I assure him, taking the mangled wreath. “Just put everything in the living room.”
“All of it?” Enzo asks, eyeing the mountain of packages.
“Yes. And quietly. My wife is sleeping.”
“Uh, Boss,” Romeo says hesitantly, “should we wake Mrs. Amato to ask where she wants everything?”
“Absolutely not,” I reply, my voice firm. “She’s finally asleep. We’re doing this ourselves.”
The three men exchange glances that speak volumes.
“What?” I demand.
Enzo clears his throat. “With all due respect, Santo... none of us know how to...decorate.At all.”
I stare at them. Three of the most dangerous men on the Cosa Nostra payroll, looking utterly defeated by the prospect of hanging garland.
“I don’t either,” I admit. “That’s why I have Luna coming.”
The door opens and sure enough Nico enters, coat dusted with snow, taking in the chaos.
Luna follows behind him like a winter breeze, long coat, snowflakes in her dark hair, expression alert and curious.
I nod toward her. “Thank you for coming.”
Luna lifts a brow. “He said you needed help making something look like Vasilisa. You mean the tree?”
“I mean all of it.” I gesture at the mountain of boxes. “She had a vision. You know her holiday taste best. You’ll know how to make it look the way she dreamed.”
Luna smiles softly, already moving toward the nearest bin. “Leave it to me.”
Her gaze sweeps over the mangled wreath in my hands, then to the faces of my men who look like they’ve been assigned to defuse bombs rather than hang decorations.
“Where’s Vasilisa?” she asks, already shrugging off her coat.
“Asleep. Finally.” I hand the crushed wreath to Luna. “Can you fix this?”
She examines it critically, turning it in her hands. “Maybe. But why am I here at ten o’clock at night to decorate your house?”
