“Yes. To all of it, yes.” She clutches the rose and key as though they’re precious. “And Alessandro? I have something for you too.”
“You do?”
“Well, not here. But—” She bites her lip. “Tomorrow is Christmas. And I may have made something for you before everything went to hell. It’s at my apartment above the shop.”
“Can it wait until tomorrow?”
“It should. Christmas gifts are meant for Christmas.” Her smile turns impish. “Besides, the anticipation will be good for you.”
“Anticipation is overrated.”
“Says the man who just spent three hours edging me.”
The laugh that escapes is startled. “Fair point.”
She settles back into my arms, and the comfortable silence that follows is broken only by her steady breathing and the distant sounds of suburbia.
Tomorrow will bring Christmas morning in the penthouse, provided Marco arranges for her shop apartment to be cleared. Tonight, in this safe house, wrapped around each other while the world continues its violent spin, happiness feels almost possible.
Almost.
Because men like me don’t get happy endings. Don’t get white picket fences and quiet retirements. We get prison or death, and if lucky, I get to choose which.
But maybe men like me get stolen moments. Get Christmas mornings with women who choose us despite everything. Get to hold them close and pretend, just for a while, that love can triumph over violence.
Christmas morning breaks clear and cold over Seattle. The penthouse sparkles with lights Marco’s people installed overnight, a tree in the corner, garlands across the windows, stockings hung with care because apparently my second-in-command is secretly a romantic.
Elena stands at the window in one of my shirts, coffee in hand, watching the sunrise paint the city gold. She’s been quiet since waking, thoughtful in a way that makes me nervous.
“Everything okay?”
“Perfect.” She turns, and the smile she gives me is soft, genuine. “I was just thinking, a month ago, I was alone in my apartment, drinking terrible coffee and wondering if I’d ever find someone who understood me. And now,” She gestures at the penthouse, at me, at everything. “Now I have all this.”
“Careful. That almost sounds like happiness.”
“Maybe it is.” She sets down her coffee and crosses to her bag, pulling out a small wrapped package. “Merry Christmas, Alessandro.”
The package is surprisingly light, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a ribbon that’s definitely from her shop. Inside is a leather journal, handmade by the look of it, with my initials embossed on the cover in gold. The pages are thick, expensive, the kind meant for important things.
“Open it,” she says softly.
The first page holds her handwriting which is elegant, with flowing script that must have taken hours.
For Alessandro,
Because monsters need someone to remember they’re human. Because shadows need light to exist. Because every terrible thing you’ve done to protect what you love deserves to be balanced by something beautiful.
Write in this. Your thoughts, your fears, your hopes. The things you can’t say out loud. Let it be a place where The Shadow can rest and Alessandro can breathe.
All my love, Elena
The subsequent pages are blank, waiting to be filled. But tucked between them are pressed flowers—white amaryllis, the same kind from the first arrangement made for my mother. Small reminders of light in a book meant to hold darkness.
“You made this.” The words come out rough.
“The week before everything went to hell. I thought—” She swallows hard. “I thought maybe you needed a place that was just yours. Where you didn’t have to be The Shadow or the boss or anything except yourself.” Her hand covers mine. “You carry so much, Alessandro. Sometimes you need to put it down. Even if it’s only on paper.”
The gesture is so thoughtful, so perfectly her, that speaking becomes difficult. “It’s perfect. Thank you, tesoro.”
