A Very Marcello Christmas Page 2

  “It’s not lies.”

  “Cecelia.”

  “I’m Catholic. I don’t know how to lie.” Sort of, she added silently. “The nuns beat that out of you in Catholic schools.”

  “The nuns were the worst.”

  “See, you agree. Now about this party …”

  Antony chuckled under his breath, and shook his head. “Okay, then let the girls plan, but I mean actually let them plan, Cecelia. No stepping in. No making demands. No traditional if they want modern. No ordering them to cook every last dish when it’s already this late in the month, and it would just be easier to get a caterer.”

  “Oh, my God, a caterer?”

  “And there’s your no,” Antony said.

  Cecelia pressed her lips together tightly before forcing herself to say, “Okay, a caterer.”

  “Stop saying it like that.”

  “Like what, Antony?”

  “Like it makes you want to scream.”

  “But it does!”

  “Maybe they will cook. I didn’t say they wouldn’t. I said you needed to let them decide, should they agree to plan it.”

  This was going to be harder than Cecelia first thought.

  “I know the girls can throw a good party,” she said after a long moment.

  Antony smiled. “Then allow them to do that.”

  “Fine.”

  “And stop making it sound like you’re about to walk through hell for some eggnog.”

  Cecelia stood from the seat at her vanity, and turned to her husband. “You could … indulge me, Antony. Let me meddle a little.”

  “No.”

  “Antony.”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “No.”

  “You are impossible!”

  “Says you,” Antony shot back. “Now get in bed, donna.”

  Cecelia slipped under the covers just as Antony turned to shove the magazine into his nightstand. She expected him to roll back over empty-handed. Instead, he held a bright red folder. Wordlessly, he held it out for her to take.

  She hesitated.

  “What is it?”

  “Something special,” he told her.

  “A gift?”

  “A big gift.”

  “For …?”

  “Christmas,” Antony said, grinning, “now open it.”

  Cecelia plucked the folder from his hands with her own smile. “You couldn’t wait for Christmas?”

  “That would defeat the purpose.”

  “Of what?”

  “Well, open it.”

  Cecelia enjoyed teasing her husband when she actually got the chance to, and that wasn’t very often. Usually, it was him pulling tricks on her. She set the folder on top of the covers over her legs, and drummed her fingernails to the bright red top.

  “You didn’t spend very much time wrapping it, huh?”

  “Cecelia.”

  “What?”

  “Open that damn folder,” Antony muttered.

  “Gosh, you’re so impatient.”

  “Someone’s certainly testing my patience tonight.”

  She smiled sweetly. “Yes, but you like it.”

  “Would you open that folder?”

  Deciding she had teased Antony enough, she quickly flipped open the top of the folder, and peered at the contents inside. Papers, it seemed. Documents of some kind. Cecelia picked up what looked to be a deed, and a small geo-map right underneath.

  “What is this for?” she asked.

  “Read it.”

  She did.

  “An island?”

  “A private island,” Antony said.

  “In the Caribbean.”

  “Yep.”

  There were a couple of photographs, too. A quaint, tri-level cottage with huge windows covering the front wall and a massive wrap-around porch sat in the middle of the island. It seemed the place was fitted with generators to maintain its own power supply, and boats to travel back and forth to the mainland. It was beautiful.

  “Did you seriously buy me an island?”

  “Depends on how you feel about it,” Antony replied.

  “Well …”

  “Oh, and you need a way to get there, right?”

  Cecelia glanced over at him.

  Antony simply handed over a set of keys.

  “What is this for?”

  “A sixty-foot luxury yacht I decided to call Beauty.”

  “Antony …”

  “Too much?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, “but not for you.”

  Without warning, Cecelia found herself pulled into her husband’s lap. He kissed her mouth once, then twice, and grinned against her lips.

  “So, this was probably why you didn’t want me focusing on getting everybody together, right?”

  Antony shrugged. “I would really like to try that island out.”

  Cecelia held his gaze as she stretched over his form. “You better play one hell of a Santa, Antony Marcello.”

  “Already working on it, Tesoro.”

  She had no doubt.

  Lucian & Jordyn

  December 5th

  “John,” Jordyn said, hitting her oldest child’s door with a closed fist, “it’s time to get up for school, come on.”

  Only grumbles answered her back. She checked the doorknob, but already knew what she would find. It was locked, effectively keeping her out.

  “Christ, Lucian, you just had to give him a damn lock.”

  As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Jordyn regretted them. Mostly, because her husband wasn’t actually there for her to say them to. Lucian was still serving out his sentence, with another three months to go.

  God, she missed him.

  Every day.

  Every night.

  First thing on her mind in the morning, and the last at night.

  Next to their three kids, of course.

  Speaking of kids …

  “John, get up!”

  Jordyn banged a little harder.

  Still, she didn’t hear the telltale sounds of her son. If at his age, John was already giving his parents hell, she could only imagine what it was going to be like in a few short years when he was a teenager. Her son was all kinds of difficult.

  God save their souls.

  She loved John.

  Adored him.

  She could still admit that out of their kids, he was the most difficult.

  Putting it mildly.

  The phone started ringing, making Jordyn cuss under her breath. They were already running late for school as it was, and she had two other kids to get out of bed and dressed. Liliana for kindergarten, and Cella, for pre-school.

  This was not going well.

  “John, two minutes and you better be up!”

  That was the last warning she was giving her son before she broke his damn door down. Momma didn’t play. Not when Dad wasn’t around to help her keep their son in line.

  The girls on the other hand?

  They were far easier.

  Jordyn darted down the hall to the master bedroom in order to catch the ringing phone before it sent the call to voicemail. There were very few people who would call their home this early, and the ones that would, she would answer. Their calls were important.

  Family was always important. All her years with the Marcellos—as a Marcello—had taught her that lesson.

  “Cella, Liliana, time to get up!” Jordyn shouted as she passed their rooms. “Right now, girls, up!”

  She didn’t wait to hear if her girls answered her back. Sliding into the master bedroom, Jordyn snatched the cordless phone off the hook on the fourth ring, thankfully.

  “Hello?” she asked, out of breath.

  “Hey, bella.”

  Instantly, all the worries Jordyn felt slipped out the window just like that. She no longer cared that she was thirty minutes behind. She didn’t mind that her son was being extra difficult likely because he missed his father. She didn’t give a shit tha
t she needed to clean the bathrooms, change everybody’s sheets, and make it into the art gallery to set up for a showing.

  Not one single bit of that mattered.

  Not when she heard Lucian’s voice.

  “How’s your morning going?” her husband asked.

  “Better now.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s always better when you call, Lucian.”

  She could hear his smile when he murmured, “Same, amore.”

  “You got your call earlier today, huh?”

  “Figured I might as well take it. I didn’t enjoy talking to the voicemail yesterday. It’s not as good as talking to you.”

  “Agreed,” Jordyn said, sitting down on the edge of their bed. “Something came up at Cella’s pre-school. She swallowed her drink down the wrong hole, coughed her guts out, and then puked all over the place.”

  “She’s not actually sick, though, right?”

  “No, it’s just their stupid policies. The second a kid gets sick, they send them home. I ran out to pick her up when you called. Sorry, Lucian.”

  “It’s all right. She up right now?”

  Jordyn listened for their daughters. The tiny pattering of feet in the hallway said that yes, they were awake and moving around, but not yet ready to make their way into their parents’ bedroom.

  “Just got up,” she said. “Just a sec, Lucian.”

  Pulling the phone away, she put her hand over the receiver and shouted for the girls to come see her when they were done.

  “Kay, Ma!” Liliana called back.

  Jordyn fell back on their bed as she put the phone to her ear once more. She hated how cold and empty it was without him. She couldn’t wait until he was back home with her and their children. Stupid circumstances and charges that he couldn’t escape took him away from them. It killed her, but she said nothing. She didn’t blame Lucian, though she probably could. He would likely take it, too.

  Truth was, Jordyn understood their life. She knew exactly what she signed up for when she married her husband. Their life and freedom was not guaranteed. Her husband, his brothers, and the rest of their family were all criminals. Sometimes, jail and prison were likely scenarios. Her fear walked hand in hand with her respect.

  It was what it was.

  She would not fault Lucian for choices she made.

  And she loved him.

  Oh, she loved him.

  “How’s my boy doing this week?” Lucian asked.

  Jordyn scoffed under her breath. “Same.”

  That was a lie.

  John was worse than last week.

  She didn’t want Lucian to worry.

  “He up?”

  “In the shower,” she lied.

  He had far better things to mull over while in jail other than their son’s concerning behavior. They would deal with it together when Lucian was out.

  “Here come the girls,” Jordyn said as a stampede of footsteps echoed down the hall.

  Jordyn barely got the words out of her mouth before the girls barreled into the bedroom. They saw their mother on the phone, she hit the speaker button, and their squeals lit up the whole place.

  Especially when Lucian said, “Mia principessas!”

  “Daddy!”

  “Dad-day!”

  Liliana and Cella clambered onto the bed. The eldest snatched the phone from her mother, while the youngest crawled up Jordyn’s back.

  “Hi, Daddy,” Liliana said. “Santa’s coming in twenty days!”

  “Is he?” Lucian asked.

  “Santa!” their three-year-old mocked.

  “I wrote my letter to him yesterday at school,” Liliana said seriously.

  “What did you ask for, ragazza?”

  Liliana started listing off the lengthy list that she had brought home to Jordyn the day before covered in markers, sparkles, and Santa stickers. A dollhouse. Those ugly, big-headed dolls with the crazy hair. Some kind of animal that came out of an egg. Clothes. Shoes.

  And then, “And you, Daddy.”

  Jordyn stilled as her gaze darted to her eldest daughter. Lucian quieted on the phone.

  “Santa will bring you home, won’t he?” Liliana asked.

  Lucian blew out a soft breath. “I don’t know, Lily. We’re … I’m awfully far away, sweetheart, and Santa has so many other kids to deliver presents to. Plus, we’re very lucky, remember? Not like some other people, who are not as lucky, and don’t get as many presents as you do. So, maybe this year, we’ll go easy on Santa and not expect as much. So, then he has more time for those who are not as lucky.”

  Liliana frowned, and Jordyn swore she saw tears well in her daughter’s eyes, but softly, she said, “Okay, Daddy.”

  “Dad-day!” Cella mocked.

  Lucian chuckled. “Okay, give the phone back to, Ma, girls.”

  Without question, Liliana handed the phone back.

  “Go get your clothes on,” Jordyn told her. “I’ll be down to get breakfast ready in a minute.”

  Liliana went, but Cella stayed behind. Jordyn didn’t mind. She tucked her littlest toddler under her arm, and headed out of the bedroom as she stuck the phone between her ear and shoulder.

  “Okay, that was a little sad,” Jordyn muttered into the phone.

  “A little, yeah. Sorry, bella.”

  “Not your fault.”

  “Kind of.”

  “Let’s not do that, Lucian.”

  “Hey, that’s Dad?”

  Jordyn spun on her heels to see her son had finally come out of his room.

  Thank God.

  John, in all his hazel-eyed, messy-haired glory, stood in the hallway looking like getting out of bed was the last thing he wanted to do. God, he looked like his father. All over. From head to toe. He was already too tall, and getting taller. Already handsome, and puberty hadn’t even stepped in to fill him out and roughen him up.

  “It is. Do you want to talk to him?” Jordyn asked.

  “I only have five more minutes, Jordyn.”

  That was fine.

  More than fine.

  A chat with Lucian would do John wonders.

  “It’s all right,” she told her husband. “We have tomorrow.”

  “All right. Give me to my boy.”

  She handed the phone over to John, and then he darted back into the safe darkness of his bedroom. Over her shoulder, she called, “Make sure you’re dressed before you hang up that phone, John.”

  “Got it, Ma.”

  Yep.

  Already better.

  December 6th

  Jail was a cold slice of hell, Lucian thought. He was a man who cherished his freedom, and jail took it away without a care. A man did not realize how good he had things on the outside, where he could choose his own bedtime, decide what he wanted for meals, and eat when he wanted to. No one understood what it was like to be refused the outdoors and fresh air except for one shitty hour a day.

  Never mind the fact he hadn’t had a good fuck with his wife for … Jesus, months.

  Yeah, jail was a special kind of hell.

  The only thing that made it even remotely bearable were the visits he got from his family throughout the week. Lucian was grateful for those as they kept him looking forward to the next damn day instead of simply staring at a wall.

  It was a good thing he hadn’t been put in a prison to serve out his sentence because he wouldn’t get as many visits as he did. Honestly, he wasn’t sure that he would want his two youngest children—Liliana and Cella—visiting a prison to see him, either. At least with a jail, it was slightly less intimidating.

  Prisons, not so much.

  “Quiet day,” Dante noted.

  Lucian rested back in the hard metal chair with a nod. “Seems like it.”

  “Kind of strange for it being this close to Christmas.”

  “If I was some of these guys’ families, I can’t say that I would want to come and visit them, either.”

  Dante smirked. “I see.”

 
“Is what it is, brother.”

  “Jordyn been down this week?”

  “She’s supposed to come on Friday,” Lucian said with a shrug, “and bring the girls.”

  “Not John?”

  “Last week, it seemed like he didn’t want to come. Maybe by Friday his mind will have changed. It’s hard to say with that kid. He’s up and he’s down.”

  “All over the place, really,” Dante said.

  Lucian nodded. “I did talk to him yesterday. He actually said he missed me. I think this is a big part of his problem.”

  With those words, Lucian lifted his cuffed hands to the metal table. Dante’s gaze dropped to the shiny metal tight to his brother’s wrists, and frowned. Getting your ass locked up as a Cosa Nostra man, was always a possibility. A shitty byproduct of their life. That didn’t mean they actually wanted to get locked up.

  Staying out of jail was always the end-goal.

  Still, Lucian saw a flash of something he didn’t like to see in his younger brother’s eyes. Between the visits with Dante, and the once a week trip Giovanni made to the jail to say hello, it could be taxing.

  Dio.

  He loved his brothers.

  Always would.

  Family first.

  God second.

  But their constant guilt over his current predicament was … tiring. Nobody but Lucian had the illegal gun the day he was pulled over. Given his previous charges and arrests, not to mention his last name and affiliations, the sentence he got was a good sentence.

  A light sentence, even.

  “You know, I got myself here, right?”

  Dante shot his brother a smile. “Sure.”

  “You also know that you and Giovanni worked some real magic to get my sentence reduced by over seventy-five percent, right?”

  A sigh echoed.

  “Yeah,” Dante said gruffly.

  “Then let’s just leave it be.”

  “I can try, but given certain things that are happening, I can’t entirely be happy that we didn’t get you on a suspended sentence, or some kind of shitty probation. Anything, you know?”

  Lucian glanced at his brother. “What the hell do you mean?”

  “Pardon?”

  “What’s happening that I don’t know about?”

  Dante straightened a bit in his seat, and glanced away. Lucian knew that look on his brother—he knew it damn well. That posture, that hard stare at nothing at all, meant Dante had absolutely zero plans of answering Lucian’s questions.