“Salute!” roars the table in unison, glasses clinking in a chaotic crash of crystal.
Everyone drinks deeply, then dives back into the feast with a renewed enthusiasm. The conversations resume at full volume, plates are passed, wine is spilled and mopped up with a little good-natured cursing, and the Christmas Eve celebration continues its cheerful descent into controlled chaos.
Hours later, after the last mussel has been consumed and enough wine has flowed to float a small battleship, we move to the dessert phase. Platters of struffoli dripping with honey, crisp pizzelle, rich cannoli, and my mother’s famous panettone appear as if conjured by Christmas magic.
“I can’t eat another bite,” I groan, even as I reach for another cannoli.
“That’s what you said after the fifth fish course,” Cooper points out, helping himself to a slice of panettone.
“It’s different,” I explain through a mouthful of sweet ricotta. “There’s a separate stomach for dessert. It’s science.”
After dessert come the presents—a free-for-all that resembles a contact sport more than it ever does a gift exchange. Paper flies, ribbons are weaponized, and Watson prances around collecting discarded bows on his collar until he resembles a canine Christmas decoration.
In the festive mayhem, I spot Uncle Jimmy slipping away toward the kitchen.
Perfect timing.
“Be right back,” I tell Cooper, who’s busy examining a hand-knitted sweater from my mother with admirable enthusiasm considering it features a portrait of Watson wearing a Santa hat.
I follow Uncle Jimmy into the kitchen, catching him as he’s refilling his wine glass once again.
“Hey, Uncle Jimmy,” I say with a sweet wave before my mood takes an abrupt U-turn. “Quick question—why in the world would you want Loretta Spaghetti on my hit list?”
He takes a leisurely sip of wine before answering. “I knew you wouldn’t pull the trigger, and I figured this might put me on her radar.” He shrugs with the confidence of a man who’s never questioned his own brilliance. “I think she’s cute.”
I suck in a quick breath.
My uncle, the notorious crime boss with a body count higher than my credit score, has a crush on Cooper’s sister? It’s like discovering Darth Vader has a thing for Princess Leia, except creepier and with more hair product involved.
“You put a hit out... as a flirting technique?”
“It worked, didn’t it?” He nods toward the doorway where Loretta has appeared, as if summoned by some cosmic force or possibly the scent of criminality mixed with cologne. And money. Lots and lots of money.
“Jimmy,” she purrs, sauntering into the kitchen in a dress so tight it defies both physics and good taste. “There you are. I was looking for something—strong.” The way she says “strong” makes it clear she’s not talking about the liquor selection.
“I can help with that,” Uncle Jimmy responds with a smirk that makes me want to douse my eyes with hand sanitizer.
Loretta giggles like a teenager discovering boy bands for the first time, and before I can process what’s happening, they’re retreating to a dark corner. And just like that, her hands are already wandering toward places that will give me nightmares until next Christmas.
“I guess Christmas really is a time for miracles,” I muse to myself, watching the most unlikely couple since Beauty and the Beast—except in this case, both parties are arguably beasts.
Cooper’s arms wrap around me from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder. “What’s the miracle?” he asks.
“Oh, that our families have exchanged gifts instead of bullets,” I reply, choosing to leave Loretta’s latest conquest out of the equation for now—and in perpetuity if I can help it. Some images are too disturbing to share, even with someone who investigates homicides for a living.
“Speaking of exchanging things,” Cooper murmurs, his voice dropping to a register that sends pleasant shivers down my spine. “Want to head back to your place and unwrap a few more gifts?”
“Is that a euphemism, Detective Knox?” I ask, casually strolling him back into the living room lest a homicide get in the way of that good time I think he just promised.
“That depends,” he replies as a smile curves on his lips. “Is it working?”
“Let me think,” I tap my temple as I pretend to ponder. “Leave this circus of food, family, and potential felonies to be alone with you? I think I can be persuaded.”
We say our goodbyes, collect Watson from beneath the tree where he’s drowsily guarding his new bone, and slip out into the cold December night.
The sky above is clear and the stars glitter like diamonds against black velvet. Snow crunches beneath our feet as we make our way to Cooper’s truck with Watson prancing ahead and leaving paw prints that look like nature’s Christmas decorations—and maybe a trail of yellow snow.
Cooper pulls me close before we reach the vehicle and our breath forms little cute clouds in the frosty air.
