3rd person POV
Snow dusted the hills of northern Italy like icing sugar on a cake. The De Luca estate stood tall against the soft white landscape, like something out of a movie—stone walls, wrought-iron balconies, and twinkling fairy lights that made the whole place glow. The air smelled of roasted chestnuts and pinewood. The fire crackled. And Emery was completely overwhelmed.
Luciano held her hand tightly as they stepped through the massive front doors into a warm, golden-lit hallway. His thumb ran gently over her knuckles as his mother appeared again in a blur of excited Italian and cinnamon-scented hugs.
"Benvenuta, amore!" she cried, kissing both of Emery's cheeks. "You look like a snowflake, so delicate! Luciano, keep her warm! She'll freeze in these mountains!"
"I'm working on it," he muttered, wrapping an arm around Emery's shoulders and pulling her closer.
And he did keep her warm. All the time. Whether it was a possessive hand on her waist during dinner, pulling her into his lap by the fire, or lacing their fingers together while watching the snowfall—Luciano never let her drift too far.
She loved it.
More than she was ready to admit out loud.
Christmas Eve at the De Luca estate was nothing like the quiet foster home holidays Emery had grown up with. There were no frozen pizzas or DVDs on repeat. No last-minute gift bags or awkward foster siblings.
Instead, there was laughter. Family. Food—so much food.
Luciano's mama cooked for hours while his aunts danced around the kitchen singing loud Italian carols, and his uncles shouted about football in the other room.
Someone handed Emery a glass of red wine and a Santa hat.
She blinked. "What's happening?"
Luciano leaned into her ear, voice low and warm. "You're being initiated. You're one of us now."
"One of what, exactly?"
He pulled her into his lap on the plush velvet armchair and whispered against her cheek, "A De Luca."
Her heart practically stopped.
"Luciano..."
He looked down at her with a softness she still wasn't used to, like she was the safest thing he'd ever touched.
"I mean it."
She kissed him.
Right there.
In front of the whole room.
His family hollered and clapped.
Luciano just smiled into the kiss.
Later that night, the two of them slipped away into the garden, wrapped in matching scarves and holding hands like they'd done it for years.
"Do you always sneak away like this?" she teased.
"Only with people I want to keep to myself."
The moonlight cast silver shadows across the snow. The lights from the house glowed softly behind them.
He pulled her close, burying his face in the crook of her neck. "You smell like my mama's cookies."
"You say that like it's a compliment."
"It is." He kissed the underside of her jaw. "You smell like home."
She froze.
Then wrapped her arms around him tightly.
Because that—that—was the first time someone had ever said she smelled like home. Not like passing-through or temporary or borrowed time.
Home.
Her eyes burned a little.
"You're ruining me," she whispered.
He tilted her chin up, kissed her gently. "You ruined me first."
That night, curled up in the massive four-poster bed of the guest room, Emery lay nestled into Luciano's bare chest, fingers trailing across his skin.
She felt... full.
Not just from the endless pasta, but from being loved in a way she'd never known before.
"I have something for you," he murmured, pulling a small box from the nightstand.
"You already gave me Italy."
He smiled, opened the box, and revealed a delicate silver bracelet with a tiny locket.
Inside, a photo of the two of them from a week ago—her laughing, and him staring at her like she hung the stars.
"You took that photo?"
"Lorenzo did. I bribed him with cigars."
She giggled, slipped the bracelet on, and pressed a kiss to his heart.
"I didn't get you anything," she said quietly. "I didn't know what to give a Mafia heir who brings girls to Italy and spoils them like a literal prince."
He rolled over, caging her beneath him, expression suddenly serious.
"You gave me everything I didn't know I needed," he said. "That's more than enough."
Her breath caught.
He kissed her—slow and deep, like the snowfall outside—and held her that way for hours, like he couldn't get enough of her warmth.
The next morning was chaos.
Screaming kids. Torn wrapping paper. The smell of espresso and Nutella pancakes.
Luciano's father pulled him aside. His voice low, serious.
Emery didn't hear what was said, but she saw Luciano's posture shift. Stiffen.
He didn't smile for a long minute after that.
Later, when they were alone in the old study, she asked, "What did he say?"
Luciano leaned against the fireplace, jaw tight.
"Someone's asking questions back home," he said. "About you. About me. My father's worried I'm making myself vulnerable."
She stood up, walked over, and placed a hand on his chest.
"I don't need to be protected from you, Luciano."
"I know. But I might need to protect you from the people who don't want me happy."
"Then we'll be careful. Together."
He looked at her like he might break. Then pulled her in for a kiss so fierce it made her knees go weak.
"You're mine," he whispered. "And I'll burn the world before I lose you."
"Not very Christmas of you," she said, trying to lighten the moment.
He cracked a smile. "Well, you did fall for a De Luca."
That evening, they lay together on the family room floor after dinner, tucked under a blanket while a cheesy Italian rom-com played in the background.
Luciano's head rested in her lap, his eyes half-lidded with sleep and wine.
Her fingers brushed his hair gently.
"I used to hate Christmas," she said softly. "I used to pretend it was just another day."
He looked up at her, lashes long, expression unreadable.
"And now?"
She smiled.
"Now I wish it would never end."
He reached up and traced her cheek with a knuckle. "Next year, we do this again."
"You'll bring me here again?"
"Every year," he promised. "Until you're sick of my mama and our twenty types of pasta."
"Never happening."
"You'll marry me one day, Emery Stone."
She froze.
Her heart skipped.
And he smirked.
"I'm serious."
Her lips parted.
He leaned up, pressed a kiss to the tip of her nose, and said, "But no pressure. We're doing this at your pace, remember?"
She smiled, pulling him back down. "You're a menace."
"But your menace."
"Always."
They fell asleep on the floor that night, wrapped in each other like a ribbon around a gift.
And for the first time in her life, Emery believed that forever might actually exist—for girls like her.