Page 21 of Christmas Mafia Prince
I balk at the words, and drink from my glass in a way that shows off both my rings, but I let Damen handle this however he likes. I can be calm and composed. I don’t need to always yell and swear at people. This is fine.
Damen, who took the vacant place at my side, grabs a red-and-golden napkin arranged into a pyramid in the middle of his plate, and places it in his lap. I follow his lead as he speaks.
“Would you question the validity of my marriage if I brought a woman? Our relationship is very real, and we will stay, enjoying the same privileges all other members of this family enjoy.”
A sturdy man with a snow-white handlebar moustache clears his throat. He looks like a deluxe version of a stereotypicalTexan, which makes me identify him as Damen’s uncle, Roger Van der Horn. He taps his fingers on the table and eyes his older brother. “You’ve lost control over your son. You know what this would mean. There is no divorce in this family,” he says and pins me to the seat with bright blue eyes.
I can’t drink fast enough.
“Shut the hell up,” Damen’s father hisses and glares at my man. “There’s rules we all follow. Without them, everything will fall apart. We should have been introduced before you brought him here. We should have blessed your union, yet here you are, spitting in our faces!”
“Exactly!” Titus pipes up. “We’re supposed to accept this abomination as fact? That this is our family now? You couldn’t even tell him about the dress code?”
I stiffen and glance at Damen. He was the one to buy everything I’m wearing, from the ripped jeans, to the new ring in my nose. I don’t have a problem with standing out, and he probably did approve of it all to piss off his parents, but I am a little confused. Maybe because I keep forgetting that despite us fucking, I’m just afakehusband. A stand-in for some man he chooses in the future when the dust settles after these explosive holidays. The Van der Horns might not believe in divorce, but we’re not actually wed.
Damen strokes my nape and gives me a reassuring smile. So handsome, so warm. But when he turns to his brother, it’s like seeing a different person. This is the man who abducted me from a New York alleyway to his private jet. “There is no dress code.”
His father glares at him. “It’s implied!”
Damen laughs. “Really? Because none of you had any issue with Aspen spending all of Christmas in a onesie last year.”
A woman I can't pinpoint as anyone Damen told me about hides a smile behind a napkin. She sits next to Uncle Roger,she's blonde, thin, polished, and almost like a younger, more approachable copy of Bree.
Juliana sighs and pokes the peas on her plate with the fork. “We did have his clothes photoshopped, so he at least looks half-decent in the pictures for the family album. Besides, I’m sure we can find some clothes to fit him,” she adds, casting brief glances at her husband, as if she were fishing for his reaction. Damen told me his parents hate each other and only meet on special family occasions, so I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s taking our side to piss off her spouse.
Damen, however, pulls me close and weaves his fingers into the hair at the back of my head. “I happen to like him exactly as he is, so his things aren’t going anywhere, not even a single stud. And if you try to sabotage our luggage, you can say goodbye to your wardrobe of designer dresses.”
I pick up the bottle of whisky, because this conversation calls for something stronger than wine.
Titus’s eyes bulge in a way I find a little concerning. “Did you just threaten our mother?” he yells.
Juliana shakes her head with a deep, long-suffering inhale. “It’s fine, Titus, of course Damen would think the worst of me…”
The buzz of alcohol is helping me find my voice. “I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it. He just knows I express myself a lot with my clothes—”
The dad raises his arms in the air. “Oh look! It speaks. I didn’t even get an introduction.”
Oh now he’s just pissing me off. He might be some big shot mafioso, but Damen’s proximity gives me (probably unreasonable) confidence. “It’s Killian,” I say and take a big a gulp of whisky. I don’t know what point I’m trying to make with this display, but the expensive booze I didn’t have to pay for tastes fucking good.
“Well, Killian, I’m Karl, Damen’s father and the owner of this fine home, so please, enjoy the drinks, help yourself to the food while your very presence insults me. But since I don’t have a say in the matter and you’re staying, please, do give me your breakfast order too. Gluten-free? Vegan? We will make something especially for you.”
Why do I sense a sinister undertone buried under the open hostility?
I’m frozen in indecision, but Damen comes to my aid and presses a kiss to my cheekbone. “Sounds perfect. My husband and I share everything, even the meals we eat.”
Is that passive-aggressive speak fordon’t poison my husband?
No? Yes?
I refill my glass and taste the impossibly smooth whisky.
If I end up dying, it might have been worth it. Maybe.
Juliana gives a shrill laugh. “Maybe it’s just a matter of us still being unfamiliar. Killian, would you like to join Bree and me for some morning yoga before breakfast?”
Titus huffs. “My wife won’t—”
He falls silent when the statuesque presence at his side wipes her lips with a napkin and glances at her mother-in-law. “The yoga class is a female-only space.”
