Page 19 of Christmas Mafia Prince
Damen squeezes my shoulder, speaking in a clipped, spiky tone. “If you offend my husband again, I will hire someone to cut Bree’s hair. I swear to God, I will do it.”
Titus blinks, taken aback. “You wouldn’t dare!”
“You know I would.”
Titus kicks one of the lights mounted around the helipad with such ferocity it pops out of its mount and dies. “You’re a disgrace to this family!”
“You didn’t say that when I cleaned up the job you botched in the spring,” Damen says, putting himself between me and Titus as we pass the man who’s now so red-faced I expect the snow will soon start melting around him.
The only reason I’m not that worried is Damen’s presence, because otherwise, Titus is a grenade about to blow. Since I don’t know him, and I misjudged Damen when I first met him, I’d rather stay on the safe side. I’ve already said too much to him. Deescalating is one of the many things I’m shit at.
“Is that your dad?” I whisper with my heart in my throat when a man appears on the front steps of the mansion some distance away.
“Oh no, that’s Colin, our butler. He’ll take our luggage,” Damen says and leads me down a cleared path toward the massive… palace. Everything looks much smaller from up in the air, but now that we’re approaching his home on foot, I’m floored by the sight before me.
The building that could have played the role of Batman’s family estate has steeply pitched roofs, three towers, as well as smaller turrets (so many turrets), and fanciful ornamentation revealed by the light twinkling in tall windows and Christmas lights draped over a huge fir growing out of a patch of ground in the middle of the driveway at the front of the building.
I almost walk into my man when we pass a hedge shaped like a rearing stag. I don’t even hear Titus’s complaining, overwhelmed by the sheer size of the manor we’re headed for. It’s like being punched in the face by a Christmas card.
When Damen offered me a winter getaway, I expected we’d be staying in a large house, but this place is so much more than that. I feel like I’m trespassing in a giant snow globe, a single crow among the glittering snowflakes. What’s next? A choir of ghosts starts caroling at the front door?
And that entrance? It’s intricately carved and decorated with stained glass like the door of a cathedral, but a tire-sized garland woven with red velvet ribbons, pinecones, and golden bells adds a Christmassy flair.
Are those real candles in the windows?
I’ve seen pictures of places like this, sure. On screens. In magazines or movies I make fun of. But seeing it in person? It’s unreal. Massive and smug.
As my boots crunch in the snow, I feel more inadequate with each step. I’m cocky and don’t give a shit. Or at least that’s what I’d like to think about myself, but intimidation sneaks its way to my heart. How did I ever think I’d fit in here? My nail polish might be no longer chipped, my hair refreshed, the spiked boots I’m wearing cost more than six months of rent, but I’m still just Killian.
If I were a Christmas garland I’d be adorned with bad choices, cat hair, and broken dreams.
I realize I’ve stopped walking when Damen tugs on my hand. “Wait ‘till you see the tree,” he says, making it clear that there’s another one inside. Because of course there is.
Should a moth like me really fly toward the flickering lights inside this mansion, or am I about to get burned to death for even trying?
When someone opens the grand door, I realize there’s only one way to find out.
A woman in her early forties, with a tidy bun at the back of her head, dressed in a smart navy dress paired with the most pristine of aprons invites us inside and takes my jacket the moment we enter.
I am enveloped in warmth despite this entry hall’s tall ceiling. It must cost thousands to keep this house warm.
“Welcome home,” she tells Damen as she takes his outerwear as well.
I’m faced with a grand staircase adorned with garlands and holly. A pair of reindeer sculptures stands on either side of the door between the twin flights of stairs, and to my right, on a wall covered with dark wallpaper is a family portrait at least as tall as me.
In the picture, a young girl with sharp eyes sits in the middle of a plush green sofa, with two boys standing on either side of her. Behind them, with lots of empty space between them, stands a couple who must be the children’s parents. And while such images usually feature identical pajamas or ugly Christmas sweaters, the Van der Horn family’s Christmas card from years ago is dressed in finery worthy of a ball at Buckingham Palace.
I smile and point out the dark-haired boy holding a book. The flurry of small beauty spots on his face and neck is a dead giveaway. That and the fact Titus is more of a dark blond. “Is that you? Little Damen?”
My man laughs, purposefully ignoring his brother’s constant yapping. “Was I already handsome?”
“In an I’d-put-you-on-a-postcard-to-my-grandma way.”
Damen shrugs. “Just wait for what my sister has to say about that when she arrives tomorrow,” he says, pointing out the girl in the picture.
“We don’t have all night!” Titus spreads his arms more aggressively than is reasonable. “Should I remind you’re already late?”
“Don’t be so dramatic. It’s called making an entrance,” Damen tells him and puts on a pair of slippers prepared for him. He then reaches into a cabinet made of real wood and pulls out another pair. “Size 8, right?” he asks.
