Christmas Shadows: A Mafia Love Story

1 | Chance Encounter

❦ 𝐆 𝐈 𝐀 𝐍 𝐍 𝐀 ❦

"Why would you break up with Marco? He's perfect for you," my friend Abigail presses, her brows furrowed with concern, as I share the painful reason for ending things with my ex-boyfriend due to emotional abuse.

"No, he's not, Abigail. He tried to manipulate me, even resorted to threatening self-harm if I leave. But honestly, I don't care anymore. It's his life." I shrug.

"I don't know, girl. I just think he's too handsome," she insists, a pensive expression lingering on her face.

"I'm not denying that, but a relationship needs more than just looks to work," I explain.

"It could be enough," she insists.

That's crazy. My phone rings, interrupting our conversation. I glance at it, noticing it is my mother calling. I sigh, already knowing it is the usual chat about my aloneness.

"Hey, Manman," I respond.

"Sweetheart, how are you?" She asks, genuine concern lacing her words.

"I'm good, Mama. What's up?"

"I worry about you. Christmas is almost here. Did you decorate your house? Last year, it looked like Halloween. Have you bought anything for Christmas yet?"

"I got a Christmas tree," I lie. I've been swamped with nursing school and haven't bought anything yet.

"Really? Can I see?" she asks, attempting a FaceTime call. I quickly decline.

Now I actually have to buy one.

"I'll show it to you when I'm done decorating it, Manman," I reassure her, hoping she'll let it go.

"Okay, fine, Gia."

"I have to go, Manman. Marco will be here soon," I lie, referring to my ex-boyfriend. She doesn't know about his emotional abuse, and I don't want to worry her, so I pretend we're still together.

"Okay, tell him I said hi. When am I meeting him?" she asks.

"I don't know, Mama. I'll have to ask him."

"How about in two weeks?" She asks, making me furrow my brows.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"I wanted to surprise you, but I suppose I could tell you now. I'm flying to New York for Christmas. Your brother and I. You didn't think we'd leave you all alone, did you?"

"Manman, I'm not alone," I try to explain, realizing she never listens.

"Gia, you're my daughter. I know you better than anyone else ever will. Anyways, I'll see you both then, okay?"

"Um, okay," I respond before hanging up.

Why did I agree? Marco's out of my life. What am I going to do when she gets here?

I don't want to prove her right.

Now I have no choice but to buy a Christmas tree. I'll also get some food since I'm too tired to cook.

...

I arrive at the tree lot. "Hey, Noah," I greet my classmate who works there part-time.

"Hey, Gianna! Wait, are you doing what I think you're doing?" he asks, surprised to see me here.

I've been living in New York for two years now. I've never bought a tree or decorated my home. I just never felt like I needed it. Maybe it has to do with being so far away from home. To me, Christmas is about being around family, and without them here, I didn't see a reason to celebrate.

"Yes, I told my mom I bought one, and she's apparently visiting for Christmas. I have no other choice," I explain.

He laughs before responding, "Okay, I'll help you find one," he offers, guiding me through the trees.

"I want this one," I say, drawn to a tree that may suit my small apartment. It reminds me of Christmas back home in Haiti.

"It's beautiful. I'll get it ready for you," Noah says.

Once he's done, he helps me load it into my car. I then head to the nearest Haitian restaurant for griyo.

...

"Hey, Gia. Sa wap fè la a lè sa? Li ta." Solange, a girl about my age working there, asks. She has become one of my best friends in my time here. (What are you doing here at this time? It's late.)

"I know girl, I'm too tired to cook. You got any griyo?" I ask her as she stands behind the counter, a glimmer of hope in my eyes. She nods in affirmation.

I detail my order, ensuring every nuance of my craving is understood. The savory fragrance of spices envelops the air as I engage in a casual conversation with her.

After our quick conversation, I say my goodbyes and head home, looking forward to enjoying the food.

The calmness of the night shatters with a sudden sight-a figure sprawled on the ground, visible through the rearview mirror. Concern floods my thoughts, my heart leaping into my throat. Instinctively, I slam on the brakes and rush out to find out what's going on.

"Sir, are you okay?" I question, my voice lace with worry. As I approach him, the dim streetlights reveals a man, in his early twenties, writhing in agony from multiple bullet wounds.

"Help me," his plea echoes, sharp and commanding, despite the evident pain etched across his features.

Without hesitation, I instinctively reach for my phone, intending to dial emergency services. But his urgency halts my actions, his demand resolute even in his dire state.

"No. I want you to help me," he orders, his hazel eyes fixed on mine.

"I don't know how. You were shot." I tell him.

"I know that. If you can't help me, then leave," his words strained, his resolve unwavering even in his dire state.

My heart races as the gravity of his plea settles upon me, a silent pact forming between the unspoken plea for assistance and my own moral compass. I'm caught between the responsibility of seeking professional help and the stark reality that his life might hang in the balance.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Take me to your house," he demands, breaking the quiet of the night. His request is bold, filled with both desperation and trust. I'm shocked by his boldness, feeling the weight of the choice before me.