“I did. And they screwed up the mince pies. They don’t know what they’re supposed to taste like, so I’m going to fix them before they go out.”

“Eva.” My sister looks up at me. The mince pies are important to our mother, but no one else will notice. “You’ll be here all night. There are a thousand of those things.”

“Can I help?” Haley steps closer, surveying the prep table in front of Eva. “Maybe both of us?”

“No, no. It’s better this way.” Eva’s not just saying this. She has a determined light in her eyes, and the smile that flickers across her face is real enough. “You should be with everyone else. I don’t need help. Show Haley the party.”

“I can wait,” Haley says. “It’s no big deal.”

“You will not wait,” Eva answers lightly, her hands in motion, always working. “You will go upstairs, and look beautiful in your dress—I love it, by the way—and watch my brother try not to smile when they do the tree lighting.”

Chapter Three

Haley

Growing up, I heard a lot of rumors about the Morellis. People in my family repeated them so often and so easily that I assumed they were true. It was obviously true that all the Morellis were evil criminals. It was obviously true that one of them had murdered Uncle Lane. It was obviously true that they were worse than the Constantines. More corrupt and bloodthirsty and bad.

It embarrasses me now, to think of how I believed those things.

Leo whisks me back upstairs. On the way to the ballroom, we pass through a long hallway decorated with lush firs.

I enter the warmth and noise of the ballroom on Leo’s arm, my heart pounding. His older brother Lucian is across the room. His hand rests protectively on the small of my cousin Elaine’s back. Lucian turns his head to look out over the ballroom. I see him see us, and nod, almost to himself.

No, the Morelli mansion is not my Aunt Caroline’s home. This space is darker. In general, the furniture is heavier, the ceilings higher, the air more weighted with expectation. It’s more formal here. I can see at least one person who might be a priest, or a bishop. The details are different.

But—and I’m ashamed to come to the realization so late, only after falling in love with Leo Morelli—his family is much more like mine than the Constantines want to admit.

Leo’s nodding to people with what I’ve come to know as his I’m-in-public expression. A glint to his eyes that might be dangerous. The hint of a smile around his mouth. “What about you, darling? A drink before dinner? Dancing? A sleigh ride?”

“Is that a joke?” There’s laughter in his eyes, but seriously—sleigh rides? The Morellis? “Are there really sleighs?”