“Tell the pilot we’re going to Boston,” Damiano said curtly. And before Lorenzo could get ideas, he added, “To visit my stepbrother.”
“Right away, boss,” Lorenzo said after a moment and pulled his phone out.
Damiano didn’t listen to his conversation with the pilot. He stared out the window at the festively decorated streets and wondered who was going to be more unhappy with his visit: he or Raffaele.
It started snowing.
***
It was snowing in Boston, too.
Damiano accepted a dark winter coat from the flight attendant and shrugged into it before leaving the jet.
Lorenzo left to buy presents for his kids while Damiano got into a different car and headed to Raffaele’s house by himself. Well, himself and four vans of bodyguards, but they didn’t count. He barely noticed them. Though Raffaele was undoubtedly going to notice them.
The thought made Damiano smile faintly. Pissing off Raffaele and ruining his Christmas with his visit was going to be at least somewhat entertaining. It should hopefully distract him sufficiently and prevent him from any inadvisable decisions.
The two-story house was fairly small by Ferrara family standards, but nauseatingly picturesque, illuminated by Christmas lights.
Damiano got out of the car and stared at it, wondering once again what he was doing here.
But if he were to save face and prove Lorenzo wrong, he had to follow through. He wasn’t here for Jordan. He wasn’t, damn it.
Sighing, Damiano walked to the door and pressed the buzzer.
Raffaele was as pissed as Damiano expected.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he ground out, glaring at his security detail.
“Merry Christmas to you too, brother,” Damiano said, pushing into the house past him.
The house looked even more nauseatingly homely and picturesque on the inside than it did on the outside. Damiano had trouble believing that the cheerful decor was Raffaele’s idea.
He was proven correct when he noticed a blond guy standing on a stool, decorating the Christmas tree. “Who is that?” the guy said, before turning around. “Oh.”
For a moment, Damiano’s breath caught in his throat. The guy looked a lot like…
But of course he did. The resemblance was the sole reason Raffaele had paid another man to play the role of his boyfriend for the duration of his visit, after all.
“I’m Nate,” the guy said, jumping off the stool and walking over to shake his hand. “Are you Raffaele’s relative? You look like you’re Italian.” He gave an embarrassed laugh. “Not that all Italians look like each other, but…” His laugh petered out when he glanced at Raffaele. “Um, right. So this is awkward.”
From up close, there were more differences than similarities: Nate’s blue eyes were more open, less guarded, his expression kind. Not that Jordan wasn’t kind—he was, but he didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve like this guy did.
“This is Damiano,” Raffaele ground out from behind him. “And he’s already leaving.”
Nate rolled his eyes. “Don’t be an asshole,” he hissed at his boyfriend before smiling sheepishly at Damiano. “So you’re Raffaele’s brother!”
“Stepbrother,” Damiano said, taking off his coat.
“Barely,” Raffaele grunted, earning a kick from his boyfriend before Nate turned to him with an apologetic smile.
“Please make yourself at home, and I’m really sorry for this one,” Nate said, gesturing to Raffaele.
Damiano dropped his coat on the chair. “Don’t worry. We grew up together, so I’m used to it.”
Raffaele crossed his arms over his chest and glared at him. “What are you doing here?” he said again.
Damiano smiled, taking a seat in the comfortable armchair by the fireplace. “Isn’t it appropriate to visit family this time of the year? Where’s your Christmas spirit?”
The look Raffaele gave him was decidedly unimpressed. “You have one minute to explain yourself or I’m kicking you out of the house, and I don’t care how many goons you brought with you.”
“What goons?” Nate said, walking to the window. He whistled. “How are we going to explain that to the neighbors?” He chuckled. “Damn, I feel like Aunt Petunia fretting over appearing normal and respectable.”
When Raffaele and Damiano gave him blank looks, Nate shook his head, his expression incredulous. “Seriously? Never mind. All right, I’ll go see if we have some beer while you two… talk.”
He left, presumably for the kitchen, leaving them in thick, strained silence.
Damiano pulled out a cigarette and lit it.
Raffaele bored his black eyes into him, his expression somewhere between frustrated and furious. “I swear to god, Damiano,” he said, switching to Italian. “Explain yourself. What the fuck are you doing here? I didn’t distance myself from the family for nothing. I don’t want to be connected to the family business. You turning up here with a gaggle of forty bodyguards isn’t conducive to that.”
Taking a long drag from his cigarette, Damiano said, “I’m in the States on business, so I can’t exactly go around without security. Sorry if I’m inconveniencing your perfect, tidy American life, but you’ll have to suck it up. I’m staying here for Christmas.” He switched to English and said with a smile, “We both know you won’t kick me out and risk upsetting the mentally unstable sociopath around your precious boyfriend.”