A dark mafia romance.
| She returned home to escape her past—but the man waiting for her has the power to pull her deeper into danger than ever before. Sophia Masters never planned on coming back to the small town she grew up in. She’s spent years running from the scars of her past, both the ones on her skin and those deep inside her. As the manager of one of the world’s biggest rock bands, she has created a new life far from the shadows of the life that almost consumed her. But when a family wedding brings her back home, she’s confronted with more than just holiday decorations and Christmas cookies. Ray Flanagan, the boy who once lived down the street, is no longer the shy kid she remembers. He’s a hardened, dangerous man now—an enforcer in a powerful Boston mafia family, raising his son alone after the tragic death of his wife. Ray’s quiet life in their hometown hides the darkness lurking beneath his sharp gaze and protective demeanor. As their paths cross again, memories of their childhood bond clash with the unspoken secrets that haunt them both. Sophia knows she should stay away from Ray. He’s a man marked by violence, loss, and revenge. Yet, with every stolen glance and heated exchange, she finds herself pulled deeper into his world. With the weight of her own trauma pressing down on her, Sophia must decide if she’s willing to risk everything for a second chance with the man Ray has become. But as Christmas approaches, the dangers of Ray’s mafia life threaten to unravel everything, forcing them to face the ghosts of their pasts—and the undeniable attraction sparking between them. Home for Christmas is a dark mafia romance filled with intense passion, tragic pasts, and the healing power of love, set against the backdrop of the holiday season. Can two broken souls find peace—and safety—in each other’s arms, or will the dangers of their lives tear them apart for good?” |
SNEAK PEEK
2024 (c) Liz Gavin
CHAPTER 1 – SOPHIA
The tires crunch over patches of snow on the narrow road winding into Mammoth Lakes, and it’s like the past comes rushing up to meet me. Tall pines coated in powder line the highway, bending under the weight of winter. The air outside feels so clean, so still, it’s almost too quiet. I roll down the window of the Ferrari a crack, breathing in that crisp, cold air. It stings my lungs but smells like pine, like ice, like something cherished. Nothing like San Francisco’s thick, salty haze or the crowded venues I live in now. I love what I do, but I have to admit my profession has been taking a toll on me lately. Being the manager of one of the most popular rock bands today consumes all my time and energy. Even before The Experiment hired me, I didn’t have much free time either. I had my hands full helping Kim juggle everything that the guys from Muse of Darkness threw her way. I chuckle at the memories. At least I came out the other side with a PhD in how to deal with wicked rockstars.
So this trip presents me with a unique opportunity to relax and have fun. That is why I drive slower than I should, letting the scenery sink in. Snow-capped peaks loom in the distance, reflecting off the lake like a damn postcard. Mammoth Lakes—a town so small I can practically see the whole place in one glance, tucked into the mountains like a hidden secret. This place hasn’t changed much, not really. But me? I’m different. There’s an itch under my skin, something restless. Even though I love my family to pieces, I haven’t been back here in a couple of years, and it feels like stepping into someone else’s life.
The road curves, and I catch a glimpse of the mountains ahead, jagged white against a sky so blue it’s surreal. My fingers tighten around the caramel leather of the steering wheel, and I force myself to relax, inhaling and exhaling in slow counts. Calm down, Sophia. It’s just a town. Just the place you left behind and never wanted to look back at.
My sister’s wedding. That’s why I’m here. It’s not like I had a choice, anyway. Mom would’ve dragged me back by my hair if I’d tried to skip out on it. And then there’s Christmas—her favorite time of year, when she decks out the house in elegant decorations worthy of a home-style magazine. Family. Snow. Sparkly lights. It’s supposed to feel warm and cozy. But all I feel is this simmering unease, like I don’t quite belong here anymore. Love. It’s supposed to be warm, right? Safe. Something that fits into the glow of Christmas lights and family dinners. But I’ve learned the hard way that love can burn—hot and bright until there’s nothing left but ash. Literally. No, love isn’t for me. Not anymore. It demands too much, takes too much, and leaves you hollow when it’s gone.
My fingers reach for the radio, and I start flicking through stations. Static crackles through, mixed with snippets of Christmas carols, country, and classic rock. I hesitate for a second, letting an old Led Zeppelin song fill the car. The Experiment would never play anything like this. I snort to myself, imagining telling the band to take a break from their high-energy, head-banging rock for some smooth, bluesy tunes. Dee and the guys would laugh me out of the room.
My phone’s ringtone cuts off the melody and I laugh out loud when I read Dee’s name on the dashboard screen. Great minds and all that!
I hit the button to start the call as I return my eyes to the hairpin curve ahead, gripping the wheel tighter to control the car. This road is treacherous enough on warm days. The asphalt has turned into something akin to a skating rink with all the ice beneath the snow.
“Sophia, it’s Dee,” the drummer and leader of the band I manage greets me. “The guys are here with me. Can you set up a meeting with the execs at Tarmac Records next week? It’s about an idea we want to run by them.”
I raise an eyebrow and reply. “Oh, of course. Is it about the upcoming album?”
Dee’s voice buzzes with excitement. “We’ve decided we need to do something different to promote it. The recording company has booked us on the same old kind of marketing stuff. You know, Soph, the press releases, the promoting tours, and the late night appearances. We want to take our band to the next level.”
I wait for the next comment, which never comes, before I take her bait. “What do you have in mind?”
Kyle, the lead singer, and one of Dee’s boyfriends answers, “We’re thinking, the Love & Healing Festival. After all, the guys are putting it together.” Kyle means the bands Muse of Darkness and Knight’s Edge, both of which have longtime ties to The Experiment.
Lenny, the guitar player, and also Dee’s boyfriend, adds, “It’s on Valentine’s Day.”
“Plenty of time to rehearse the new material,” Roger, the bass player and boyfriend number three, interjects.
“Actually, I think it’s a smart move. But I don’t see why we need to meet with Tarmac?” All these bands are part of the recording company’s catalog. They won’t object to additional publicity. “Have you guys called Ally?” I’m talking about the biggest pop artist right now. Her latest album released six months ago and she still has five songs in the top ten charts around the world. Ally Howard also happens to be Dee’s best friend and former roommate.
“In fact, she’s just called us saying Logan had suggested that The Experiment open the festival in San Francisco.” Logan plays bass with Muse of Darkness and is Ally’s husband. But that’s a long story for another day.
“I think that covers everything, then,” I reply. “No need to call the suits. Have a wonderful Christmas, guys. We’ll hit the ground running when I’m back in the city. I’ll set up the rehearsals and coordinate the remaining details with Kim.”
“Great! Love you!” Dee says softly.
Lenny shouts in the background, “Don’t let the snow bury you, Soph!”
“Ha. Thanks for the concern.” My heart skips a couple of beats.
Roger chuckles. “You know Lenny’d be the first one stuck in a snowbank.”
I laugh as they hang up, their bubbly enthusiasm lingering in my mind. Shaking my head, I glance at the tall pine trees, the stillness outside a stark contrast to the chaos I thrive on.
That’s the life I built for myself—loud, intense, always moving, always chaotic. No time for quiet, no room for stillness.
And maybe that’s the point. I don’t want stillness. Stillness lets things creep in—things I’d rather forget.
Like my marriage. Or, more precisely, how that disaster of a marriage ended.
I press down harder on the gas, urging the car forward. The town’s just around the bend. I’ll be at my parents’ place in a few minutes, surrounded by people and chatter. That will be a much-needed distraction from the painful memories that are constantly a slip-up away. If I allow them, they’ll come rushing, flooding my mind with their darkness.
I focus on what’s ahead. My sister is probably already fussing over some last-minute wedding detail. I’m sure Mom’s baking enough cookies to feed a small army. I can almost see Dad hanging lights even though he’s terrified of heights. Family stuff. Normal stuff. Safe stuff.
Out of left field, the image of Ray Flanagan, the boy from down the street, surges in my mind. I haven’t thought about him in… I don’t even know how long. Last I heard, he’d married and had a son. He’s probably moved an ocean away like I tried to. What could such a quiet kid be up to these days? The image of him is hazy in my memory. But I have a distinct feeling he doesn’t belong here. Then again, it may just be me because I feel out of place in this town.
As if on cue, I spot the “Welcome to Mammoth Lakes” sign ahead.
Someone’s added a little wreath beneath it, a red bow hanging lopsided like someone had tried to be festive but got lazy halfway through. The wreath looks hand-made, its uneven sprigs of pine jutting out at odd angles, as if the person had wrestled the branches into submission with more enthusiasm than skill. A few red berries are scattered unevenly, and the ribbon tied at the bottom hangs limp, frayed at one edge. It’s probably been used one too many seasons. The faintest dusting of snow clings to the edges. It’s imperfect, humble—and for some reason, it makes my throat tighten. There’s something achingly genuine about it, like the person who made it cared more about heart than polish. In San Francisco, I would’ve scoffed at something like that—small-town kitsch. But here, it hits me in the gut, a reminder that this place has a pulse, a warmth I can’t find in any high-rise apartment or backstage venue.
“Back to where it all began, huh?” I murmur, voice barely audible over the low hum of the engine of my Ferrari. The words come out before I can stop them, and a strange tug pierces my chest, a mix of resentment and longing.