The beginning

The snow fell in gentle waves over the North Pole, blanketing the landscape in serene silence. Inside his workshop, “Santa Claus” sat in his oversized leather chair, puffing on a Cuban cigar. His crimson coat hung on a rack near the roaring fireplace, its white fur trim freshly cleaned of soot and other things.

The world knew him as a jolly giver of gifts, a symbol of hope and kindness for children everywhere. But in reality, the man they called Santa was once Salvatore “Big Red” Russo, a top hitman for the Vincenzo crime family. Years ago, Sal had been the best in the business.

His imposing stature and sharp mind made him the perfect enforcer. But when a botched job left his face plastered on every news station and a price on his head, Sal disappeared. He fled to the farthest corner of the world, reinventing himself as a holiday icon.

His new life had started as a joke. The elves sharp-tongued, pint-sized creatures with their own criminal syndicate found him half-dead in a snowbank after a hit gone wrong. They nursed him back to health, but their kindness came with strings attached. “You work for us now, Sal,” their leader, Elgar, had said, tossing him a red suit and a sack of presents. “We’ve got a good thing going here manufacturing, distribution, seasonal monopolies. But sometimes, we need a specialist. Someone who can handle… messy situations.”

And so, “Santa Claus” became a legend. By day, he crafted toys and spread cheer; by night, he took care of the elves’ enemies smugglers, rival syndicates, even the occasional corporate executive who refused to honor a shipping contract.

A Christmas Suprise

This Christmas Eve started like any other. The workshop buzzed with activity as elves loaded sleighs and double-checked the Naughty List, which Sal still found disturbingly accurate. But tonight, there was an added layer of tension in the air.

Elgar approached him, his face grim. “We’ve got a problem. Someone from your old life is sniffing around. Marco Vincenzo himself.”
Sal’s grip tightened on his cigar. Marco had been his closest ally before things went south. If Marco was here, it meant trouble. “He’s holed up in Reykjavik,” Elgar continued, sliding a file across the desk. “We need you to handle it. Quietly. If he finds out who you are, it’s over for you and for us.”

Sal nodded, his mind already racing. He grabbed his coat and a concealed Glock from the false bottom of his toy sack. “You got it. Keep the sleigh warm for me.”

The Silent Night

In Reykjavik, Sal moved like a shadow, blending into the icy streets. He found Marco at a luxury hotel, drinking alone in the bar. For a moment, old memories surged Marco teaching him how to properly roll gnocchi, the two of them laughing over a botched job in Atlantic City. But Sal pushed them aside.

He approached the table, his face concealed beneath a heavy scarf. Marco looked up, his eyes narrowing in recognition just as Sal slipped a blade from his sleeve. “Salvatore?” Marco whispered, his hand moving toward his coat.
“Not anymore,” Sal said, driving the blade into Marco’s chest. Marco slumped forward, his glass shattering on the floor. Sal cleaned the blade and left without a trace, blending back into the snowy night.

Home for the Holidays

When Sal returned to the North Pole, the elves greeted him with cheers. The job was done, the secret safe for another year. But Sal knew the truth. His past would always haunt him, no matter how many Christmases he spent pretending to be someone else.

As he donned his Santa suit and prepared to deliver gifts, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. For a moment, he saw the man he used to be the ruthless enforcer, the cold-blooded killer. Then he smiled, slipping into character. “Ho, ho, ho!” Sal boomed, stepping onto the sleigh. The children of the world would never know who he really was. And that was just the way he liked it.

Silent Night, Broken Marriage

The sleigh creaked to a stop on the icy runway outside the North Pole workshop. Santa Salvatore Russo, if you knew him before the red suit stumbled down, bottle of bourbon still clutched in one hand. His breath was a fog of liquor and exhaustion, but his face wore that practiced jolly grin. The elves avoided his gaze as he staggered toward the workshop doors, their pointed ears twitching with silent judgment.

Inside, the festive cheer of the workshop hummed as usual at least on the surface. Machines whirred, elves bickered over assembly lines, and the faint scent of peppermint lingered in the air. But there was tension, thick enough to slice with a candy cane. Mrs. Claus stood near the fireplace, arms crossed over her apron, her eyes burning holes into her husband’s broad back. “You’re drunk again, Sal,” she said, her voice cold. Sal tossed the...