Chapter 3 - GHOSTS IN THE REARVIEW
The week following the gala was a masterclass in aggressive normalcy. I threw myself into my work at The Flour Canvas, a high-end bakery in the South End where I was the head pastry chef. Baking was my therapy. The exact measurements, the predictable chemistry of yeast and sugar and heat—it was a world where I had total control. If I followed the rules, the bread rose. If I followed the rules, the croissants were flaky.
Life with Marcus hadn't had any rules. What made him happy on Monday would earn me a bruised jaw on Wednesday. I had lived in a constant state of hyper-vigilance, walking on eggshells that were already crushed into dust.
But as I aggressively kneaded a batch of brioche dough on a Thursday morning, my mind wasn't on Marcus. It was on a pair of dark, dangerous eyes and the low rumble of a voice that had told me to text him anytime.
"You're going to murder that dough, Rosie," my sous-chef, Clara, pointed out, hip-bumping me as she carried a tray of tarts past my station. "Did Leo cancel on Sunday brunch again?"
"No," I sighed, easing up on my poor, defenseless brioche. "Leo is fine. I'm just... edgy."
"You've been edgy since the gala. Did you meet a guy? Because if you met a guy, I am demanding details."
"I did not meet a guy," I lied smoothly. Technically, I hadn't met a guy. I had encountered a natural disaster in a tuxedo.
I finished my shift just as the sun was setting, painting the Boston skyline in shades of bruised purple and gold. I untied my apron, grabbed my purse, and did what I always did before leaving the safety of the kitchen: I checked my phone for missed calls, I checked the battery on my pepper spray, and I took a deep, centering breath.
The walk to my car was only two blocks, but it always felt like a mile. Marcus had a restraining order against him, but restraining orders were just pieces of paper. They didn't stop bullets, and they didn't stop a man who believed he owned you.
I unlocked my Honda, slipped inside, and immediately hit the lock button. Muscle memory.
As I merged onto the street, my eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. A black SUV was two cars behind me. I didn't think much of it until I took a sharp left onto Tremont Street, and the SUV made the same left. My heart rate spiked. I took three random turns through residential neighborhoods.
The black SUV stayed exactly two cars back.
Panic, cold and sharp, flooded my veins. My hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles ached. Marcus. He had found me. He had figured out where I worked. I reached for my phone on the passenger seat, my trembling fingers fumbling to pull up Leo’s number.
Before I could dial, my phone buzzed with an incoming text from an unsaved number.
Do not panic. The SUV behind you is mine. They are ensuring you get home safely. - A. Valente.
I slammed on the brakes, pulling over into an empty parking space so abruptly the car behind me honked aggressively. I stared at the screen, my chest heaving. Alessandro? Why was the head of the Valente family having me tailed?
I typed back with shaking thumbs. Why are you following me?
The reply came seconds later. I am not following you. I am protecting you. Leo informed me of your past situation. I do not like the idea of you walking alone at night.
Anger, swift and sudden, temporarily eclipsed my fear. I didn't need another man trying to control my life, even if he thought he was doing it for my benefit. I hit the call button on the number. He answered on the first ring.
"Roslyn."
"Call them off," I demanded, my voice remarkably steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me. "I appreciate the sentiment, Mr. Valente, but I am not your property, and I do not need a mafia escort to get to my apartment. I have survived this long on my own."
There was a heavy pause on the line. I could almost hear the gears turning in his terrifyingly brilliant mind.
"You are fierce when you are angry," Alessandro murmured, the amusement clear in his tone. "It suits you. But my men stay. They will not interfere with your life. You will not even notice them. But a man like Marcus Chen does not respect restraining orders. He respects violence. And my men are very, very good at violence."
"How do you know his name?" I whispered, a chill running down my spine. I had never told Leo the full extent of what Marcus did, only that it was bad.
"I know everything, Roslyn. I know he broke your collarbone last year. I know he emptied your bank accounts. I know he has been asking questions around Cambridge for the past week, trying to find your new address."
My stomach plummeted. The world tilted on its axis. "He's looking for me?"
"He is. Which is why my men are behind you. Go home, lock your doors, and make your gnocchi. You are safe under my watch. Do you understand?"
Tears pricked my eyes. The absolute, unshakeable certainty in his voice was a balm to the terror that had been clawing at my insides for six months. I hated that I needed it. I hated that I felt safe because a criminal was watching my back. But I couldn't deny the overwhelming wave of relief.
"I understand," I breathed.
May you like
"Good girl," Alessandro said softly. The praise sent a shiver straight down to my core. "Have a good night, Roslyn."
When I pulled up to my apartment building, the black SUV parked across the street, idling quietly in the shadows. For the first time in half a year, I walked up to my front door without looking over my shoulder.
