Chapter 4 - A DANGEROUS KIND OF SAFETY
Two weeks passed, and true to Alessandro's word, the men in the black SUV became silent ghosts in the periphery of my life. I saw them parked outside the bakery when I opened up at 4:00 AM. I saw them trailing behind me when I went to the farmer’s market on Sundays. They never approached. They never interfered. But their presence was a heavy, comforting blanket.
Leo, of course, was furious when I told him.
"He's overstepping," Leo paced my small living room, gesturing wildly with a half-eaten biscotti. "He runs an organized crime syndicate, Rosie. He doesn't do favors out of the goodness of his heart. My father always has an angle. Always."
"His angle is keeping your best friend from being murdered by her psychotic ex," I pointed out, pouring us both a cup of Earl Grey tea. "I'm not exactly complaining, Leo. I actually slept through the night on Tuesday. Eight solid hours. Do you know when I last did that? 2024."
Leo stopped pacing and looked at me, his expression softening. He crossed the room and pulled me into a tight hug. "I know. I'm sorry. I just... I know what my father is capable of. I love him, but he’s a predator. And you are a very soft, very damaged piece of prey. I don't want him looking at you."
"He's not looking at me," I scoffed, pulling back to sip my tea. "He’s just assigning security."
I believed that until the following Friday.
It was pouring rain, the kind of torrential New England downpour that washed the streets clean and kept customers away. I was alone in the bakery kitchen, wiping down the stainless steel counters, enjoying the quiet hum of the refrigerators. The bell above the front door chimed.
"We're closed!" I called out, wiping my hands on my apron as I walked out into the front of the shop.
Standing in the center of the bakery, dripping rain onto my freshly mopped floor, was Alessandro Valente.
He wore a dark wool overcoat over a charcoal suit, looking completely out of place among the pastel pink boxes and displays of macarons. The sheer size of him made the room feel incredibly small.
"You should lock your doors if you are closed, Roslyn," he said, his voice a low reprimand. "Anyone could walk in."
"I was just about to lock them," I said, my heart doing that familiar, terrifying flutter. I stepped out from behind the counter. "What are you doing here, Mr. Valente?"
"Alessandro," he corrected for the second time, taking off his wet overcoat and draping it over a chair. "And I am here because I was in the neighborhood, and I have a craving for something sweet."
It was a blatant lie. A man like Alessandro Valente didn't just 'happen' to be in the neighborhood, and if he wanted something sweet, he had five-star chefs on payroll to produce it. But I wasn't about to argue with a mafia boss.
"I have some leftover raspberry eclairs," I offered, moving toward the pastry case. "Or a slice of dark chocolate ganache cake."
"Whatever you recommend."
He sat down at one of the small café tables, watching me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. I plated a slice of the dark chocolate cake, poured a fresh cup of dark roast coffee, and carried it over to him. My hands were shaking slightly.
"Sit," he commanded gently, gesturing to the empty chair across from him.
"I have to clean the kitchen."
"The kitchen can wait. Sit with me, Roslyn."
I sat. The silence between us stretched, filled only by the sound of the rain lashing against the large glass windows. Alessandro took a bite of the cake. He closed his eyes briefly, a low hum of approval vibrating in his chest. It was a deeply intimate sound, and it sent a rush of heat straight to my cheeks.
"You are exceptionally talented," he said, taking a sip of the coffee. "Leo always praised your baking, but I assumed he was biased."
"Thank you." I twisted my hands in my lap. "I really do appreciate the security, Alessandro. But you don't need to check up on me. I'm fine."
Alessandro set his fork down and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His dark eyes locked onto mine, stripping away any pretense. "I am not here to check on your security detail. I am here because I wanted to see you."
The blunt admission knocked the breath out of me. "Why?"
"Because you occupy an unreasonable amount of my thoughts," he admitted, his voice rough. "You sent me a text message calling me obscenely hot, and then you looked at me at the gala with eyes that carried more ghosts than a graveyard. I protect what belongs to my family. Leo claims you as his blood. Therefore, you fall under my protection."
"I don't belong to anyone," I said softly, the instinct to protect my independence flaring up. Marcus had told me I belonged to him, right before he locked me in a closet for a day.
Alessandro’s expression darkened. He reached across the table, his large, calloused hand covering my small, flour-dusted ones. I flinched slightly, expecting a tight grip, but his touch was incredibly gentle.
"You misunderstand me, piccola," he murmured, his thumb brushing my knuckles. "I do not wish to own you. I wish to build a fortress around you so that you may own yourself. But I will not lie to you. The longer I observe you, the more I find myself wanting to be the one standing at the gates of that fortress."
I stared at him, paralyzed by the sheer magnetic pull of the man. He was dangerous. He was lethal. He was everything my therapist told me to avoid. But sitting across from him, I didn't feel fear. I felt a terrifying, electrifying spark of life.
Before I could form a coherent response, the bell above the door chimed again.
May you like
I looked up. The blood instantly drained from my face, turning my veins to ice.
Standing in the doorway, soaked from the rain and glaring at me with eyes full of venomous hatred, was Marcus Chen.
