Chapter 8 - SCARS AND SECRETS
The next morning, the dynamic in the house had irrevocably shifted. I walked into the dining room for breakfast and found Leo glaring at his oatmeal, while Alessandro sat at the head of the table, reading a newspaper and looking entirely too smug for a mafia boss before 8:00 AM.
I took the seat next to Alessandro. He didn't look up from his paper, but his hand moved under the table, resting warmly on my thigh. The casual, possessive touch sent a jolt of electricity straight up my spine.
"So," Leo said, aggressively stabbing a blueberry. "Are we going to talk about the fact that my best friend is now aggressively making out with my father on surfaces where we prepare food?"
"Leonardo," Alessandro warned mildly, turning a page.
"I'm just saying," Leo grumbled. "It's a health code violation, Rosie. I expected better from a head pastry chef."
I choked on my coffee, my face burning. "Leo, I swear it just happened. I didn't plan it."
"Nobody plans a mafia romance, Rosie," Leo sighed, finally looking up with a soft, resigned smile. "Look. As long as you're happy. And safe. That's all I care about. But if he starts calling you 'kitten' or something, I am legally emancipating myself."
Alessandro lowered his newspaper, giving his son a flat stare. "I am a man of respect, Leo. I do not use pet names that belong in a cartoon." He turned to me, his eyes softening. "Now. I have meetings until noon. After that, I am taking you to see the new property."
I frowned. "New property?"
"Your new bakery," Alessandro said casually, taking a sip of espresso. "The lease in the South End was atrocious, and the security was unacceptable. I purchased a commercial space in Beacon Hill yesterday. We are outfitting it with bulletproof glass, a state-of-the-art kitchen, and private security."
My jaw hit the floor. "You bought me a building? Alessandro, no! I can't accept that. I work for Clara!"
"Clara was bought out," Alessandro replied smoothly. "She is now your silent partner and enjoys a very lucrative pension. The Flour Canvas belongs to you now."
I was speechless. He had essentially rewritten my entire professional life in the span of twelve hours. It was a massive, sweeping gesture of dominance and protection. A part of me wanted to be angry about the lack of consultation, but the overwhelming reality was that he was giving me my ultimate dream, wrapped in a fortress.
"You are insane," I whispered.
"I am thorough," he corrected, pressing a kiss to my knuckles.
Later that afternoon, we drove to Beacon Hill. The space was gorgeous—exposed brick, massive windows (bulletproof, apparently), and a kitchen that made my heart sing. For a few hours, we weren't a mafia don and a traumatized baker. We were just a man and a woman, standing in an empty room, dreaming about the future.
But the past has a way of refusing to stay buried.
It happened two days later. Alessandro was out of the house, meeting with his capos. Leo had gone to the gym. I was alone in the library, reading a cookbook, when my cell phone buzzed.
It was an unknown number.
I hesitated, then answered. "Hello?"
"Did you really think it would be that easy, Rosie?"
The voice was a knife to the chest. Marcus.
I froze, the phone slipping slightly in my sweaty grip. "You're supposed to be in Los Angeles. They put you on a plane."
"I got off during the layover in Chicago," Marcus laughed, a manic, unhinged sound. "You think some guys in cheap suits can scare me away from what's mine? He beat the hell out of me, Rosie. Broke three of my ribs. But it just made me realize how much you need to be taught a lesson."
"If you come anywhere near me, Alessandro will kill you," I said, trying to keep my voice steady, though terror was clawing at my throat.
"He's not here right now, is he?" Marcus taunted. "I know he left the compound. I’ve been watching the gates for two days. I know his security patterns. And I have a little surprise for you, Rosie. Look out the front window."
My heart stopped. I ran to the massive library windows, pulling back the heavy velvet drapes.
May you like
Parked at the end of the long driveway, just outside the main gates, was a beat-up sedan. Standing next to it, holding a gun pointed directly at the head of a terrified Mrs. Donnelly—my sweet, elderly neighbor who used to bring me soup—was Marcus.
"If you don't walk out those gates in exactly two minutes," Marcus said into the phone, his voice dead and cold. "I blow the old lady's brains out. And then I start shooting the guards. Your choice, Rosie. The mafia boss isn't here to save you."
