Chapter 1
The smell of yeast and burnt sugar clung to my clothes as I pushed through the heavy door of Ali’s pub. After 14 hours on my feet, my lower back throbbed with each step, and flour still dusted the creases of my jeans despite three attempts to brush it away.
The dim lighting and low hum of conversation wrapped around me like a welcome blanket, so different from the bright chaos of Dolce Matina, my tiny bakery wedged between a laundromat and a pawn shop in Little Italy.
Rough day? Marco the bartender asked as I collapsed onto a stool near the end of the bar.
He was already pouring my usual, a whiskey neat that I had learned to appreciate during the grueling first year of business ownership.
The espresso machine died during morning rush, I said, accepting the glass gratefully. Then I burned three batches of biscotti because I was trying to fix it myself, and Mrs. Ricci came in to complain that last week’s cannoli weren’t sweet enough.
I took a long sip, feeling the burn slide down my throat. Sweet enough? Can you believe that? Marco chuckled, his weathered face crinkling with sympathy. Mrs. Ricci complained when my grandmother made her cannoli, and that woman was Sicilian.
Don’t take it personal, Alessia. I knew he was right, but exhaustion made everything feel heavier tonight. Twenty-five years old, and some days I felt ancient.
My mother would have laughed at that, would have told me in her musical Italian accent that I didn’t know what tired meant, but Mom had been gone for three years now, and the bakery, her dream that I had inherited along with her recipes and her debts, was my responsibility alone.
Another, I said, pushing the empty glass toward Marco. He raised an eyebrow, but poured. The second drink went down easier than the first, the third easier still.
By the fourth, the edges of the world had softened pleasantly, and I found myself laughing at Marco’s stories about the regular customers, at nothing and everything. You should slow down, he suggested gently, but I waved him off.
I’m celebrating, I announced, my words slightly slurred. Celebrating that I didn’t burn down my own bakery today. That’s worth drinking to, right?
The stool beside me scraped against the floor as someone sat down.
I glanced over, my vision swimming slightly, and found myself looking at a man who seemed carved from shadows and expensive wool.
His suit was charcoal gray, perfectly tailored to broad shoulders that tapered to a narrow waist. Dark hair swept back from a face that could have belonged to a Renaissance painting, all sharp angles and hooded eyes the color of espresso.
He ordered something in Italian, his voice a low rumble that made my skin prickle with awareness despite the alcohol dulling my senses.
Marco nodded, suddenly looking nervous in a way I had never seen before, and hurried to pour what looked like a very specific, very expensive whiskey.
That’s fancy, I heard myself say, pointing at his glass. I’m drinking the cheap stuff, the stuff that makes you forget you spent 12 hours kneading dough and arguing with suppliers about flour prices.
The man turned to look at me, and I felt the full weight of his attention, like a physical thing. His eyes were darker up close, almost black in the dim lighting, and they studied me with an intensity that should have sobered me up.
Instead, emboldened by whiskey and exhaustion, I smiled at him. You look like a bad boy, I announced, the words tumbling out before my filter could catch them. Like a really bad boy, the kind my mother would have warned me about.
I laughed, delighted by my own observation. Are you a bad boy? Something flickered in those dark eyes, surprise perhaps, or amusement. The corner of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly. You have no idea, he said, his accent similar to Marco’s, but somehow more refined, more dangerous.
That’s not an answer, I pointed out, wagging my finger at him. You’re being mysterious. I don’t like mysterious. I like honest. Like brutally honest.
I gestured expansively, nearly knocking over my glass. You know what I told Mrs. Ricci today? I told her that if she wants sweeter cannoli, she should go to Ferrara’s on Taylor Street. They put enough sugar in theirs to give you diabetes just from looking at them.
Did you really? He sounded genuinely curious now, leaning slightly closer. No, I admitted, giggling. But I wanted to. Instead, I smiled and said I would adjust the recipe, which I won’t because my mother’s recipe is perfect and Mrs. Ricci is wrong.
I took another sip of whiskey. See? Honest. Brutally honest. That’s me. Alessia, Marco interrupted, his voice tight with something I couldn’t identify through my pleasant haze.
Maybe you should head home. I’ll call you a cab. I’m fine, I protested.
But even as I said it, the room tilted slightly. The man beside me moved with fluid grace, his hand steadying my elbow before I could slide off the stool. Easy, he murmured, and I found myself looking up into those impossibly dark eyes. Up close, I could see silver threaded through his hair at the temples, could smell something woodsy and expensive, cedar maybe, or sandalwood.
You smell good, I informed him solemnly. Like really good. Not like flour and burnt sugar. That’s what I smell like always. It’s in my hair, my clothes, probably my skin at this point. I laughed again, the sound slightly unsteady.
But you, you smell like money and danger. Is that weird that I can smell danger? Perhaps you’re more perceptive than you think, he said, his lips quirking into an almost smile that transformed his severe features into something unexpectedly warm.
Marco appeared with a glass of water, which the stranger handed to me with quiet insistence.
I drank obediently, some part of my brain recognizing that I should probably be more cautious around a man I had just met, especially one who radiated the kind of controlled power that made the air around him feel charged.
I should go, I said, attempting to stand. The world swayed alarmingly, and suddenly his arm was around my waist, supporting me with a gentleness that seemed at odds with his dangerous appearance.
I’ll take you home, he said, not asking. That’s very bad boy of you, I mumbled against his shoulder, which smelled even better up close, taking advantage of drunk women.
My mother definitely would have warned me about you.
I’m taking you home safely, he corrected, amusement coloring his voice. There’s a difference.
Where do you live? I gave him my address, barely registering Marco’s wide-eyed expression as the stranger guided me toward the door.
A sleek black car materialized at the curb, driven by a thick-necked man who looked like he could break someone in half without much effort.
Who are you? I asked as he helped me into the back seat, his hand cradling my head so I wouldn’t hit the door frame. Vincenzo, he said simply.
Just Vincenzo, like Cher or Madonna? I giggled at my own joke. I’m Alessia Amato. I own Dolce Matina on Halsted. You should come by sometime.
I make the best sfogliatelle in Chicago. Better than Ferrara’s. Though don’t tell anyone I said that. I won’t, he promised, sliding in beside me and giving the driver my address. The drive passed in a blur of street lights and soft leather.
I found myself leaning against Vincenzo’s solid shoulder, his arm coming around me in a gesture that felt protective rather than predatory.
Through my alcoholic haze, I registered that this should concern me more than it did, that getting into a car with a stranger was dangerous, that my mother would be furious if she knew.
But there was something about him, about the way he handled me with careful respect, about the warmth in his eyes when I had called him a bad boy, that made me feel unexpectedly safe.
You really do look like trouble, I mumbled into his shoulder as the car pulled up outside my apartment building. The very handsome kind of trouble. He helped me out of the car and up the two flights of stairs to my door, waiting patiently while I fumbled for my keys.
When I finally got the door open, he steadied me in the doorway. Will you be all right? he asked, genuine concern in his voice.
I nodded, suddenly feeling the full weight of the evening’s alcohol hitting me. Thank you, Vincenzo, who’s like Cher. You’re a gentleman bad boy.
The best kind. Something shifted in his expression, an emotion I couldn’t name flashing across his features before being carefully controlled. Get some rest, Alessia.
Drink water before you sleep. Will I see you again? The question slipped out before I could stop it. His smile was slow, dangerous, and completely disarming. Yes, I think you will.
As I closed the door and leaned against it, listening to his footsteps recede down the hallway, I had the strange, inexplicable feeling that my life had just tilted on its axis, that the handsome stranger with the expensive suit and the dangerous eyes had somehow become important in a way I couldn’t yet understand.
I stumbled to bed, still wearing my flour-dusted clothes, and dreamed of dark eyes and woodsy cologne, and a voice that promised both danger and safety in the same breath. The hangover arrived with the dawn, pounding behind my eyes with vicious enthusiasm.
I dragged myself out of bed, swallowed three aspirin with a liter of water, and somehow made it to the bakery by 5:00 a.m. to start the day’s baking.
My head throbbed with each movement, but muscle memory carried me through mixing dough, shaping loaves, and preparing the cases for the morning rush.
By the time I flipped the sign to open at 7:00, I had almost convinced myself that last night had been an alcohol-induced hallucination.
Surely, I hadn’t called a complete stranger a bad boy. Surely, I hadn’t gotten into his car, hadn’t pressed against his shoulder, hadn’t asked if I would see him again.
The memory made me cringe as I served Mrs. Chen her usual sesame bread and espresso. Professional, I reminded myself.
I was a professional business owner, not some silly girl who got drunk and flirted with dangerously looking men.
The morning rush came and went. I was restocking the cannoli case when the door chimed, and I looked up to find Vincenzo standing in my bakery.
He looked different in daylight, or perhaps I was simply sober enough to see him clearly. The expensive suit remained, this time a navy that made his dark eyes even more striking.
But what caught my attention was the way he surveyed the small space with the same intense focus he had turned on me last night, as if cataloging every detail, every entrance and exit, every potential threat.
You came, I said stupidly, heat flooding my cheeks.
I, um, I’m sorry about last night. I don’t usually drink like that, or call people bad boys, or accept rides from strangers.
You were honest, he said, approaching the counter with that same fluid grace I remembered. I appreciated it. Up close, in the bright overhead lights, I could see more details I had missed.
A small scar near his left eyebrow, the way his jaw was just slightly asymmetrical as if it had been broken once and healed imperfectly, and hands that looked powerful despite their elegant shape, with knuckles that showed the faint shadows of old scars.
What can I get you? I asked, forcing myself into professional mode. These sfogliatelle are fresh from the oven, and I have some excellent biscotti if you’re looking for something to go with coffee. This sfogliatella, he decided, and an espresso. You mentioned yours were better than Ferrara’s.
I couldn’t help but smile at that. I was drunk when I said that. But you meant it. It wasn’t a question. Yes, I admitted. I absolutely meant it.
As I prepared his order, I felt his eyes on me, watching with that same unsettling intensity. Most of my customers chatted while I worked, shared gossip about the neighborhood, complained about the weather or the Cubs.
Vincenzo simply watched, silent and observant, as if I were something worth studying. Here, I said, sliding the plate across the counter. This sfogliatella was perfect, if I said so myself, the layers of pastry shell crisp and golden, the ricotta filling just the right balance of sweet and creamy.
He took a bite, his expression remaining carefully neutral. But I saw the slight widening of his eyes, the barely perceptible nod of approval.
You were right, he said finally. Better than Ferrara’s. The compliment warmed me more than it should have. My mother’s recipe. She learned it from her grandmother in Naples. Your mother? he prompted gently. She died three years ago. Cancer.
The words still hurt to say, but less than they used to. She always wanted to open a bakery in Chicago. This was her dream. I gestured at the small space around us. I’m just trying to keep it alive.
Something shifted in his expression, a softening around the eyes that made him look less dangerous and more human. She would be proud.
We talked as he finished his pastry and espresso, or rather I talked, the words flowing easily despite my usual reserve with customers.
May you like
I told him about the challenges of running a small business, about the constant battle with suppliers and rent and health inspectors, about how some mornings I wondered if it was worth it, if I should give up and get a normal job with normal hours and a normal paycheck.
But then someone like Mrs. Chen comes in, I said, and she tells me that my sesame bread reminds her of her childhood in Taiwan, even though it’s not the same at all.
