Chapter 2
Or Mr. Rossi says my focaccia is almost as good as his mother’s used to make. And I remember why I do this. Because you make people happy, Vincenzo observed. Is that silly? I asked. Making happiness out of flour and sugar and butter.
No. His voice was firm, almost fierce. It’s not silly at all. He came back the next day and the day after that, always in the late morning after the rush had subsided, but before the lunch crowd arrived, always ordering something different. The cannoli, the biscotti, the fig cookies my mother used to make only at Christmas.
We fell into a rhythm, a strange friendship built on thirty-minute conversations amid the smell of baking bread. He asked questions, listened with that intense focus, seemed genuinely interested in the minutiae of my days. I found myself looking forward to his visits, to the way his presence made the cramped bakery feel less lonely.
I learned small things about him through careful observation, the way he always sat where he could see the door, how his phone rang constantly, but he always silenced it when talking to me, the expensive watch on his wrist, the kind that cost more than six months of my rent.
The way other people in the neighborhood reacted to him, respectful, bordering on fearful, giving him a wide berth on the sidewalk. What do you do?
I asked one day, two weeks into our routine. For work, I mean. You’re always in a suit, but you never seem to be in a hurry to get anywhere. He smiled, that slow, dangerous smile I had come to recognize. Important export family business.
That’s vague, I observed. It is, he agreed, not elaborating. Are you being mysterious again? I challenged, hands on my hips. Because I told you I don’t like mysterious.
I know you like honest. He leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes holding mine. But sometimes, Alessia, honesty can be dangerous.
A shiver ran down my spine that had nothing to do with cold. Are you dangerous, Vincenzo? Yes. No hesitation. No attempt to soften the truth. To some people, never to you. I should have been frightened, should have recognized the warning for what it was and asked him to leave, to stop coming to my bakery.
Instead, I found myself drawn to that honesty, to the way he answered my questions without flinching, even when the answers revealed shadows I couldn’t quite see.
By the third week, I caught myself watching the door at 10:30, waiting for him to arrive, caught myself saving back the best sfogliatella of the morning, the one with the most perfect layers, caught myself wearing lip gloss to work, something I never bothered with normally.
You like him, my assistant, Rosa, observed one afternoon after Vincenzo had left.
She was a sharp-eyed woman in her 60s who had known my mother and had strong opinions about everything. He’s a customer, I protested weakly. Mhm.
Rosa didn’t look convinced. A customer who you smile at like he’s bringing you sunshine. A customer who looks at you like you’re something precious he wants to protect.
He doesn’t. He does, she interrupted. And everyone in this neighborhood sees it. Do you know who he is, Alessia? Vincenzo Catalano.
He imports and exports things. Rosa’s expression turned grave. He’s Vincenzo Catalano, Don Catalano’s son, the man who runs the entire north side.
The words hung in the air between us. I knew what she meant, what she was really saying. Mafia, the word we didn’t say out loud in Little Italy, but everyone understood.
I don’t believe that, I said. But even as I spoke, pieces were clicking into place, the expensive clothes, the way people treated him, the guards I had seen waiting outside in black SUVs, the vague answers about his work.
Believe it or don’t, Rosa said gently. But be careful, dolcezza. Men like that, they live in a different world than us, and that world is dangerous.
That night, alone in my apartment, I Googled Vincenzo Catalano. The results were sparse, deliberate vagueness that spoke volumes. A few society page photos from charity events, always in the background, never the focus.
Business licenses for legitimate companies. No criminal record. But then men at that level rarely had ones. And underneath it all, rumors, whispers, the kind of reputation that existed in shadows and careful words.
I should have stopped seeing him, should have told him to find another bakery, another place to spend his mornings.
But when he walked through my door the next day, his dark eyes lighting up at the sight of me, all my resolutions crumbled like day-old biscotti. Alessia, he said, my name sounding like something precious in his mouth.
Vincenzo, I replied, already reaching for the sfogliatella I had saved for him. And just like that, I knew I was in trouble, the kind of trouble my mother would have warned me about, the kind I was walking into anyway, eyes wide open.
It was Rosa’s scream that shattered the comfortable routine I had built around Vincenzo’s visits. I was in the back pulling a fresh batch of olive bread from the oven when I heard her cry out.
The tray clattered to the floor as I ran to the front of the shop, my heart hammering against my ribs. Rosa stood frozen behind the counter, her face pale, staring at two men who had just entered. They weren’t customers.
Everything about them, from their cheap suits to the way they positioned themselves to block the door, screamed threat.
Where is he? the taller one demanded in English heavily accented with what sounded like Russian. Where is Catalano?
I don’t know who you’re talking about, I said, my voice steadier than I felt. This is a bakery.
If you’re not here to buy something, don’t play stupid. The shorter man moved toward the counter, and I saw the bulge under his jacket that could only be a weapon. We know he comes here every day like clockwork. Where is he? I’m right here.
Vincenzo’s voice came from behind them, soft and deadly. I hadn’t heard the door open, hadn’t seen him arrive.
He simply materialized, and suddenly the two men were the ones who looked afraid. Catalano, the taller man turned, trying to maintain his bravado, but failing. Our boss wants to talk to you about territories, about arrangements.
Then your boss can call my office like civilized people do.
Vincenzo’s voice remained calm. But there was something underneath it now, something cold and absolutely merciless. He doesn’t send men to a bakery to terrorize innocent women.
We weren’t, get out. Two words quietly spoken that carried more threat than any shout.
And tell Sergey that if any of his men come within two blocks of this place again, I will consider it a declaration of war.
The men fled, actually fled, stumbling over each other in their haste to reach the door. Through the window, I watched them climb into a black sedan and speed away.
Vincenzo turned to me, and I saw something in his eyes I had never seen before: fear. Are you hurt? Did they touch you? No, we’re fine, I said, but my hands were shaking. Rosa had sunk onto a stool, fanning herself with a newspaper.
Madonna Mia, she breathed. Madonna Mia, Rosa, go home, Vincenzo said, his voice gentling. Take the rest of the day off with pay, he added, glancing at me. After Rosa left, still muttering prayers, Vincenzo locked the front door and flipped the sign to closed.
I wanted to protest, to tell him he couldn’t just close my business, but the words died in my throat when I saw his expression.
We need to talk, he said. Yes, I agreed. We really do. We sat at one of the small tables by the window, the afternoon sun streaming through and illuminating the fine dust of flour that always seemed to hang in the air.
For the first time since I had met him, Vincenzo looked uncertain, his powerful hands clenched on the table between us.
You know what I am, he said finally. Not a question. I’ve heard rumors. Rosa told me. I met his eyes, refusing to look away. Are they true? Are you really what she says you are? Yes.
That same unflinching honesty I had come to expect from him. My father was Don Catalano. When he died five years ago, I took his place.
I run the family’s interests on the north side, legitimate and otherwise. Otherwise, I repeated numbly. You mean illegal, criminal? Yes. He didn’t try to soften it, to make excuses. I’m not going to lie to you, Alessia. I’ve done things that would horrify you.
Things I’m not proud of, but things that were necessary to protect what’s mine. I absorbed this, trying to reconcile the brutal reality with the man who had spent the last month eating pastries in my bakery, who listened to my stories with genuine interest, who looked at me like I was something precious.
Why did you come here? I asked that first morning after the bar. Why did you keep coming back? His expression softened. Because you called me a bad boy and meant it as an insult. Because you were honest with me in a way no one else dares to be.
Because when I’m here in your bakery, I get to be just Vincenzo, not Don Catalano, not the head of the family, just a man who likes sfogliatelle and the woman who makes them. I’m not some escape from your life, I said, anger flaring despite my fear.
I’m not a fantasy you can visit when you need a break from being a criminal.
I know that. He reached across the table, his hand covering mine. I should have pulled away, but I didn’t. You’re real, Alessia.
The only real thing in my life, and that’s why this is so dangerous. What do you mean? He withdrew his hand, running it through his hair in frustration.
Those men today, they’re from the Volov organization, Russians trying to muscle into our territory. They’ve been looking for leverage, for any weakness they can exploit. And now they know about you. The implication settled over me like a shroud. They know you care about me. So I’m a target.
Yes. The word was heavy with regret. Which is why I need to stop coming here. Need to stay away from you. Keep you safe.
Something fierce rose in my chest, surprising me with its intensity. Don’t I get a say in this? In whether you stay or go?
Alessia, no. I stood, planting my hands on the table. You don’t get to make decisions about my life without asking me.
You don’t get to decide what’s safe for me. That’s my choice. He looked up at me, surprise and something else, something that looked almost like hope crossing his features.
You don’t understand what you’re saying, what being involved with me means.
Then explain it to me honestly. No more vague answers about import and export. And so he did.
For the next hour, as the afternoon light shifted through the windows and the closed bakery grew quiet around us, Vincenzo told me the truth about his family’s history in Chicago, about the territory wars and the truces, about the gray areas where legitimate business blurred into something darker, about the violence he had ordered, the men he had hurt, the weight of responsibility for hundreds of people who depended on the family for their livelihood.
He didn’t try to make it palatable, didn’t try to paint himself as anything other than what he was, a man who had inherited a position of power and had done what was necessary to maintain it, regardless of the cost to his soul.
I’m not a good man, Alessia, he finished. I’m exactly the bad boy you called me that first night. Worse, actually. I sat with this information, turning it over in my mind.
Everything in me should have been screaming to run, to get as far from Vincenzo Catalano as possible. But instead, I found myself thinking about the way he had protected Rosa and me today, the gentleness in his hands when he had studied me that drunken night, the authentic interest he had shown in my life and work.
May you like
I need time, I said finally, to think about this, about what it means. Relief flooded his features. Of course. I’ll arrange for security, men to watch the bakery, make sure you’re safe while you— No. The word came out sharper than I intended. No guards, no protection.
If I’m going to make a choice, I need to make it freely, not because I’m surrounded by your men, not because I’m afraid of the Russians or anyone else. His jaw tightened, but he nodded. Three days. That’s all I can give you. After that, if you tell me to leave, I will. But I’m placing guards whether you like it or not. Non-negotiable.
