The morning sun finally breaks through the stubborn Chicago fog, flooding the master suite with brilliant, uninterrupted gold. The storm is completely gone, leaving the view of Lake Michigan crisp, blue, and endless beyond the reinforced glass of the balcony.
I open my eyes to find the space beside me empty, though the dark gray silk sheets are still warm from Dante’s body. The heavy scent of cedarwood, dark tobacco, and a hint of fresh espresso lingers in the air.
Sitting up, I pull the duvet around my shoulders and look toward the sitting area.
Dante is standing by the fireplace, completely dressed in a crisp white shirt—sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the heavy muscles and the dark ink of a syndicate tattoo wrapping around his wrist. He holds a porcelain cup in one hand and a thick roll of blueprint architectural papers in the other. When the floorboards creak, his amber eyes instantly snap to the bed, the hard, defensive edge of his gaze softening the moment his eyes land on me.
"You slept past eight, little baker," he says, his deep baritone carrying a rare, relaxed warmth that echoes beautifully in the quiet room. "The city didn't collapse while you were under the sheets."
"Only because you were awake to hold it up," I whisper, pushing a tangle of dark hair from my face as I slide out of bed. I wrap myself in his discarded dark silk robe, the hem trailing a foot behind me on the polished hardwood floor.
Dante sets his espresso cup down on the mantel and unrolls the heavy blueprints across the dark marble coffee table. He doesn't say a word, but he extends his arm, waiting. I walk into his space, sliding effortlessly under his shoulder. His large, warm hand instantly clamps around my hip, pulling me flush against his side as we both look down at the drawings.
The blueprint is detailed, clean, and massive.
"The 4th Street corner is fine for a neighborhood shop," Dante murmurs, his thumb tracing a slow, heavy line against my hip bone. "But a Marchetti Donna doesn't run a storefront. She runs an enterprise. This is the old foundry on the North Avenue pier. Three thousand square feet of kitchen space, commercial brick ovens imported from Naples, and a street-facing café with bulletproof glass."
I stare at the blueprints, my breath catching in my throat. My eyes trace the layout—the massive prep stations, the temperature-controlled pastry rooms, the grand display cases. It isn't just a bakery; it’s a kingdom built out of flour and sugar.
"Dante... this is too much," I breathe, looking up at him.
The tiny pale scar through his left eyebrow twitches as his jaw hardens with that familiar, unyielding intensity. He turns his body fully toward me, his large hands coming up to cup my face, his thumbs pressing firmly into my jawline to tilt my chin up.
"Nothing is too much for what belongs to me, Gianna," he growls softly, his amber eyes burning down into mine with a fierce, possessive clarity. "The Lucchesi family sent their first tribute payment to our bank accounts an hour ago. The other bosses have fallen into line. The city knows exactly who holds the ledger, and they know what happens if they cross my perimeter."
He leans down, his hot breath brushing my lips, his grip on my face tightening just enough to send a delicious, familiar shiver straight down my spine.
"Your father used you as a shield, and your family treated you like a transaction," Dante whispers, his voice dropping into that dark, razor-sharp purr that completely seals my universe. "But in this house, you are the crown. Now, dress. Leo is waiting downstairs with the security detail, and we have a foundry to claim.”