The morning sun barely penetrates the thick, gray Chicago smog choking 4th Street. Inside the bakery, the air is thick with the scent of yeast, browned sugar, and the cold, clinging dread that has settled into my bones since yesterday’s funeral.
My hands are covered in flour, my knuckles aching as I knead the heavy dough against the marble slab. Push, fold, turn. Push, fold, turn. It’s the only rhythm left in my world that makes sense.
The bell above the shop door rings—not the light, cheerful chime of a neighborhood regular, but a sharp, panicked jangle.
"Gianna," my cousin Leo gasps, slamming the heavy wooden door behind him. He’s out of breath, his face a sickly shade of white, his eyes darting to the frosted glass windows as if the devil himself is chasing him. "You need to lock up. Right now."
I wipe my hands on my apron, my heart leaping into my throat. "Leo, what is it? What happened?"
"The ledger," he whispers, stepping closer, his voice trembling so hard I can barely make out the words. "Your father’s private ledger. It wasn't buried with him, Gianna.
The Commission knows it's missing, and they think you have it. They think you have the names of every bought judge and routing number in the city."
Before I can even process the words, a heavy, armored black SUV screeches to a halt directly outside the bakery’s display window.
The air in the room instantly drops to zero degrees.
The passenger door opens, and a man steps out into the grime of 4th Street. He is a dark, looming monolith, wrapped in a perfectly tailored charcoal overcoat that broadens his already massive shoulders.
As he walks toward the entrance, his boots click rhythmically against the pavement—a slow, deliberate stride of absolute, unchallenged power.
Dante Marchetti. The predator of the North Avenue pier. The man they call the Don’t-Look-Back enforcer.
The bakery door shoves open, the little brass bell letting out a strangled chime before dying.
Dante steps inside, his presence instantly swallowing the room, making the high ceilings feel suffocatingly low. He doesn't look at Leo. His amber eyes, cold and calculating like polished stone, lock directly onto mine.
A tiny, pale scar cuts through his left eyebrow, twitching slightly as his jaw hardens into a rigid, handsome line of pure authority.
"Leave us, Leo," Dante rumbles. His deep baritone doesn't just vibrate through the room; it vibrates through the floorboards, straight into the soles of my shoes.
Leo looks at me, terrified, but he knows better than to hesitate.
He ducks his head and slips out the back door, leaving me entirely alone with the most dangerous man in Chicago.
Dante doesn't rush. He walks slowly toward the counter, his eyes tracking the flour dust in the air before settling on the front of my white apron.
He stops just inches from the marble slab, his massive frame blocking out the pale morning light, trapping me in his shadow.
"Your father was a clever man, Gianna," Dante murmurs, his voice dropping into a dark, razor-sharp purr that completely commands my pulse.
He reaches out, his large, calloused hand settling flat against the marble, his long fingers splaying wide. "But he died owing a debt to the Marchetti family. A debt that was supposed to be settled with a book."
"I don't have it," I lie, my voice breathy, my fingers curling tightly into the fabric of my apron to hide the frantic shaking of my hands.
A dark, knowing smile cuts across Dante's face. He leans down over the counter, his hot breath brushing my cheek, sending a violent, electric shiver straight down my spine.
He reaches out, his thumb catching my chin, his rough, scarred skin forcing my face upward until I am completely captive beneath his predatory gaze.
"Don't lie to me, little baker," he whispers, his amber eyes burning into mine with a fierce, possessive intensity that leaves me breathless.
"The Commission wants your head on a spike by midnight. But I'm giving you an alternative. You’re going to give me that ledger, and then you’re going to marry me.