"BECAUSE OF HIS SIZE, THE MAFIA BOSS WAS REJECTED BY EVERY WOMAN — UNTIL A CLUMSY BAKER AGREED TO BECOME HIS BRIDE

The kitchen of the Moretti estate was larger than my entire apartment in South Boston. It looked like the commercial galley of a luxury yacht—all brushed stainless steel, copper pots hanging from exposed wooden beams, and a massive granite island in the center that looked old enough to have survived two centuries of family history.

An older woman with silver hair pulled back into a tight bun was chopping rosemary at the end of the counter. She stopped the second I stepped into the room, her knife freezing mid-air.

"Nonnie," Elena said smoothly, leaning against the doorframe. "This is Sophia."

The old woman set her knife down with a soft clack. She looked at my messy hair, my dusty jeans, and the flour smudge I hadn't realized was already on my left sleeve. Her eyes were dark, sharp, and entirely unfooled by pretense.

"You are small," Nonnie observed, her Italian accent much thicker than Elena’s or Luca’s.

"I’m five-foot-three," I said, walking straight over to the wooden pantry doors. "And if everyone in this house keeps mentioning it, I’m going to start wearing platform shoes into the dining room."

Nonnie’s left eyebrow twitched upward. She looked at Elena, then back at me. "She talks too much."

"She’s nervous," Elena said.

"I’m not nervous," I lied, pulling open the pantry to find three different grades of Italian flour, jars of raw honey, and bags of shelled pistachios. "I’m hungry. And your boss looks like he hasn't eaten anything that didn't come out of a formal catering kitchen in six months."

I grabbed a large copper mixing bowl, setting it on the counter with a heavy ring.

Ten minutes later, the kitchen was filled with the rhythmic sound of a wooden spoon scraping against copper. I didn't use a scale; my hands knew the ratio of butter to sugar by memory. Creaming them together by hand was hard work, the muscles in my forearm straining against the dense paste, but it gave my mind something concrete to anchor to.

A shadow fell across the doorway.

I didn't turn around immediately. I kept stirring, folding in two eggs, the yellow yolks turning the dough into a rich, golden cream.

"You’re supposed to be resting," Luca’s voice came from above and behind me.

I turned slightly, holding the copper bowl against my hip. He had taken off his suit jacket, rolling the sleeves of his white dress shirt up to his elbows. His forearms were thick, crossed with pale, jagged scars that spoke of a life I knew nothing about, but his hands—broad, heavy hands—were held loosely at his sides.

"I don't rest well when I’m hungry," I said, offering him a wooden spoon coated in raw dough. "Taste this. Does it need more vanilla?"

Luca looked at the spoon like I had handed him a live grenade. He didn't move for three full seconds, his eyes darting from my face to the yellow paste on the wood.

"I don't eat raw eggs," he said quietly.

"It’s pasteurized," I lied smoothly. "Taste it, Moretti."

Slowly, carefully, as if he were trying not to break the fragile wooden handle, Luca reached out and took the spoon. His fingers brushed mine—warm, rough, hard-calloused skin against my flour-dusted knuckles. He lifted the spoon to his mouth, tasting the dough with a slight, concentrated frown.

"It’s sweet," he said.

"It’s lemon and almond," I corrected, taking the spoon back. "It’s supposed to be sweet. You look like a man who lives on black coffee and bad news."