Chapter 5 - Five Years of Sunshine
Five years passed like water flowing over smooth river stones.
Denver became Hazel’s fortress. Over those five years, La Piccola Gemma transformed from a quiet neighborhood bakery into one of the most celebrated culinary destinations in the city, largely due to Hazel’s extraordinary talent as head chef and partial owner. Gia, aging gracefully, had officially retired to a small cottage in the mountains, leaving the daily management of the bakery and restaurant to Hazel.
Hazel had changed, too.
The soft, uncertain girl who had walked out of Mateo Lombardi’s estate in a wet coat was gone. In her place was a confident, radiant woman in her late twenties. Her curvy figure had settled into a lush, gorgeous maturity that commanded respect in every room she entered. She wore her thick dark curls pulled up in neat, professional buns during kitchen shifts, her dark eyes sharp, intelligent, and fiercely protective of her small kingdom.
And at the center of that kingdom was Leo.
At five years old, Leo Brooks was a force of nature. He was bright, energetic, and endlessly curious, possessing an intelligence that constantly amazed his teachers at the local preschool. He spent his afternoons in the back office of the bakery, sitting at a small wooden child's desk, drawing elaborate pictures of fire trucks and mountains with his crayons while Hazel worked the ovens.
He had his mother’s warm, brown hair and her quick, dimpled smile.
But everything else—his sharp, observant gaze, his stubborn refusal to go to bed before he was ready, the strong, straight line of his nose, and those striking, undeniable storm-gray eyes—belonged to the ruler of Chicago.
"Mommy! Look!"
Five-year-old Leo burst through the kitchen doors, wearing a tiny white apron that Gia had custom-sewn for his fourth birthday. He carried a small wooden spoon like a sword, his cheeks flushed pink from running down the hallway.
"Leo, sweetheart, no running in the kitchen!" Hazel warned, setting down a heavy copper bowl of meringue and kneeling to catch him in her arms.
Leo giggled, throwing his small arms around her neck and burying his face in her shoulder. He smelled of flour, sweet vanilla, and pure, untainted childhood. "Auntie Gia’s on the phone! She says the mountain snow is melted and she’s bringing blue apples!"
"Blueberries, silly," Hazel laughed, kissing his cheek repeatedly until he squirmed in her grip. "Blueberries for the summer tarts."
"Can I help fold the dough?" Leo asked, pulling back and looking at her with those intense gray eyes—eyes so sharp and analytical that sometimes, when Hazel was caught unprepared, they took her breath away.
"Only if you wash your hands first, little lion," she said softly, tucking a stray dark lock of hair behind his small ear.
"Okay!" Leo zoomed toward the stainless-steel low sink in the corner, pulling his small wooden step stool into place with practiced efficiency.
Hazel stood up, watching him lather his hands with soap, singing a small counting song to make sure he washed for twenty seconds. A deep, profound wave of contentment washed over her chest.
She had done it.
She had raised him alone, built a successful business, provided a safe, beautiful home, and kept him entirely hidden from the dark, violent world she had fled. Caleb was doing well—now living in Seattle, working as a regional manager for a timber company, entirely sober and happily married. Their family was restored, healed from the trauma of the Lombardi war.
She was safe. Leo was safe.
She had no way of knowing that six hundred miles away, in a high-end commercial real estate office in downtown Salt Lake City, a routine acquisition report had just crossed the desk of a senior analyst working for a subsidiary of Lombardi Enterprises.
The report noted that a premier regional bakery chain—La Piccola Gemma LLC—was seeking a secondary partner to expand into luxury dining venues across the Southwest. Attached to the file was a standard corporate registration document containing a headshot of the majority owner and head chef.
Hazel Brooks.
When the analyst recognized the name from an internal "high-priority location ledger" that had remained open for five years, he didn't send an email. He picked up a secure, encrypted satellite phone and dialed a private number in Chicago.
The phone rang twice.
May you like
"Speak," Mateo’s voice answered.
"Sir," the analyst said, his breath catching in his throat. "We found her."
