Chapter 4 - The Currency of Memory
At 4:30 p.m., Mara walked into Dominic’s study carrying a small wooden tray. On it sat two fresh, warm cinnamon cardamom buns resting on delicate china plates, alongside two fresh cups of black coffee.
The aroma preceded her, thick and heavenly.
Dominic closed the ledger he was reading and motioned toward the small seating area near the marble fireplace. “Set them there.”
Mara placed the tray on the low glass coffee table. “I should go let Barnaby out before—”
“Sit down, Ms. O’Leary,” Dominic commanded quietly, gesturing toward the leather armchair opposite his sofa.
Mara hesitated. “Sir, if Evelyn sees me sitting down with you—”
“Evelyn works for me. You work for me,” Dominic interrupted, his tone leaving no room for debate. “Sit.”
Mara sat on the edge of the leather cushion, feeling entirely out of place in her flour-dusted apron inside the grand room.
Dominic walked over, his long legs moving with fluid grace, and sat on the sofa. He picked up a fork, sliced off a golden piece of the pastry, and placed it in his mouth.
He closed his eyes.
For ten long seconds, Dominic didn't move. He didn't chew. He simply let the flavors hit his palate—the hot, buttery dough melting on his tongue, the sharp, aromatic kick of the cardamom balancing the sweet cinnamon glaze.
When he opened his eyes, the look in them was so intense that Mara felt her pulse jump.
“This is extraordinary,” Dominic said softly.
A wave of genuine pride washed over Mara, warming her from the inside out. “Thank you. Baking is the only thing I’ve ever been really good at.”
“That is an understatement,” Dominic said, taking another bite. “Where did you learn to bake like this?”
“O’Leary Family Bakery,” Mara said, her voice dropping a fraction into melancholy. “In the East District. My grandfather bought the shop in 1981. My dad worked there until he died six years ago. Then my brother Sean and I ran it.”
Dominic watched her face closely, picking up every subtle shift in her expression. “Why did it close?”
Mara looked down at her hands, her fingers tracing the seam of her jeans. “Bad luck. Worse business decisions. The neighborhood gentrified, and the landlord tripled our rent. Then our main deck oven died—that was a twenty-thousand-dollar replacement. We took a loan from a private lender... a man named Vance Vance.”
Dominic’s eyes instantly narrowed. The relaxed atmosphere in the room evaporated, replaced by a sudden, razor-sharp tension.
“Vance Vance?” Dominic repeated, his voice dangerously flat. “The loan shark who operates out of the dockyards?”
Mara looked up, surprised that he knew the name, though she quickly remembered who her boss was. “Yes. We were desperate. Vance offered us fifty thousand dollars with what seemed like manageable terms. But the interest rates doubled every month. Within a year, we owed him a hundred and eighty thousand. We couldn't pay. He took the bakery’s deed, sold the building to a real estate developer, and kept us in debt for the remainder.”
She let out a soft, bitter laugh. “My brother had to leave town. My mom had to move away. And I took this job so Vance’s collectors wouldn't show up at my mother’s front door.”
Dominic set his plate down on the table. His dark eyes burned with a cold, terrifying fire. Vance Vance was a small-time predator who operated on the margins of Chicago’s underbelly—a parasite who preyed on desperate working-class families. He was beneath Dominic’s usual sphere of influence, but hearing that this scumbag had destroyed Mara’s life made a dark, vicious rage bloom inside Dominic’s chest.
“He took your family’s legacy,” Dominic said quietly.
“He took forty-three years of hard work,” Mara corrected, her voice trembling slightly with suppressed anger. “My dad spent his whole life at those wooden tables. My mom worked the register until her wrists gave out. It broke my family into pieces.”
Dominic leaned back against the leather cushions, studying her flushed face, her full lips, and the fierce dignity that kept her chin held high despite her heartbreak.
“How much do you still owe him?” Dominic asked.
“Thirty-two thousand dollars in 'interest,'” Mara said bitterly. “I pay him two thousand a month from my salary here just to keep him from bothering my mom.”
Dominic didn't answer immediately. He picked up his cup of black coffee, took a slow sip, and looked into the flickering flames of the fireplace.
“Vance Vance is a foolish man,” Dominic said softly, almost to himself. “He doesn't understand the value of things.”
“He understands money,” Mara said.
“No,” Dominic looked back at her, his dark eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. “He understands greed. Money is just a tool. True value is skill. True value is legacy. True value... is a woman who can make something like this out of flour and water.”
Mara felt a strange flutter in her chest—a sudden, deep heat that had nothing to do with the fire in the hearth. No man had ever spoken to her like that. In a world that constantly told women of her size that they were too much, too big, or too ordinary, Dominic Castellano looked at her as if she were the most valuable treasure in the room.
Before she could form a response, a sharp knock rattled the study door.
Leo stepped inside, holding a secure satellite phone. His face was pale. “Don. We have a problem at the south port. A shipment from Marseille was seized by federal agents. Someone leaked the manifest.”
The warm, intimate atmosphere in the room vanished in an instant. Dominic stood up smoothly, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow across the floor. He was no longer the man enjoying a cinnamon bun; he was the Don, absolute and terrifying.
“Call Marcus and Thomas,” Dominic ordered cold, brisk tones. “Prepare the cars. We leave in ten minutes.”
“Yes, Don,” Leo bowed his head and retreated.
Dominic turned back to Mara. He reached out, his big hand resting gently on her shoulder for a brief second.
May you like
“Thank you for the pastry, Ms. O’Leary,” he said softly. “Keep the rest for yourself.”
Mara watched him walk out of the room, her heart hammering against her ribs. She looked down at his empty plate, then touched her shoulder where his hand had rested, feeling the lingering warmth of his touch straight through her apron.
