Page 31

“Mamma, the sun’s coming in!” my son says, pointing to the soft rays spilling through the window.

I smile. “That’s how we know it’s time to open the doors.”

The town is waking now. Voices echo from the piazza, and the faint clatter of bicycle wheels fills the street. I move to the door and flip the sign to Aperto , my heart swelling with a familiar mix of hope and trepidation.

The day is just beginning. The bell above the door jingles as I hand a loaf of semolina bread to Paolo, the town’s butcher.

“Grazie, Valentina,” he says, his grin as wide as the sharp knives he uses. “You’ve outdone yourself again. This is the kind of bread that makes a man believe in miracles.”

“Let me know if it works,” I tease, returning his grin.

Paolo laughs heartily, slinging the bread into his basket before waving goodbye. The door swings shut behind him, and for a brief moment, the shop is silent except for the soft rustling of my son flipping through a coloring book behind the counter.

It’s a good morning. A normal morning.

I wipe my hands on my apron and turn to the next customer, forcing my mind to stay present. Each interaction is a lifeline, a reminder of the life I’ve built here. They know me as Valentina Russo, the baker with the cherubic son and a knack for making the perfect cannoli.

Not the Valentina who once walked through the lion’s den and stared down the king.

The customers come and go, their chatter a warm hum in the background. Mrs. Bellucci needs a dozen pastries for her grandson’s birthday; Mario from the café next door picks up his usual supply of fresh rolls. Each interaction keeps me tethered, grounding me in this new reality.

And yet, I feel the strain of it.

As the morning stretches on, the routine that once comforted me now feels mechanical, each movement rehearsed and hollow. My hands knead dough, my lips form polite words, but my thoughts drift somewhere darker, somewhere I can’t allow myself to go.

Until I do.

It’s small things at first. The way the sun catches on the knife as I slice a baguette reminds me of the glint of a gun barrel.

A passing customer with a shadowed jaw and confident gait reminds me, fleetingly, of Luca.

The name is a wound that hasn’t healed, a scar I refuse to acknowledge but can’t help tracing in my mind.

“Everything all right, Mamma?” my son’s small voice cuts through the fog.

I blink and find him looking up at me, his big brown eyes full of innocent concern.

“Yes, sweetheart,” I say, my voice steady. “I’m just thinking.”

He nods, satisfied, and goes back to his coloring book. I watch him for a moment, his small face so peaceful, so unburdened. This is why I left.

And yet. The peace I’ve created here feels fragile. Not because of any external threat, but because of something within me. A restlessness. A longing.

I miss it. Not the danger or the violence, but the life . The intensity. The way Luca’s presence filled every corner of a room, every corner of me . The way he challenged me, pushed me, saw me.

I miss being seen.

The door opens again, and in walks Claudia, one of the younger women in the village. She’s been working up the courage to speak to me for weeks now, and today, it seems, she’s found it.

“ Buongiorno , Valentina,” she says shyly, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear.

“ Buongiorno , Claudia,” I reply with a smile. “What can I get for you?”

She hesitates, glancing at the display case before blurting, “I just wanted to say…your son is wonderful. You’re doing such a good job with him.”

Her words catch me off guard. I thank her, but as she walks out, I feel a lump form in my throat.

It’s true. I’ve built a good life for him. But as I watch him color, his brow furrowed in concentration, I can’t help but wonder if this quiet existence is enough. He deserves more than safety. He deserves a legacy.

I push the thought away and busy myself with the next order. But it’s there, gnawing at the edges of my mind. By the time the shop begins to quiet, the feeling is suffocating. I take a moment to sit behind the counter, letting my head fall into my hands.

In the stillness, memories come unbidden. Luca’s voice, dark and commanding, telling me I was his equal. His eyes, burning with an intensity that made me feel alive in ways I never had before or since. I miss the fire.

I miss the way he looked at me, as if I was the only thing in the world that could match his force.

“Mamma?”

My son’s voice pulls me back. I look up to see him holding a sketch of a castle he’s been drawing.

“Is it good?” he asks, his face alight with pride.

“It’s perfect,” I say, my heart clenching as I gather him into my arms.

The bell jingles softly, almost like an afterthought, and I glance up from the counter, expecting Mrs. Bellucci or maybe Paolo with his endless jokes.

But it’s not Mrs. Bellucci.

It’s Luca Salvatore standing in the doorway as if he’s been summoned by my own thoughts, his broad shoulders framed against the sunlight streaming in from the street.

He’s dressed simply—dark jeans, a fitted black shirt that clings to his chest— but there’s nothing simple about him.

Power radiates off him, sharp and unyielding, as though he owns not just the bakery but the whole town.

My breath catches. He steps forward, his boots thudding softly against the wooden floor, and every inch of my carefully constructed life quivers.

For five years, I’ve been safe. Hidden. I’ve built walls around myself so thick and high that I thought no one could break through.

But Luca doesn’t need to break them. He just walks in. His dark eyes lock onto mine, unreadable but magnetic. My heart pounds like a war drum, each beat echoing in my ears. I should move, speak, do something, but my body feels paralyzed, trapped in the pull of his gaze.

“Mamma?” My son’s voice pierces the silence, soft and curious.

I tear my eyes away from Luca, my chest heaving as I glance down at him. He’s clutching his coloring book, looking between me and the man who just turned my world upside down.

Luca’s gaze drops to him, and for a brief moment, something flickers in his expression. Not cold calculation. Not the dangerous fire I remember. Something softer.

My stomach twists. I stand abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. “What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice sharp, too sharp.

The corner of his mouth tilts upward in the faintest of smirks, but his eyes remain on me. “I came for you, Valentina.”

Those words land like a bomb, shattering the fragile calm I’ve been clinging to.

“You don’t get to say that,” I snap, my voice trembling with anger. “You don’t get to just show up here.”

“I just did.”

The audacity of him—of this man who turned my life inside out and left me scrambling to make sense of it—stokes a fire inside me. “You have no right?—”

“Don’t I?” His voice is parched, rugged, and dear God, he looks like he has suffered in my absence.

His face is leaner, the sharp planes of his cheekbones more pronounced.

A dark beard shadows his jaw, scruffier than I ever thought Luca Salvatore would allow.

His eyes, still the deepest shade of midnight, are rimmed with faint circles.

And yet, despite the wear etched into him, he’s devastatingly handsome. His magnetism is undimmed, even enhanced, like he’s been tempered in fire since the last time I saw him.

It infuriates me, how much I want him, how much I’ve missed him. I place a hand on my throat to choke back a sob. I step around the counter, my hands shaking as I push past him toward the door. “You need to leave.”

“Valentina,” he says.

I whirl to face him, every ounce of fear and frustration I’ve bottled up over the years spilling out. “You can’t just walk in here like nothing happened! Like you didn’t?—”

“Mamma?”

The small voice cuts through whatever this is like a knife. I glance down at my son, who is staring up at me with wide, questioning eyes. Luca’s gaze flicks to him again, lingering, and I feel a shift. He looks at my son the way a man looks at something precious, something he wants to protect.

I take a step back, instinctively placing myself between them.

Luca doesn’t move. His gaze returns to me, and there’s something in it that makes my stomach drop. Regret? Anger? I can’t tell.

The bakery feels impossibly small, the walls pressing in as he closes the distance. My son shifts behind me, clinging to my skirt, his tiny fingers twisting the fabric. I place a reassuring hand on his head, but my own heart feels anything but steady.

For a moment, the world holds its breath.

“I’d like a coffee,” he says quietly.