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LUCA

T he café is warm and smells of fresh bread, cinnamon, and coffee beans grinding into the perfect brew. It’s as far removed from my world as heaven is from hell. Yet here I am, waiting for her, the woman who left me five years ago and took my soul with her.

Valentina’s voice was just a whisper when she said she’d bring my coffee to the table. A pause lingered between us, heavy with everything unsaid, before she ushered the boy away—the boy whose hair is as dark as mine.

“Go help in the kitchen, Leo,” she said softly, her fingers brushing his cheek before nudging him toward the back.

I watch him shuffle off, his small frame disappearing behind the swinging door. It feels like a punch to the gut to know he’s mine, yet I’m still sitting here like a stranger in their lives.

I take the corner table, my back to the wall, because old habits are hard to kill.

This place is small, almost cozy, with mismatched wooden chairs and rustic shelves lined with jars of honey and olive oil.

It’s not the kind of place where I belong.

But then again, she doesn’t belong here, either, even though she can’t see that, or is too stubborn to admit it.

I wait, but not idly. My mind churns, caught between rage and restraint, thinking of everything that led me here.

I spent years tearing apart the underworld looking for her. Not just for revenge—though I had plenty of it—but because I didn’t know how to stop. She became my obsession. I followed every whisper, chased every lead, only for each one to turn cold.

It was chance, or maybe fate. A month ago, a client, a merchant from Sicily who supplies fine wine to one of my restaurants, casually mentioned a bakery in his small town.

Said the bread reminded him of his late wife’s.

He told me the baker was a widow, an Italian-American woman with a little boy who could charm the devil himself.

The name of the shop didn’t mean anything at first. But something about the story stuck.

I don’t know if it was the boy or the mention of the widow, but the seed was planted.

I’d spent years paying men to track her down, and always I had failed.

And yet, here she is, in Sicily, running a bakery of all things.

When I walked through the door this morning, I expected anger.

A fight. A cold shoulder at the very least. But the moment I saw her, all I felt was pain.

Raw and unrelenting. She was more beautiful than I remembered, but there was something different now.

Her face held the kind of peace I never gave her—peace I never had myself.

And the boy. My son.

My chest tightens as I think of him again. The way his eyes flicked to mine, curious but cautious, his tiny hand clinging to her skirt. He didn’t look afraid of me, but he didn’t look like he knew me, either.

“Here you go.”

Her voice jolts me from my thoughts. I look up, and there she is, placing a cup of coffee on the table. Her hand doesn’t shake, but her posture is stiff, like she’s bracing herself for impact.

“Join me,” I say softly.

She hesitates, her lips parting slightly, but no words come out. I can see the internal war she’s fighting, and I let her.

Finally, she pulls out the chair across from me and sits, her back straight, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She’s wearing a simple dress, but on her, it looks like a queen’s gown.

“Valentina,” I start, but the words die in my throat. Where do I even begin?

She doesn’t help. She just stares at me, her eyes guarded, waiting.

“Do you know how long I’ve been looking for you?” I finally ask.

Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t respond.

I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table. “You don’t have to say anything. Just listen. I’ll tell you why I’m here.”

The silence between us stretches thin, but she nods.

“When you left, I didn’t just lose you. I lost the part of myself that made any of this”—I gesture around the room—“bearable. You took Leo, and with him, every reason I had to believe I could be anything more than what I am.”

Her expression flickers, but she quickly masks it.

“I’ve done things in the last five years I’m not proud of, Valentina. But I never stopped looking. Not once.”

“Why now?” she whispers.

“Because I found you.”

I don’t tell her about the months of following her every move through the quiet Sicilian streets, or the nights I spent sitting outside this bakery, watching the lights go out, wondering if I had the right to walk back into her life.

Instead, I meet her gaze and say, “You’re not leaving me again.”

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t cry. She just looks at me with that same fierce defiance I fell in love with.

And for the first time in years, I feel like I can breathe, like I’m home. I’ve left an empire behind, but it’s just bricks and walls without my wife and son. I don’t intend to return without them.

“You’ve done well for yourself.”

That’s not what I want to say. I want to ask her to come back, immediately. But I can’t rush this.

Her head lifts, her brows knitting in surprise. “Why are you here, Luca?”

The directness of her question doesn’t faze me. I lean back, letting my gaze roam over the cozy bakery, the rustic charm of the wooden shelves lined with pastries, the sunlight spilling through the window. It’s a far cry from the cold opulence of the estate.

“Would you believe me if I said I wanted to see you and try the coffee the whole town is raving about?”

Despite herself, a small smile appears on her lips. “I think you’re here for more than coffee.”

I lean forward, my elbows resting on the table, my eyes locking with hers. “You’re right. I am. But it doesn’t change the fact that I needed to see you.”

“Mommy!”

Leo bounds into the room, his face alight with pride as he carries a plate with a small cake balanced on it. The frosting swirls are uneven, the decorations lopsided, but the boy’s grin is so wide it lights up the entire bakery.

“Look!” he exclaims, setting the plate down in front of me with a flourish. “It’s Mommy’s special recipe!”

I glance at Valentina, whose cheeks flush a shade deeper.

“Is it now?” I ask with a laugh in my voice, shifting my gaze back to Leo. The boy nods enthusiastically, his curls bouncing.

“Try it!”

I pick up the fork, cutting a small piece of the cake. The flavors hit me immediately—sweet, rich, with a subtle tang of lemon. It’s perfect.

“You’re right,” I say, smiling at Leo. “This is the best cake I’ve ever had.”

His grin widens, and he practically skips in place. “See, Mommy? I told you!”

Valentina softens at his excitement, her shoulders relaxing for the first time since I arrived.

“Leo,” she says gently, “why don’t you go check on Mrs. Rizzo in the kitchen? I’m sure she could use your help.”

The boy hesitates, glancing between the two of us.

“Go on,” I add, my tone firm but kind. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

Satisfied, Leo scampers off, leaving us alone once more.

Valentina sighs, leaning back in her chair. “He’s...spirited.”

“He’s brilliant,” I counter, my tone sharper than I intended. “And he’s mine.”

Her gaze snaps to mine, and I see the fire ignite in her eyes. “Don’t start this, Luca.”

“I’m not starting anything. I’m stating a fact.”

The tension crackles between us like a live wire. I lower my voice, keeping it steady. “Tell me about him. About your life here.”

She hesitates, her fingers tracing the edge of the table. “There’s not much to tell. This bakery is good, business is fine. It keeps us afloat.”

“And you’ve done all this on your own,” I say, the admiration in my voice genuine. “That’s impressive, Valentina.”

She doesn’t reply, her eyes scanning my face as if searching for the catch.

“I want to know everything I’ve missed,” I say, leaning forward again. “His first words, his favorite things. You, Valentina. Tell me what your life has been like.”

Her lips part as if to speak, but she hesitates. I can see the war in her eyes—the pull of the past versus the life she’s built.

“You don’t belong here, Luca,” she finally says, her voice trembling just slightly.

I shake my head, leaning closer. “I belong with you. And you with me. Why can’t you understand that?”

The sound of the bell above the bakery door jingling cuts through our conversation.

Valentina freezes, her gaze lifting toward the newcomer.

I follow her line of sight to see a man striding toward us, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a casual blazer that reeks of overconfidence.

He’s younger than me—late twenties, maybe—and there’s an eagerness in his step that sets my teeth on edge.

In his hand is a single red rose.

“Valentina,” the man greets warmly, his voice grating against my nerves like a dull knife.

Valentina’s surprise morphs into something carefully neutral. “Lorenzo,” she says, her tone even but polite.

Before she can react further, he holds the rose out to her, smiling like a lovesick fool. “For you. I thought I’d stop by before heading to the market.”

My chair scrapes loudly against the floor as I stand, the sound echoing through the small space. Lorenzo flinches, his head jerking in my direction, his eyes narrowing in confusion as they land on me.

“Who’s this?” he asks, his tone sharper now, his gaze flitting between Valentina and me.

“Luca was just leaving,” Valentina says quickly, her hand reaching out as if to calm me, but I’m already moving.

“No, I was not,” I growl, my voice low and cold as a winter night.

I step between her and the man, towering over him. The rose trembles in his hand, and I see his confidence falter as he looks up at me.

“I’m her husband,” I say, each word deliberate, heavy with meaning.

Lorenzo’s mouth opens, then closes. He glances at Valentina for confirmation, but she’s silent, her eyes fixed on me.

“Leave,” I command, my voice brooking no argument.

Lorenzo hesitates, clearly weighing his options, but the deadly promise in my stance leaves him with no choice. With a mumbled apology, he turns and walks out, the rose abandoned on the counter.

I grab Valentina by the elbow, the urge to pull her close overwhelming. Her startled gasp barely registers as I guide her toward the back door.

“Luca,” she protests, her voice rising, but I don’t stop.

We burst into the alleyway behind the bakery. I turn to face her, my hands gripping her shoulders as I fight to rein in the possessive rage boiling inside me.

“What the hell was that?” I demand, my voice tight with fury.

“I didn’t know he was coming, and he is just a customer to me,” she snaps back, her own temper flaring. “And regardless of his standing in my life, what right do you have to act like this?”

I lean closer, my face inches from hers. “You are mine, Valentina. You don’t get to entertain roses from other men.”

She jerks away from my hold, fire sparking in her eyes. “I am not your property, Luca!”

“No,” I snarl, “You are my wife. And if you think for one second that I’ll let someone else come between us?—”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have pushed me away to begin with,” she cuts in, before turning away and storming into the bakery.

The door slams shut in my face, and I’m left on the road, with curious pedestrians ogling at me for good measure.