Chapter 1 - THE TENSION IN THE KITCHEN
The mafia boss asked whether I had a boyfriend, and when I said, “Not yet,” the crystal glass in his hand exploded. Blood ran down his palm, bourbon splashed across my dessert table, and every dangerous man in that Chicago ballroom went silent.
Lorenzo Moretti did not look at the glass buried in his skin.
He looked at me.
“Not yet,” he repeated, his voice low enough to make my knees weaken.
“You’re bleeding,” I whispered.
“Who is he?”
“There isn’t anyone,” I said, forcing my spine straight. “Not yet means there isn’t anyone.”
But his dark eyes sharpened like he had heard the one thing I was trying not to say.
That night should have been another catering shift at the Halcyon Grand Hotel. I was the head pastry chef for Sterling & Co., happiest in a kitchen where sugar, butter, and heat followed rules people never did.
But two servers had called out, so I ended up in the ballroom beside my tower of chocolate truffles, wearing black slacks, a fitted white blouse, and an apron tied around a body I had spent years learning not to apologize for.
Then Lorenzo walked in.
The room changed before he said a word. Men lowered their eyes, women froze mid-sentence, and even the air seemed to move out of his way.
He came straight to my dessert station.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Camila Williams.”
He tasted one of my truffles without taking his eyes off me. “Orange zest.”
“And espresso,” I said.
“Good.”
Then he leaned closer. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
I thought of Aiden Gallagher, the floor manager with the easy smile who had been bringing me coffee for weeks. He had asked me out the next day, and for once, I had wanted to believe someone could look at a size eighteen woman and see beauty without pity.
So I answered honestly.
“Not yet.”
That was when Lorenzo shattered the glass.
I wrapped his bleeding hand with a linen napkin while his men watched like touching him should have been impossible.
“You ask very personal questions for a stranger,” I said.
His mouth curved, but it was not a smile.
“I won’t be a stranger for long.”
Before I could respond, one of his men whispered in his ear. Lorenzo’s expression turned deadly.
“Go home after this,” he ordered. “Don’t leave alone.”
The next morning, I tried to pretend none of it had happened. In Sterling & Co.’s kitchen, mixers hummed, ovens warmed the air, and vanilla filled the room.
Then Aiden caught me piping pastry cream onto the table instead of the tart.
“You okay?” he asked gently.
“I didn’t sleep.”
“The Halcyon event?” he guessed.
Before I could answer, the back door opened.
Every sound in the kitchen died.
Lorenzo Moretti stepped inside holding a black velvet box, his bandaged hand still stained at the edges.
His eyes found mine.
Then Aiden moved protectively in front of me.
Big mistake.
The silence in the kitchen was heavier than lead.
Oven timers ticked in the background, but no one dared to breathe.
Aiden stood firmly between me and Lorenzo Moretti.
He didn't realize the sheer magnitude of the dangerous man standing at our back door.
Lorenzo’s dark eyes shifted downward, focusing entirely on Aiden’s hand hovering near my waist.
A slow, lethal coldness spread across Lorenzo’s face.
“Move,” Lorenzo said, his voice dropping an octave.
“Sir, this is a private business kitchen,” Aiden stammered, trying to sound brave. “You can’t just walk in here.”
Lorenzo didn’t even look at Aiden’s face.
He simply made a slight gesture with two fingers.
Two towering men in tailored suits stepped past Lorenzo and grabbed Aiden by the shoulders.
They pulled him back effortlessly, pinning his arms behind his back before he could scream.
“Lorenzo, stop!” I shouted, stepping forward instinctively.
Lorenzo’s eyes snapped back to me, the ice instantly melting into something intensely burning.
“I told you to be careful,” Lorenzo murmured softly, completely ignoring the chaos around us.
He took three deliberate steps toward me until his immaculate shoes touched mine.
He placed the small velvet box on the stainless steel counter beside my half-finished tarts.
“What is this?” I asked, my heart hammering violently against my ribs.
“A warning to anyone who thinks they can stand between us,” Lorenzo replied.
He reached out with his bandaged right hand and gently tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
His touch was surprisingly delicate for a man who commanded Chicago’s underworld.
“He was just my manager, Lorenzo,” I whispered, trying to keep my voice steady.
May you like
“He looked at you as if he owned a piece of your heart,” Lorenzo whispered back.
“And no man alive gets to look at you that way again.”
