Chapter 3 - Secrets in the FlourThe acrid smell of gunpowder hung heavy in the ruined chapel as Viktor Vance advanced toward the stone altar, his heavy combat boots crunching over shards of stained glass and splinters of oak.
“Drop your weapons, Moretti!” Viktor barked, keeping his tactical shotgun trained on the gap where I crouched. “Or I blow your pretty little bride straight back to Boston in a ziplock bag!”
From the shadows near the baptismal font, Luca stood tall. His tailored suit jacket was torn across the shoulder, revealing a dark streak of blood where a stray bullet had grazed his skin, but he didn't seem to feel it. His chest rose and fell in slow, controlled surges, his eyes locked on Viktor with a cold, dead certainty that made the blood run cold in my veins.
“You stepped onto Moretti land, Viktor,” Luca said, his voice dropping an octave into a low, menacing purr. “That was your first mistake. Your second was bringing a gun to a family gathering.”
Before Viktor could pull the trigger, a sharp click echoed from the shadows behind the altar.
Elena stepped out from the vestry, holding a heavy-gauge hunting rifle with the practiced ease of someone who had grown up in a war zone. The barrel was pointed squarely at the center of Viktor’s spine.
“Drop it, Viktor,” Elena said, her voice ice-cold. “Unless you want your brains painted across the altar cloth.”
Viktor froze, his eyes darting frantically between Luca and Elena. Cursing in Italian, he dropped the shotgun onto the flagstones with a metallic clatter. “You think this is over?” he snarled, raising his hands. “The Commission knows what your father hid in the bakery, Sophia! They’ll tear your life apart brick by brick until they find those hard drives!”
Marco, recovering from his collision with the baptismal font, stepped forward and slammed the butt of his pistol into the side of Viktor’s helmet, dropping the assassin to the floor in a heap.
“Tie him up,” Luca commanded, not taking his eyes off me. He walked around the altar, his massive frame blotting out the flickering candlelight, and dropped to one knee beside me. His large, scarred hands gently cupped my face, his thumbs brushing away a smudge of soot from my cheek.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice uncharacteristically fragile.
“I’m fine,” I whispered, my voice shaking as I looked into his eyes. “Luca… what was he talking about? Hard drives? The bakery?”
Luca closed his eyes for a brief second, exhaling a long, ragged breath. “Your father wasn't just a baker, Sophia. Before he went into hiding in America, he was the chief financial auditor for the Syndicate. When he broke away, he took the ledger that could put half the Commission behind bars for the rest of their lives. When he died last year, I thought the secret died with him.”
“And you married me to protect the secret?” I pulled back slightly, a sudden spike of hurt cutting through the adrenaline.
“No,” Luca said fiercely, his grip tightening gently on my arms. “I married you because when my scouts in Boston told me Viktor was hunting your family, I knew the only way to keep you alive was to bring you inside the fortress. I didn't care about the ledger. I cared about the girl who sent back every threatening letter my enemies sent her.”
I stared at him, stunned. “You knew about me before today?”
“Since the day you chased a customer out of your bakery with a rolling pin because he insulted your sourdough,” Luca murmured, a faint, genuine smile finally breaking through his stoic expression.
“He called my baguettes dense!” I protested defensively, which somehow made the tension in the chapel snap.
Elena cleared her throat loudly behind us. “As touching as this domestic dispute is, we have a tied-up assassin in the middle of a consecrated floor, and a convoy of Viktor’s men heading up the mountain road right now.”
Luca stood up, towering over us once more, his aura of absolute authority snapping back into place. He extended a massive hand down to me.
“Can you run, Sophia?” he asked.
May you like
I took his hand, letting him pull me effortlessly to my feet. I smoothed down the rumpled fabric of my wedding dress, lifted my chin, and looked straight into the eyes of my terrifying, giant husband.
“Only if there’s a kitchen at the end of the escape route,” I said. “Because I have a feeling we’re going to need to bake our way out of this.”
