Chapter 6 - The Bitter and the SweetThree months later, the mountain estate looked entirely different.
The bullet holes in the chapel had been repaired with fine stonework, the iron gates at the entrance had been reforged into intricate wrought-iron vines bearing stone roses, and the heavy air of dread that once hung over the halls had been replaced by the rich, comforting scent of vanilla, melted butter, and freshly baked brioche.
In the sunlit country kitchen on the ground floor, flour dusted the polished marble countertops.
I stood on a wooden step stool, trying to reach the high shelf for a bag of confectioner's sugar, when strong hands gripped me gently by the waist and lifted me effortlessly into the air, placing me squarely on top of the counter as if I weighed nothing at all.
I looked down into those familiar stormy eyes. Luca wore a simple linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing thick, corded forearms covered in a light dusting of white flour.
“You’re going to strain your back lifting a baker,” I teased, reaching out to brush a smudge of flour off the tip of his nose.
“A baker who insists on baking wedding cakes for every single cop, judge, and local merchant in Lombardy,” Luca countered, though a warm, affectionate smile curved his lips—a smile he reserved only for me.
“Rebuilding community relations, darling,” I said brightly. “Besides, the prosecutor’s wife said my lemon tarts were better than anything in Milan. That’s worth ten political alliances.”
The trials of Viktor Vance and the remaining members of the Commission had concluded two weeks prior, resulting in life sentences that effectively dismantled the syndicate’s European operations. The encrypted drives had done their job, cleaning house across the judiciary and leaving the Moretti estate standing not as a fortress of fear, but as a legitimate, respected pillar of the northern Italian community.
And Luca? The man the underworld whispered about in terror had become the legendary neighborhood figure who walked through the village square holding my hand, completely unbothered by the stares, because for the first time in his life, nobody was looking at him with pity or disgust. They looked at him with respect—and they looked at me with immense gratitude for keeping him sweet.
“Elena called,” Luca murmured, resting his large hands on either side of my hips, trapping me gently against the edge of the counter. “She’s bringing more flour from the supplier in Turin. Apparently, your weekend orders have completely wiped out the regional stock.”
“Tell her to bring chocolate chips too,” I replied, leaning down and resting my forehead against his broad chest. “The winter gala is coming up, and I promised the mayor’s daughters a multi-tiered chocolate truffle cake.”
Luca let out a soft sigh, his arms wrapping securely around my back, holding me close as the afternoon sunlight poured through the tall windows, warming the ancient stone room.
“You know,” Luca whispered against my hair, “when your father’s carriage first pulled up to these gates, I was certain you would run away before the car door even opened.”
I pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, reaching up to trace the faint scar along his jawline.
“I almost did,” I admitted softly. “My suitcase wheel caught on the gravel, I tripped over my own feet, and I nearly pulled you into the mud.”
“And you grabbed my shirt like you were holding onto a lifeline,” Luca said, his voice thick with emotion.
“I was,” I smiled. “I just didn't know yet that the giant I grabbed was actually the sweetest thing on the mountain.”
May you like
He groaned softly, leaning up to press his lips gently against mine in a warm, lingering kiss that tasted of sugar and belonging.
Outside, the snow began to fall over Lake Como, blanketing the pine trees and jagged peaks in a pristine, quiet white. But inside the kitchen, wrapped in the arms of a man who no longer had to fight the world alone, the fire burned bright, the ovens hummed with life, and our happily ever after was baked to absolute perfection.
