Prologue
Matilde
Sometimes, I dream of that night. The chill and the rustle of leaves from the tree outside my bedroom window. The branches would scrape against my window and create giant animated shadows that looked like monsters. Most nights, I would simply yank the covers over my head and go back to sleep, but that night, the shadows appeared larger. Scarier.
And the night was cold.
So cold.
So fresh are the memories that I can practically feel the chill on my skin, and every time I do, I wonder… What if I’d never woken up that night or snuck into my parents’ bedroom to cuddle with them?
Heck, I wasn’t even supposed to be home that night. I’d turned down my twin sister’s offer to join her for a sleepover at a friend’s house and decided I wanted to stay home. But what if I’d gone to the sleepover with Arianna instead?
Then maybe…just maybe, I wouldn’t have found myself locked in my parents’ closet, tears and snot running down myface as I watched a monster kill them. If I had stayed in my room, then I wouldn’t have seen or heard what no fourteen-year-old should.
Then I wouldn’t be crying while decorating my cousin’s wedding cake.
I sniff back tears before they can fall, fanning my eyes with my hands. Baking was something my mother and I shared—weekend mornings covered in flour, her patient hands guiding mine as she taught me to pipe frosting roses and fold delicate pastry dough. She always said I had a gift. I always knew I would be a baker from a very young age and thought I’d spend years learning beside her before I had to worry about doing it alone.
But I’m doing this alone.Without her.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
This isn’t the time to be mourning the past. No, I reserve those moments for when I’m alone in my bedroom and need to cry myself to sleep just to ease the ache in my chest. Definitely not here in my aunt’s kitchen and not when I still have so much left to do. Sofia’s wedding cake isn’t going to decorate itself and I’m already running behind schedule.
I volunteered to make the cake when Sofia mentioned Aunt Bianca was hiring some expensive bakery in Manhattan. My cousin had looked so overwhelmed by the whole affair—the arranged marriage, the Rossis, all of it—and I wanted to give her something made with love. Something personal. Aunt Bianca had fought me on it, of course. She’d wanted to impress the Rossi family with a designer cake, not “amateur hour,” as she’d called it.
But Sofia insisted, and for once, Uncle Giovanni sided with his daughter. Sofia rarely asked for anything, and I think even Uncle Giovanni recognized this was important to her.
I’m putting the finishing touches on the sugar flower cascade when I hear footsteps in the hallway—too heavy to be any of my cousins, too measured to be Uncle Giovanni’s impatient stride.
“Hello?”
The voice is deep, unmistakably male, and definitely not anyone I recognize. I lift my head, swiping hastily at my damp cheeks, and my breath catches when a figure appears in the kitchen doorway. A dark striking figure framed by the soft morning light.
He hasn’t noticed me yet, his eyes scanning the kitchen, so I take a moment to study him.
My gaze travels over dark tailored pants, a crisp white shirt that highlights the olive tones of his skin. The shirt is tucked in neatly, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal dark tattoo lines that disappear beneath the fabric. And that chest—Christ, I’ve never seen anything like it. The way the shirt stretches across his shoulders is impossible to ignore.
I shake my head from the thoughts, swiping at my wet cheeks again before clearing my throat to pull the man’s attention to me.
“Um, can I help you?”
His head turns toward me, and it’s like being hit with a hammer. The air leaves my lungs as I find myself staring at a face that’s a striking combination of dark and light. His hair is a rich raven black, thick and neatly styled to fall just across his forehead. A perfect frame for that face and those eyes…
Christ, those eyes.
They’re a pale mesmerizing green, like the leaves of a willow tree in the springtime, flecked with hints of gold. They’reintense, too—dangerous in the way they watch me and track my movements as I step away from the counter, dusting the excess powdered sugar from my apron.
“Miss Marino?" he says in a deep, rich baritone voice that sends butterflies fluttering in my stomach.
“I’m Matilde Marino.”
“My name is Luca Conti. I’m here for the cake.”
“The…cake?”
He lifts a single dark brow. “The wedding cake. For Matteo Rossi and Sofia’s wedding.” He slides his hands into his pockets as he strides toward me, and I try to ignore the way my heart races. “I'm in charge of wedding security. I’ll be escorting it to the venue.”
