"There's flour in the kitchen." She says it randomly. A sharp change of subject.
"Yes." I don't elaborate.
"You said there were no knives. But there is baking flour." She tilts her head. The curls tumble over her shoulder. "Commercial grade yeast. Huge bags of sugar. Stand mixers. Why does a mafia boss have a bakery in his safe house?"
"Underboss." I correct her again automatically. "And the kitchen is stocked because I requested it."
"You bake." The statement is flat out disbelief. She looks at my heavy, tattooed arms. She looks at the blackout tribal sleeve completely covering my left bicep. She looks at the scars on my knuckles. "You. You bake."
"It requires exact measurements." I explain clinically. I refuse to give her the emotional truth. I refuse to tell her that baking is the only thing that quiets the screaming war room in my skull. Measuring flour. Kneading dough. Controlling the exact chemical reactions of yeast and heat. It is the only place in my violent world where following the rules guarantees a perfect outcome.
"You bake." She repeats it. A tiny, incredulous smile tugs at the corner of her lips. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
I want to ruin that smile with my mouth. I want to devour it.
"Go to your room, Clara." My voice drops an octave. The animal instinct is screaming for release. I am losing the battle to remain civilized. "Before I change my mind about letting you lock the door."
Her smile vanishes. The reality of her situation crashes back down on her shoulders. She turns without another word.
She walks down the long hallway. Her boots make little sound on the plush carpet. She reaches the master suite. She steps inside.
The heavy oak door clicks shut.
The lock engages with a sharp, metallic snap.
I stand alone in the middle of the Il Corvo penthouse. The rain continues to assault the glass behind me. The city of Chicago glows like a bed of embers in the dark.
She thinks the locked door keeps her safe from me. She thinks the wood and the brass can stop a man who dismantles entire criminal syndicates for a living.
She doesn't understand the rules of this new world yet.
I walk toward the kitchen. The black marble island is empty. The ash wood bat still lies forgotten against the baseboards. I pick it up. I run my thumb over the worn grip tape. I can still smell her in the air. Chalkboard dust and fresh linen.
My cousin Dominic will call soon. Turi will want an update. The entire Costa family will want to know why I pulled a million dollars out of the operational fund to buy the debt of a deadbeat gambler. They will demand explanations. They will demand the shipping logs. They will want to use Clara as a pawn on the board.
Let them try.
I toss the ash wood bat into the corner. It clatters loudly against the wall.
I walk over to the massive stainless steel refrigerator. I pull open the heavy door. Rows of butter. Gallons of milk. Dozens of eggs. The raw materials of control. The ingredients of temporary sanity.
I pull a block of butter from the shelf. I toss it onto the marble counter.
She is mine. The debt is just the paperwork. The collateral is the excuse.
The absolute truth is entirely primal. I looked at her, and my biology rewrote itself to include her in my survival.
The Bellantis will come for her. Arthur Reeves will eventually surface. The war will escalate.
I grab a massive metal mixing bowl from the lower cabinet. I slam it onto the black marble island.
I will slaughter every single man who steps foot within ten miles of this penthouse. I will paint the streets of the South Side red. I will sever Lorenzo Bellanti's head from his body, and I will bury the pieces where no one will ever find them.
I reach for the flour.
She is staying right here.
3
