Page 55 of Omega's Vengeance

I huff. “You’d better.”

His only response is a gruff laugh.

After a short drive, we pull into the parking lot of the Sugar Supreme Italian Bakery. The old, red-brick building is located on a sun-dappled street, nestled among a row of quaint, mid-century buildings. The bakery has been a beloved staple in the neighborhood as long as I can remember.

“I’ve never been here,” Dario says as he joins me by my side of the car.

“No? When my mother was alive, she’d always get my birthday cake from here.” I feel a melancholy twinge. “Dad found it too painful to come here after she was gone. From that point on, I got stuck with store bought cakes.”

“I’ve never had a birthday cake, period.”

I widen my eyes. “What? Never?”

He shrugs. “Who would have bought me one? My father wouldn’t have bothered.”

I wince. “And from what you’ve told me that’s probably a good thing. He might have put the candles out on your neck.”

Dario grimaces. “I never should have told you that story.”

I study him. “Why not?”

“I don’t know. It’s the past. Who cares what happened to me as a child? I grew up just fine.”

I laugh and say sardonically, “You’re athug, Dario. Gee, I wonder if having an asshole father could have played into that happening? Hmmm. Could that be possible?”

He gives me a surly glance, but doesn’t respond.

I smirk at his grumpy expression. “Don’t look like that. It’s good you told me that story about your dad. If we’re going to be married, we need to understand each other better. You don’t show much emotion. Knowing how you grew up, I guess I understand why you keep everything bottled up.”

He shifts uneasily. “I don’t keepeverythingbottled up.”

I smirk. “No? What do you share? Certainly not your feelings.”

He avoids my gaze, a line between his dark brows. “We should go inside. It’s cold out here.”

“See. You’re like a vault.” I shake my head and make my way to the front of the shop.

A little silver bell jingles as we enter the bakery. The interior is cozy and inviting, with exposed brick walls. Vintage wooden shelves line the room, filled with an assortment of bread, pastries, and cakes. The air inside the bakery is tinged with the scent of yeast, sugar, and cinnamon.

There’s an older woman working behind the counter. Her white hair is mostly covered by a black scarf, and her red apron dusted with flour. She moves with practiced grace, sliding trays of dough into the old oven with a long-handled peel. She looks up and smiles, revealing a few golden teeth mixed in with the others.

“Buongiorno,” she says, wiping her hands on her apron.

I smile at her. “Do you remember me? I used to come in with my mother a lot when I was a child. Before she passed.”

She squints and nods slowly. “You’re Joesph’s son.”

“That’s right.” I’m flattered she remembers me. “It’s been a long time. I didn’t think you’d know who I was.”

“It certainly has been a while. I recognize the color of your eyes. They’re a very unusual green.” She comes closer. “How’s Joesph?”

I grimace. “I’m afraid he passed away early this year.”

Her face falls. “Oh, no. I’m so sorry. He was such a nice man. Your mother was wonderful as well.”

“Thank you.” My heart aches thinking about my parents, so I change the subject. “I was wondering if you do wedding cakes?”

She nods. “We do it all.” She turns and grabs a big book filled with photos of cakes. She lifts it, grunting as if it weighs a ton, and drops it down on the counter with a loud thump. “Do you know what kind you want? Buttercream? Fondant?” She opens the book as she speaks.

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