Page 58 of Mafia Don's Secret Heir
What about this gnawing emptiness, the ache that hasn’t dulled no matter how many sunrises I’ve watched rise over these hills?
“Are you okay, Mamma?” my son asks, his small hand slipping into mine.
I force a smile, squeezing his fingers. “I’m perfect,amore mio. Let’s go home.”
The walk is short, but the weight in my chest feels heavier with each step. By the time we’re back, the sun is high, casting sharp shadows across the courtyard. My son runs ahead, his laughter echoing against the walls.
I linger by the door, watching him play, and feel the ache swell to something unbearable. I don’t regret leaving Luca—not for the safety of my son. But I can’t deny it anymore: I miss him.
The rest of the day passes as it always does: in simple little joys. But my heart is uneasy today. Something is stirring.
I carry this restlessness to bed. It doesn’t fade, not when I try to sleep, and not even when the sun rises once again. Today, I have to go to the bakery. Leo will be joining me.
The cobblestones are still cool underfoot as we step onto the winding streets, my son’s small hand curled tightly in mine. Morning light dapples the path, streaming through the dense canopy of olive trees that border the road. The town hasn’t fully stirred yet, the world hushed except for the soft trill of birds and the rhythmic patter of the feet of the stray cat tailing us.
“Are we making cannoli today, Mamma?” he asks, his voice carrying that boundless excitement I’ve come to rely on. His cheeks are flushed from the walk, his little fingers pointing ahead like we’re on some grand adventure.
“Maybe,” I say, my smile lingering. “If we have enough ricotta left. Otherwise, you’ll have to settle for biscotti.”
“Biscotti’s good too,” he replies, grinning wide enough to show off his tiny teeth.
We turn the corner, and there it is: the bakery. My bakery. Its soft blue shutters are propped open, the delicate scent of yeast and vanilla drifting into the quiet street. The hand-paintedsign above the door readsDolce Vita, its golden lettering slightly worn from five years of sun and Sicilian rains.
This place is my heartbeat.
I feel the familiar swell of pride as I open the door, letting my son rush in ahead of me. His laughter fills the space, bouncing off the rustic stone walls and the rows of wooden shelves.
“Careful!” I call after him, though my smile betrays the warning.
The shop is modest but warm. Rustic shelves line the walls, displaying neatly arranged loaves of crusty bread, golden cornetti, and delicate pastries dusted with powdered sugar. A glass case by the counter gleams with cakes, their vibrant fruit glazes catching the light.
I set down my basket and tie on my apron, already feeling the calm routine settle over me. Here, I am not running, not hiding. I am simply Valentina Russo, the baker ofDolce Vita.
“Mamma, can I help today?” my son asks, pulling up a stool by the counter.
“You always help,” I say, brushing flour from his cheek. “You’re the best assistant I’ve ever had.”
His laugh is my favorite sound in the world.
I check the oven, where the first batch of bread has risen beautifully, the crust golden and perfect. I grab a paddle and pull them out one by one, their heat filling the air with a familiar, comforting warmth. My son’s eager hands reach for a loaf, and I swat them gently away.
“Too hot,” I say. “You’ll burn yourself.”
“Just one bite,” he pleads, his eyes wide with mock innocence.
“You’ll wait,” I say firmly, though I can’t help but laugh.
The bell above the door jingles, and I glance up to see Nonna Francesca, one of my first and most loyal customers. Sheshuffles in, her knitted shawl draped over her shoulders and her woven basket in hand.
“Buongiorno, cara,” she greets, her voice warm. “I smelled the bread from my window.”
“You always do,” I tease, grabbing a fresh loaf for her. “Still warm, just the way you like it.”
She smiles, slipping a few coins onto the counter before ruffling my son’s curls. He beams at her, holding up his wooden horse like it’s a treasure.
“Look, Nonna! Mamma and I are going to make biscotti later.”
“Ah, such a good helper,” she says, her eyes twinkling. “Your mamma is lucky to have you.”
