Page 60 of Mafia Don's Secret Heir
“Buongiorno, Claudia,” I reply with a smile. “What can I get for you?”
She hesitates, glancing at the display case before blurting, “I just wanted to say…your son is wonderful. You’re doing such a good job with him.”
Her words catch me off guard. I thank her, but as she walks out, I feel a lump form in my throat.
It’s true. I’ve built a good life for him. But as I watch him color, his brow furrowed in concentration, I can’t help but wonder if this quiet existence is enough. He deserves more than safety. He deserves a legacy.
I push the thought away and busy myself with the next order. But it’s there, gnawing at the edges of my mind. By the time the shop begins to quiet, the feeling is suffocating. I take a moment to sit behind the counter, letting my head fall into my hands.
In the stillness, memories come unbidden. Luca’s voice, dark and commanding, telling me I was his equal. His eyes, burning with an intensity that made me feel alive in ways I never had before or since. I miss the fire.
I miss the way he looked at me, as if I was the only thing in the world that could match his force.
“Mamma?”
My son’s voice pulls me back. I look up to see him holding a sketch of a castle he’s been drawing.
“Is it good?” he asks, his face alight with pride.
“It’s perfect,” I say, my heart clenching as I gather him into my arms.
The bell jingles softly, almost like an afterthought, and I glance up from the counter, expecting Mrs. Bellucci or maybe Paolo with his endless jokes.
But it’s not Mrs. Bellucci.
It’s Luca Salvatore standing in the doorway as if he’s been summoned by my own thoughts, his broad shoulders framed against the sunlight streaming in from the street. He’s dressed simply—dark jeans, a fitted black shirt that clings to his chest—but there’s nothing simple about him. Power radiates off him, sharp and unyielding, as though he owns not just the bakery but the whole town.
My breath catches. He steps forward, his boots thudding softly against the wooden floor, and every inch of my carefully constructed life quivers.
For five years, I’ve been safe. Hidden. I’ve built walls around myself so thick and high that I thought no one could break through.
But Luca doesn’t need to break them. He just walks in. His dark eyes lock onto mine, unreadable but magnetic. My heart pounds like a war drum, each beat echoing in my ears. I should move, speak,dosomething, but my body feels paralyzed, trapped in the pull of his gaze.
“Mamma?” My son’s voice pierces the silence, soft and curious.
I tear my eyes away from Luca, my chest heaving as I glance down at him. He’s clutching his coloring book, looking between me and the man who just turned my world upside down.
Luca’s gaze drops to him, and for a brief moment, something flickers in his expression. Not cold calculation. Not the dangerous fire I remember. Something softer.
My stomach twists. I stand abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. “What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice sharp, too sharp.
The corner of his mouth tilts upward in the faintest of smirks, but his eyes remain on me. “I came for you, Valentina.”
Those words land like a bomb, shattering the fragile calm I’ve been clinging to.
“You don’t get to say that,” I snap, my voice trembling with anger. “You don’t get to just show up here.”
“I just did.”
The audacity of him—of this man who turned my life inside out and left me scrambling to make sense of it—stokes a fire inside me. “You have no right?—”
“Don’t I?” His voice is parched, rugged, and dear God, he looks like he has suffered in my absence. His face is leaner, the sharp planes of his cheekbones more pronounced. A dark beard shadows his jaw, scruffier than I ever thought Luca Salvatore would allow. His eyes, still the deepest shade of midnight, are rimmed with faint circles.
And yet, despite the wear etched into him, he’s devastatingly handsome. His magnetism is undimmed, even enhanced, like he’s been tempered in fire since the last time I saw him.
It infuriates me, how much I want him, how much I’ve missed him. I place a hand on my throat to choke back a sob. I step around the counter, my hands shaking as I push past him toward the door. “You need to leave.”
“Valentina,” he says.
