Page 18 of Secret Babies for the Italian Mafia Boss

I push out the door, and the brightness from the setting sun blinds me for a moment. I’m so used to being in the club, which is dark and has no windows. I need to try and get out more.

I hear the roar of my Mercedes G6 and wait on the sidewalk for Alvize to come to a stop. The matte black paint gives the car a stealthy and lethal appearance.

“Ready to see what your rival is up to?” Alvize raises his voice when I open the door.

“No. It’s a waste of my time, but let’s get it over with.” I click my seatbelt and lean my elbow on the door, rubbing my mouth with two fingers. “Let’s go.”

He turns on the blinker, pulls onto the road, and I pass the other clubs. This main street stays alive every night. It’s the place to be. It’s where money flows and lives change for the better.

Sometimes for the worse.

I flex my dominant hand when it becomes stiff, the joints popping with relief. Ten minutes in a silent car ride later, we pull into the parking lot where the coffee shop is that’s settled between two other stores. It’s a quaint strip. The building is made of red brick, and the windows in each shop are large and inviting, showing what each store has to offer.

“Looks like the coffee shop has a neighbor. A bakery. Man, a donut sounds so good right now. Looks like they just opened,” he says as we get out of the car.

“You go get the donuts, and I’ll get us coffee. Deal?”

“Deal.” He bolts over to the bakery, and I chuckle. The man has always had a sweet tooth.

I push the door open, and immediately the aroma of fresh coffee hits my nose. Booths are aligned along the wall, and the floors are a bright purple epoxy. Each wall is painted a different color; if I stay here too long, I know I’ll get a headache.

I like shades of black, gray, white, and green.

Duller colors.

There are varieties of different tables and chairs too. Not one is the same. It looks like everything was thrifted, and some seats have different colored cushions with different patterns. A few young people have their laptops out, their attention on their screens, and they don’t notice me.

“Luca.” Cora smiles behind the counter. “Let me guess, the usual and a black coffee for your friend?”

“You know me well, Cora,” I say, leaning against the counter. I watch Cora work, a smile still plastered onto her face, and her cheeks are rosy. “You are happy today.”

She nods. “I am, aren’t I? My best friend came back to town. I thought she was dead, honestly, with who her father is. But she’s back, and she has the shop right next door. She owns the bakery. I’m very happy.”

“I’m happy to hear you got your friend back. That must be nice.” I tip the jar a couple hundred dollars as she slides the drinks across the counter.

“Actually, you might remember her. We were at your club for her birthday.”

“Camilla?” Her name flows effortlessly from my lips, and a surge of hope fills me.

“Yes! She’s back.”

She’s back.

And she’s going to be mine.

“Thank you, Cora. And congratulations.”

“Thanks, Luca. I’ll see you later. Have a good day.”

I lift my drink in the air. “You too.” Cora is a sweet girl, and I’d even maybe consider her a friend. I’d protect her if she were ever in trouble.

I give her my back, and my façade drops. My head spins with determination, and I push my way out the door; it takes all I have not to march through those bakery doors and demand answers, demand her to be mine, but I know that won’t work.

I don’t know what happened to her for all these years, but she’ll tell me in her own time. It’s time I plan to earn. I slide into the SUV and watch out the windshield, my eyes on the bakery, and Alvize strolls out the door, a box of donuts in one hand and shoving his face with a pastry in the other.

And then she’s there.

I hold my breath as I watch her clean the windows out front. Her apron has flour fingerprints on it, and her long hair I love so much is up in a messy bun.

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