Page 62 of Baby Surprise for my Brother's Best Friend

“Someone watching me?”

“Watching both of you,” he corrects, and the way he says it makes my skin crawl.

I clench my jaw. “Keep pushing. I want a name.”

“I’ll get it,” Nikolai promises. “Just… watch your back, yeah?”

“I’m done being a fucking target. And I’m done letting her be one.”

I hang up and stare at the phone in my palm, my pulse still hammering.

This used to be about cleaning up my mess. Now it’s about keeping her safe.

And that’s a hell of a lot more dangerous motivation.

The smell hits me the second I push open the door, cinnamon, butter, almond, sugar. It’s warm in the way memories are, wrapping around me like a childhood blanket.

The place is barely bigger than a closet, tucked into the corner of a sleepy Brooklyn block. Brick walls, dusty wood shelves, a chalkboard menu with smudged prices. Nothing flashy. Just comfort.

I step up to the counter, clearing my throat. “Box of chocolate-dipped cannoli. And almond crescent cookies.”

The older woman behind the register, short, with gray streaks in her tight bun and shrewd eyes that miss nothing, tilts her head.

“You a Marchetti?”

My chest tightens. “Yeah. Alessio.”

Her face softens. “Your mama came here every time she was in town. Always said this place reminded her of home. She used to sit right over there.” She gestures to a tiny two-top table by the window. “Wouldn’t leave without a box of cannoli and crescents for her son.”

Something cracks open in my chest, sharp and sudden. “She used to bring me here when I was a kid.”

“I remember. Big brown eyes. Always trying to steal an extra cookie when she wasn’t looking.”

A rough laugh escapes me. “That tracks.”

She nods, slipping the pastries into a box. “She had good taste.”

“Yeah, she really did.”

When I step outside, the cold bites a little harder than before, but I don’t feel it. Not really.

I’m carrying a box of pastries, sure. But what I’m really holding is a piece of Mom, a woman who made me believe I was more than my father’s name. A woman whose love didn’t come with conditions or strategies or exit clauses. My mother gave that kind of love freely. Fiercely. And maybe Sophie is part of that, too.

She makes me want to be the man my mother always saw.

And damn if that doesn’t terrify me.

By the time Sophie gets home, the bakery box is already sitting on the counter with a sticky note on top in my messy scrawl.

Figured you could use something sweet after babysitting me all week.

She pauses when she sees it, arching an eyebrow. “You bribing me with carbs now?”

I lift one shoulder in a shrug. “Just trying to soften you up.”

Her lips twitch. “Bold of you to assume I can be softened.”

I step closer, dropping my voice just enough to make her still. “You were last night.”

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