Page 59 of Mafia Don's Secret Heir
As she leaves, my son jumps off the stool, darting toward the shelves. “I’ll make sure everything looks nice, Mamma!”
“Don’t climb the shelves,” I warn, though he’s already moving jars of marmalade into neater rows.
The quiet hum of the bakery wraps around me like a cocoon. The walls hold stories now—of mornings spent kneading dough, of neighbors gossiping over cappuccinos, of laughter that has filled every corner of this small but steady haven.
This shop saved me.
I glance at my son, who’s now inspecting the biscotti molds with the kind of intense focus only a child can muster. His tiny face is a reminder of why I left, why I fought to build this life from nothing. But the peace I’ve carved out feels fragile, like a loaf of bread just on the edge of being overproofed. One wrong move and everything could collapse.
Shaking the thought away, I run my fingers along the counter, feeling the cool marble beneath my palm. This is my place, my rhythm, my escape.
“Mamma, the sun’s coming in!” my son says, pointing to the soft rays spilling through the window.
I smile. “That’s how we know it’s time to open the doors.”
The town is waking now. Voices echo from the piazza, and the faint clatter of bicycle wheels fills the street. I move to the door and flip the sign toAperto, my heart swelling with a familiar mix of hope and trepidation.
The day is just beginning. The bell above the door jingles as I hand a loaf of semolina bread to Paolo, the town’s butcher.
“Grazie, Valentina,” he says, his grin as wide as the sharp knives he uses. “You’ve outdone yourself again. This is the kind of bread that makes a man believe in miracles.”
“Let me know if it works,” I tease, returning his grin.
Paolo laughs heartily, slinging the bread into his basket before waving goodbye. The door swings shut behind him, and for a brief moment, the shop is silent except for the soft rustling of my son flipping through a coloring book behind the counter.
It’s a good morning. A normal morning.
I wipe my hands on my apron and turn to the next customer, forcing my mind to stay present. Each interaction is a lifeline, a reminder of the life I’ve built here. They know me as Valentina Russo, the baker with the cherubic son and a knack for making the perfect cannoli.
Not the Valentina who once walked through the lion’s den and stared down the king.
The customers come and go, their chatter a warm hum in the background. Mrs. Bellucci needs a dozen pastries for her grandson’s birthday; Mario from the café next door picks up his usual supply of fresh rolls. Each interaction keeps me tethered, grounding me in this new reality.
And yet, I feel the strain of it.
As the morning stretches on, the routine that once comforted me now feels mechanical, each movement rehearsed and hollow. My hands knead dough, my lips form polite words, but mythoughts drift somewhere darker, somewhere I can’t allow myself to go.
Until I do.
It’s small things at first. The way the sun catches on the knife as I slice a baguette reminds me of the glint of a gun barrel. A passing customer with a shadowed jaw and confident gait reminds me, fleetingly, of Luca. The name is a wound that hasn’t healed, a scar I refuse to acknowledge but can’t help tracing in my mind.
“Everything all right, Mamma?” my son’s small voice cuts through the fog.
I blink and find him looking up at me, his big brown eyes full of innocent concern.
“Yes, sweetheart,” I say, my voice steady. “I’m just thinking.”
He nods, satisfied, and goes back to his coloring book. I watch him for a moment, his small face so peaceful, so unburdened. This is why I left.
And yet. The peace I’ve created here feels fragile. Not because of any external threat, but because of something within me. A restlessness. A longing.
I miss it. Not the danger or the violence, but thelife. The intensity. The way Luca’s presence filled every corner of a room, every corner ofme. The way he challenged me, pushed me,sawme.
I miss being seen.
The door opens again, and in walks Claudia, one of the younger women in the village. She’s been working up the courage to speak to me for weeks now, and today, it seems, she’s found it.
“Buongiorno, Valentina,” she says shyly, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear.
