Page 136 of Ruined By Blood
He pulls the car to a stop in front of a small storefront with a faded blue awning. My words die in my throat as I stare at the hand-painted sign: "Francesca's Bakery."
Every Sunday morning for years, my mother took me here. This tiny Italian bakery tucked away on a quiet street, far enough from my father's house that we felt free for those precious hours.
"How did you..." I whisper, unable to finish the thought as memories wash over me.
Enzo takes my hand. "You told me about it. You said the owner would save almond cookies for you."
Tears blur my vision. I mentioned it once, months ago, in passing. And he remembered.
"Is it still...?" I can't form complete sentences.
"Let's find out," Enzo says gently.
The bell above the door chimes as we enter. The scent hits me immediately – butter, sugar, and almond extract. It smells exactly the same, like stepping back in time. The glass display cases, the small round tables with their blue and white checkered cloths, the vintage espresso machine behind the counter.
An elderly woman emerges from the back room, wiping flour-covered hands on her apron. Her silver hair is pulled back in a neat bun, deep lines etched around her eyes andmouth. She's older now, more stooped, but unmistakably the same woman who would greet us with a warm smile every Sunday.
"Ah! Mr. Feretti!" she calls out, her voice accented but strong.
To my surprise, Enzo steps forward and embraces her like family, kissing her cheeks. "Francesca. Thank you for doing this."
She pats his face affectionately.
Her gaze shifts to me, and I see the moment recognition dawns in her eyes. She gasps, one hand covering her mouth.
"Santa Maria... is this my little Sienna?" She moves closer, studying my face. "Those eyes. I would know those eyes anywhere."
I can't speak. Can't move. Can barely breathe.
"Enzo here, he came to me last month," Francesca says, reaching for my hands. "He talked about the beautiful little girl and her mother who stopped coming for Sunday cookies." Her eyes glisten with tears.
A sob escapes me. "I—I didn't think you'd remember us."
"Remember?" She clicks her tongue. "For three years, every Sunday, you sat at that table by the window. Your mother would have cappuccino, you would have hot chocolate. And always, always the almond cookies."
She squeezes my hands before turning toward the counter. "Wait, wait."
Francesca disappears into the back room, returning moments later with a white bakery box tied with blue string.
"For you," she says, pressing it into my hands. "Made fresh this morning."
With trembling fingers, I untie the string and lift the lid. The aroma that rises makes my knees weak – sweet almond paste, butter, powdered sugar. Exactly as I remember.
I close my eyes, and suddenly I'm nine years old again, sitting across from my mother, crumbs on my chin, laughter in the air, not a care in the world beyond the sweetness melting on my tongue.
"Thank you," I whisper, not sure if I'm speaking to Francesca or Enzo or both.
We return to the car in silence, Sienna cradling the bakery box in her lap like it contains something infinitely precious. Her knuckles are white where she grips the edges, her breathing uneven.
I start the engine but don't pull away immediately. Instead, I watch her profile as she stares out the windshield, tears sliding silently down her cheeks.
"I thought you might want to sit inside," I say quietly. "Have a cookie at your old table."
She shakes her head, fingers tracing the blue string. "I couldn't. Not yet." Her voice breaks. "It's too much, Enzo. All at once."
I reach across the console and take her hand, gently prying it from the box. "I understand, piccola."
And I do. Some memories are too raw, too sacred to revisit fully. Sometimes you need to approach them in pieces, like a wild animal you're trying not to startle.
