Page 1 of The Mob Boss's Bride
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Fern
The sugar flowerstake me three hours to perfect, my fingers cramping as I pipe the delicate petals onto the custom pastry box for "Atlas V." I don't usually handle deliveries myself, but Mia called in sick, and this order came with special instructions and a price tag that could cover my rent for the month. Something tells me this isn't just another rich client with a sweet tooth, but I need the money too badly to question it.
Sweet Ferns, my little bakery, smells like vanilla and cinnamon this morning. The scent usually calms me, wraps around me like a security blanket. Today, though, my nerves are frayed edges that refuse to be smoothed. I check the order again: two dozen custom petit fours with gold leaf, a dozen dark chocolate and espresso tarts, and an assortment of French macarons in black and gold. Whoever Atlas V is, he has expensive taste and a flair for the dramatic.
"You sure you don't want me to make the delivery?" asks my part-timer, a college student who looks barely old enough todrive. "That address is in the Heights. That's where all those, you know..." She lowers her voice. "Rich people. Like, mega-rich."
"I've got it." I secure the boxes with twine, tying a perfect bow. My hands are good for two things: creating delicate pastries and fidgeting when I'm nervous. Right now, they're doing both. "Watch the front counter. I shouldn't be more than an hour."
My ancient Volvo protests as I navigate the steep hills leading to the Heights, its engine wheezing like it might give up halfway. The weather matches my mood—gray clouds threatening rain, the kind of day that makes you want to curl up with tea rather than drive to a stranger's mansion.
The GPS chirps that I've arrived, but I double-check the address. The entrance is marked only by imposing iron gates, no name, no indication that anyone actually lives here. I press the intercom button, my heartbeat drumming in my ears.
"Name and business." The voice is male, clipped, professional.
"Fern Whitaker. From Sweet Ferns bakery. I have a delivery for... for Atlas V?" I hate how my voice lifts at the end, making it a question.
A pause. Then, "Drive through."
The gates swing open with a low groan. I follow a winding driveway lined with perfectly manicured trees that seem to stand at attention, like soldiers. Or guards. The mansion reveals itself gradually—three stories of dark stone and glass that looks more like a fortress than a home. Money drips from every angle, every carefully placed architectural feature. This isn't wealth; this is power.
I park near the front entrance, gathering the pastry boxes with trembling hands. The front door is solid wood, imposing and dark, with an ornate knocker that looks heavy enough tobreak my wrist if I tried to lift it. Before I can figure out what to do, the door swings open.
And there he is.
Atlas V isn't what I expected. He's worse. Better. Terrifying. Beautiful in the way a predator is beautiful.
He fills the doorway completely—six and a half feet at least, shoulders broader than any man I've ever seen up close. But it's not just his size that makes my breath catch. It's the intensity that radiates from him, an almost physical force.
His eyes lock onto mine—dark, calculating, absorbing every detail. Black hair, styled enough to look intentional but not fussy, frames a face that belongs on ancient coins. A face of hard planes and sharp angles, no softness to be found. And the tattoos—dear god, the tattoos. They climb up his neck from beneath his crisp black shirt, swirling patterns that somehow make him look even more dangerous rather than decorative.
"Miss Whitaker." His voice is low, a rumble that I feel in my chest more than hear.
"Yes, that's—that's me." I try to swallow, but my mouth has gone dry. "I have your order."
Why does that sound like I'm offering more than pastries?
He doesn't move, doesn't take the boxes. Instead, his gaze travels slowly, deliberately from my face down to my flour-dusted jeans and back up again. I feel stripped, examined, categorized—not in a leering way, but as if he's reading something written under my skin.
"Come in." He steps aside, the movement fluid despite his size.
I hesitate. Every instinct screams that I should leave the boxes on the doorstep and run. But something else, something I don't recognize, makes me step forward into his domain.
The foyer is minimalist, expensive, and cold—all marble and steel, nothing soft or inviting. Like its owner.
"Kitchen is this way." He doesn't wait to see if I follow, just assumes I will.
I trail behind him, trying not to notice how his back tapers to a narrow waist, how his presence seems to compress the air around us. The kitchen is industrial-grade, stainless steel gleaming under recessed lighting. It's beautiful, clearly designed by someone who appreciates culinary arts, but looks barely used.
"You can set them there." He gestures to an island countertop.
I place the boxes down carefully, opening each to display the contents. "The petit fours need to be refrigerated, but the others can stay at room temperature. They're best consumed within three days."
His eyes aren't on the pastries. They're on me, unwavering. "You made these yourself."
