THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE TOLD ME TO KEEP AN OLD CLEANER’S HOMEMADE LASAGNA AWAY FROM THE DINNER TABLE BECAUSE “SHE’S STAFF, NOT FAMILY”—BUT WHEN VINCENT ROMANO TASTED IT, HE ASKED WHO HAD MADE HER PAY TO ATTEND HIS FATHER’S MEMORIAL. “She can leave it by the sink.” Celeste Marchesi didn’t look at the old woman. She looked at me. In my hands was a dented metal baking tin. Inside lay a lasagna wrapped in foil. A little tomato sauce had leaked onto the towel beneath it. “It’s for Vincent,” the woman said. Celeste adjusted the diamond bracelet on her wrist. “Mr. Romano.” The woman nodded. “Of course.” Her name was Ada Ferri. She was seventy-five. For thirty-two years, she had cleaned the Romano family home. Tonight, she wore her best black dress under an old wool coat. At her collar was a small silver brooch. “I made his father’s favorite,” she said. Celeste glanced toward the dining room. “This is a private memorial dinner.” “I received an invitation.” “An invitation to pay your respects. Not to join the family table.” Ada’s fingers tightened around her purse. My name is Grace Miller. I was twenty-nine and had worked in the house for six months. I had spent all afternoon polishing silver. Now I stood holding food made by a woman who wasn’t being offered a chair. “I can ask Mr. Romano,” I said. Celeste stepped between me and the doorway. “You can follow instructions.” Ada touched my elbow. “Don’t risk your job, sweetheart.” She reached into her purse. “I only need a receipt before I go.” Celeste’s expression changed. “For what?” I asked. Ada looked confused. “The contribution.” Celeste answered quickly. “The memorial fund.” Ada nodded. “Five thousand dollars.” I nearly dropped the tin. Celeste lowered her voice. “Grace. Kitchen.” I carried the lasagna away. But I didn’t leave it by the sink. Twenty minutes later, Vincent Romano sat at the head of the table. A photograph of his father stood beside an arrangement of white flowers. Guests spoke softly over their plates. I placed a small serving of lasagna before him. Celeste saw the sauce. “Grace, we already have a menu.” Vincent picked up his fork. “Then we have one more dish.” He tasted it. His eyes moved toward the kitchen door. “Is Ada here?” “Yes, sir.” “Why hasn’t anyone brought her in?” Celeste folded her napkin. “She didn’t want to interrupt.” Ada was still waiting in the hallway. Vincent went to her himself. “You came.” “I wouldn’t miss it.” He looked at the tin in my hands. “You remembered.” Ada smiled. “Your father always wanted the corner piece.” Vincent laughed once. Then his eyes filled. “He said it was the only part worth fighting over.” He brought her to the table. Celeste moved her handbag onto the empty chair beside her. Vincent picked it up and handed it back. “Ada sits here.” I fetched another place setting. Ada took off her coat. A small envelope slipped from its pocket. Vincent bent to retrieve it. Across the front was written: MEMORIAL CONTRIBUTION — PAID. He looked at Ada. “What is this?” She glanced at Celeste. “My payment.” “For what?” “The dinner.” Vincent stared at her. “You paid to come here?” Celeste leaned forward. “It was a donation.” Ada shook her head. “You said there was a minimum.” Silence spread down the table. Vincent turned to Celeste. “A minimum?” “To support the foundation.” “What foundation?” She opened her mouth. Then closed it. Ada looked from one face to another. “I didn’t mind helping. I just thought I should get a receipt.” Vincent opened the envelope. Inside was a bank deposit slip. He read the account name. MARCHESI PRIVATE EVENTS. Celeste’s company. “This didn’t go to a foundation.” “I paid for the flowers,” she said. Vincent looked at the arrangements. Then at Ada. “Where did you get five thousand dollars?” Ada smoothed her napkin. “I had some savings.” Celeste exhaled. “There. No one forced her.” Ada kept her eyes lowered. “Not quite enough savings.” Vincent waited. “I sold something.” “What?” “The watch your father gave me when I retired.” Vincent’s hand stopped on the envelope. Ada tried to smile. “He always said it was valuable.” At the far end of the table, an elderly man put down his glass. Then a woman opened her evening bag. She withdrew an envelope identical to Ada’s. “I was told there was a minimum, too,” she said. Vincent looked around the table. “Who else paid?” One hand rose. Then another. Celeste pushed back her chair. Vincent turned toward her. “How many invitations did you sell?” / Chapter 13 / 15

Chapter 13 - The Golden Ovens and The Baker Who Never Left

One month later, 4th Street looked like a scene from a golden era.

The cracked sidewalk had been replaced with smooth cobblestone. The storefronts were freshly painted, with new awnings in rich forest greens and deep burgundies.

The Vitale Bakery had been restored to an unimaginable level of beauty.

In the center of the bakery floor stood a brand-new slab of flawless white Carrara marble, quarried from the exact same vein in Genoa, Italy, that Rose Moretti had visited fifty years prior.

In the back kitchen, two state-of-the-art golden hearth ovens had been custom-built and installed, capable of baking two hundred loaves of bread an hour.

The grand reopening was scheduled for Saturday morning at eight o’clock.

At six a.m., the scent of fresh rosemary, garlic, toasted wheat, and warm olive oil spilled out into the autumn morning air, drifting across the entire four-block radius.

Elena stood at the center of the marble table, her hands covered in white flour, humming an old Italian lullaby.

I stood beside her, shaping small round boules of dough and placing them onto the wooden peels.

The brass bell above the front door chimed.

Damian walked in.

He wasn't wearing a three-piece mobster suit today.

He wore dark denim, heavy leather boots, and a simple charcoal sweater with the sleeves rolled up.

He walked into the kitchen, picked up a dusting of flour, and playfully tossed it across my apron.

“You’re getting fast, Bennett,” he smiled.

“I learned from the best, Mr. Moretti,” I laughed, brushing flour off my cheek.

Elena looked up at the two of us, a warm, knowing twinkle in her pale blue eyes.

“Damian, fetch the olive oil from the pantry. Lucy, help him carry the large jug.”

“Yes, Elena,” we said in unison.

We walked into the large, sunlit pantry at the back of the shop.

As I reached up to grab the glass jar of cold-pressed oil from the top shelf, my foot slipped on a slick spot of flour.

I gasped, losing my balance.

Before I could fall, Damian’s strong arms caught me around the waist, pulling me securely against his chest.

The world seemed to stop.

The morning sunlight streamed through the high brick window, catching the golden dust motes dancing in the air.

His face was inches from mine. His silver eyes were soft, intense, and filled with a warmth I had never seen him show another living soul.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered.

“You always do,” I breathed, unable to look away from his gaze.

He didn't let go. His hand moved up to gently tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his thumb lingering against my cheek.

“My mother’s letter was right, you know,” he said softly.

“About what?”

“About the sapphire,” Damian murmured. “About finding a woman who understands that true wealth isn't built on power... but on loyalty and a kind heart.”