Silver Fox Kingpin

1 Cece

The warm, comforting smell of fresh bread fills the bakery as I pull the last batch from the oven. It’s early, and the sun is just starting to rise, casting a pale golden light through the kitchen windows. This is my favorite time of the day—the quiet before the rush, before customers start lining up. There’s something magical about this time of day, when it’s just me, the dough, and the steady rhythm of my hands shaping loaves.

I close my eyes for a moment, inhaling the scent of yeast and sugar, and I can’t help but smile. My father’s bakery, Dolce di Vita, is my entire life. I practically grew up here. It was my second home after school and on weekends. My papa taught me to knead dough before he even taught me to ride a bike. I could craft the perfect cake batter practically before I was old enough to write my name.

Then there are the beautiful pastries that have landed us features in all of the local culinary magazines. As a child, I was entranced watching my father create masterpieces out of ordinary ingredients like sugar, butter, and flour. Now, I’m the one who does most of the baking, and occasionally he lets me add my own creations to the menu.

I’ve worked in this shop most of my life. Yet, it hasn’t gotten old. Every day offers something new—a new recipe, a new challenge, a new customer to create the perfect pastry for. Papa says my specialty is finding exactly the right treat for each customer. People come in thinking they know what they want, but they leave with what they need. It’s always been a point of pride that he trusts me so much with his life’s work.

I set the hot tray on the counter to cool, wiping my flour-dusted hands on my apron. The bakery is quiet, the calm before the storm, and I take a moment to breathe and just enjoy it. Soon, the space will be filled with tired, hungry customers looking for a pick-me-up to start their day.

“Cece!” My father’s voice booms as he enters the space from our upstairs apartment.

I turn, laughing. “What’s up, Papa?

He pokes his head into the bakery, grinning. “What time did you wake up this morning to do all this? Three? Four? You work too hard, ragazza.”

I roll my eyes at him but smile with fondness. He complains every day that I’m working too hard, but I have to work this hard to keep the bakery going. He’s getting older so it’s my duty to help him keep the doors open.

“I’ve only been up since four-thirty, and you know I don’t mind it. I love what I do.”

“Then I insist you leave early this afternoon. Let me close the place up.” He walks over to me, slinging an arm around my shoulders and placing a sweet kiss on my forehead. “You need to relax sometimes, eh? Take a break tonight, maybe go out and meet someone?”

I groan in embarrassment. There’s nothing I hate more than talking about my love life with my father. “Not this again.”

He chuckles, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “You’ll understand one day, carina. Life isn’t just about bread and cakes.”

I bite back a sigh, wondering how we always end up here. It’s not even eight a.m., the least he could do is wait until the morning rush is over before bringing up my disaster of a social life. “Says the man who’s been running this bakery from sunup to sundown for thirty years.”

“Ah, but I had your mother!” His smile falters for a moment, the way it always does when he talks about Mama, but he quickly recovers, ruffling my hair. “One day, you’ll find someone, too. Someone who’ll love this place as much as you do.”

I laugh, pushing him away playfully. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m destined to be the crazy bakery lady.”

He throws his head back, laughing heartily. “You’re too young to be thinking like that. Seriously, Cece, get out there. The world won’t come to you just because you make the best pastries in town.”

“Maybe it should,” I tease, nudging him with my elbow. “Besides, isn’t the way to a man’s heart through his stomach?”

“Ha! You’re not wrong.” He winks and heads back to his office, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I wipe the sweat from my brow and glance out the window. It’s true, I love this bakery. It’s my sanctuary. But sometimes I do wonder if there isn’t something more out there. Sometimes I feel like I’m missing a spark.

For starters, I’ve never been in a serious relationship. I’ve never met anyone who made leaving the kitchen for an extended period of time worth it. I’ve been on my fair share of dates, but no one ever stuck around.

I do get lonely sometimes. I often long for the kind of love that my parents had before Mama died. But I’m twenty-five, and I haven’t met anyone that special yet. I’m starting to think that maybe I never will.

I push the thought aside. There are more important things in my life than worrying about a relationship. Right now, I’ve got bread to bake, and the doors will open soon.

An hour later, the shop is buzzing with a constant stream of customers. The scent of fresh coffee and warm pastries fills the air as people file in and out. I’m chatting with one of our regulars from behind the counter when my papa bursts through the door, a huge grin plastered across his face.

“Cece! You’ll never guess who just called.”

I raise an eyebrow, wiping my hands on a towel as I turn to him in anticipation. “The President of the United States? The Mayor of New York?”

He practically bounces on his feet. “Ah, you jest, but one day the president will call for one of my famous five-layer cakes. But no, this time it wasn’t him. You remember my old friend Dominic, right?”

I pause for a second, trying to think. Dominic. The name is familiar, but it takes me a moment to recall. Then the memory hits me like a strike of lightning. I do remember Dominic, though I haven’t seen him since I was a kid. He’s been in and out of Papa’s stories for as long as I can remember.

“Yeah,” I say slowly, wondering what’s so important that he has to tell me during the morning rush. “What about him?”

“He’s throwing a huge party at his mansion upstate,” Papa says, eyes twinkling. “A big, fancy event. And he wants us to cater it!”

I blink. “Us? As in, Dolce di Vita?”

He nods, excitement radiating off him. “Yes! He called me personally. It’s going to be a huge event. It could be a life-changing opportunity for us. He wants us to do the whole menu. You’ll help me, won’t you?”

I can’t help but feel a surge of excitement at the thought, already planning the menu in my head. It’s been several months since we’ve done a big event like this. The chance to create a spread for a fancy party sounds like exactly the kind of challenge I’ve been craving.

“When is it?” I ask, turning toward the coffee machine to create the next customer’s order.

“In two weeks,” he says excitedly as he grabs a croissant and bags it. “We’ll need to start planning the menu as soon as possible so we can be ready. It’ll be a lot of long nights.”

“I’m sorry, did you not just tell me that I need to relax and get out more?” I tease as I take the customer’s money and turn toward the next one for their order.

Despite my teasing, excitement courses through me at the thought. I’ve heard about Dominic’s parties before. They’ve been described like a modern-day Gatsby affair. They’re extravagant, wild, and full of rich and powerful people who would never journey down to this part of town for our pastries. This party could completely change the trajectory of our business.

“Ah, carina, after this party, you can do all of the relaxing you want!” He squeezes me tightly, and I look up to see the smile in his eyes. He’s excited to do this for his friend, I can tell.

“I’m in,” I say, grinning.

Papa claps his hands together, his smile widening. “Perfetto! We’ll start planning today. Dominic’s parties are legendary, Cece!”

Over the next few days, the bakery transforms into a workshop, complete with a whiteboard full of our menu ideas. Papa and I spend hours in the kitchen after the shop closes, brainstorming, cooking up new menu items, and taste-testing our creations. The kitchen hums with the kind of activity it hasn’t seen in ages.

“We need something bold,” I say one afternoon as I pipe cream into delicate choux pastries for our famous chocolate eclairs. “Something that’ll stand out.”

Papa nods, his brow furrowed as he rolls out dough. “Yes, but not too bold. These are sophisticated people. We need to give them elegance.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Elegance? From the man who still eats Nutella straight out of the jar?”

He grins, not missing a beat. “Sophisticated people know how to enjoy the simple pleasures, Cece. Never underestimate the power of a spoonful of Nutella.”

I laugh, filling another pastry with cream. This is what I love most about working with Papa. No matter how hectic things get, he always knows how to make me laugh.

As we finalize the menu, I manage to convince him to let me add a few of my own creations: lavender macarons, honeyed almond tartlets, and a rich, dark chocolate olive oil cake that’s both decadent and not overly sweet. They’ll be the perfect balance to our more traditional Italian pastries like cannoli, biscotti, and bombolini.

Though, the real showstopper will be the cake. Three tiers of dark chocolate cake layered with hazelnut cream, decorated with edible gold leaf and sugar flowers. It’ll be the centerpiece of the whole spread, specifically matching the decorations the event coordinator sent over last week.

With just a few days left until the party, the excitement in the bakery reaches a fever pitch. Orders still come in non-stop, our morning rush is still insane, but all I can think about is the party. It’s one of the biggest events we’ve ever catered, and I can’t help but feel a mix of nerves and excitement.

I have an odd feeling deep down that this party is going to change my life one way or another.