The Mafia’s Christmas Claim (Claimed for Christmas #3)

Chapter 1 Lila

LILA

Ipull the first tray of cookies and wince. My son, Marco, decides sprinkles are snow and our kitchen needs a blizzard, but the edges are already too dark. I’m no goddess before coffee.

I peel off two and knot them into the ‘imperfects’ bag for the counter, more from habit than mercy. The oven beeps again, the next tray lands perfectly, and I smile. I lift the hot tray with a towel, set it on the rack, and watch the heat fog the window over the sink.

A holiday playlist croons from the old speaker by the coffeemaker, and my four-year-old hums along, tongue tucked in concentration. He showers the cookies with red sprinkles that look like taillights in a flurry.

“Too much red. The city will fine us for a snow emergency,” I tell him as I cautiously step around a drift of sugar. Marco grins and shakes the jar again.

I stretch on my toes for the star cutters on the top shelf and feel the pull in my calves.

At five foot eight, I reach easily, but I still need the extra inch.

My hair slips out of a ponytail, chestnut waves loosening in the kitchen heat that smells of butter, flour, and cinnamon.

I tuck a strand behind my ear and meet my reflection in the microwave door.

Hazel eyes meet mine, a scatter of freckles the industry tries to hide under makeup.

It’s a face that could hold a story or sell a dream, but tonight it just looks back, calm and sure of its own light.

Marco looks up from his battlefield of icing. Those eyes, big and dark brown, take in everything. For a moment, my breath catches.

“There’s no such thing as too much red,” he announces, dark brown hair falling over his forehead. He tosses more sprinkles. They bounce across the sheet like confetti after a parade. His cheeks still hold a round softness, but his mouth sets stubbornly when he’s focused. He’s focused now.

“Customers are going to crunch through sugar,” I say, but I’m smiling. “Aim for the cookies.”

He shifts his stance on the stool. Striped socks peek from under his pajama pants. He’s a small general, and the counter is his campaign. I slide a tray of plain sugar cookies in front of him. Trees and bells, round ones for faces, stars for luck.

The front door chime sings. I lift the service hatch that opens to the sidewalk, and cold slips in. The city’s got a skin of snow this morning, not yet gray with traffic. The dog walker from the corner building’s first, scarf pulled up to his nose, two terriers bouncing at his boots.

“Two americanos, one oat milk. And one cinnamon roll, the one with icing still sliding into the spiral,” he says, tapping his card.

“For you, always,” I say. I pass the paper cups and a warm box through the hatch. The coffee’s strong. The roll smells of butter, cinnamon, and a glaze I’ve whisked with milk and vanilla. He taps the tablet to round up for the neighborhood coat drive, then the terriers tug him toward the door.

He lifts his cup in a small salute. “Morning, cookie boss,” he tells Marco before he hits the cold. “Those trees look parade ready.” Marco sits taller, pleased.

The bell rings again for the main door. The nurse from nights, hair tucked under a knit hat, eyes tired but kind. Behind her, Mrs. Kalinsky from 2B with the blue rinse and news headlines. They stamp the snow from their boots. Their hands spread toward the heater under the bench.

“Morning, Lila,” the nurse says. “I dreamed about your scones.”

“Lavender and orange today,” I say, tapping the tray under the glass. “And sandwiches after ten.” I smile warmly.

“Bless you,” she says and slides cash across the counter.

“You look thin. Eat more.” Mrs. K is next.

“Morning, Mrs. Kalinsky. Apricot Danish?” I tip the tongs toward the row she likes.

“Please. And I saw your friend at the market. Everyone asks about Marco.”

“That’s nice.” I duck my head and lift an almond croissant for the next order. She moves away with her Danish, sharing more headlines with the nurse by the heater.

I move through the steps without thinking.

Grind, tamp, pull. Steam curls from the wand.

The old register clicks, and the tablet pings with small round-ups for the coat drive.

A line builds at the sidewalk hatch. Delivery cyclists bounce on their pedals and call out orders.

I pass pastry bags stamped with our small golden logo.

The room fills with coffee smell, orange peel, sugar, and the faint scent of rain-soaked nylon and perfume caught in scarves.

Marco slides off his stool and digs in the cubby for his blue Matchbox truck. He loads two mini pastry boxes, empties we use for gift cards, sticks a tiny logo sticker on each, and steers along the grout lines, engine sounds soft in his throat.

“Delivery,” he announces, parking at my shoe. He pops one box open. A single star cookie rides inside like precious cargo.

“It’s perfect,” I say. “Table one’ll love it.”

He grins, backs the truck away, and does another slow lap toward the heater to warm the wheels, as serious as any courier.

“Upstate this year for Christmas?” Mrs. Kalinsky asks as she puts on her coat. Her lipstick is brave pink. “Your mother’s bakery must look like a postcard.”

“Maybe,” I say. I keep my eyes on the labels. “We’ll see.” She nods and leaves with her friend. She means well. People here like history. They like to place you on a map.

My phone buzzes in the pocket of my apron. Agency. I set it on the stand by the espresso machine and swipe to the video call. The front camera catches my face and the background of racks and trays.

“Good morning, Lila,” says Jules from the agency. His face fills the screen from a bright office. His tie is cheerful for winter. “Tonight is confirmed. Fittings at three, call time five. I emailed the run order.”

“Got it,” I say. I keep my voice level and my mouth turned up.

“You look fresh,” he says. “Good. They want the holiday face. The campaign meetings are next week. Talbots wants to discuss spring.”

“Great,” I say, keeping it light. I’m elbow-deep in dough while he’s talking spring flights.

A second face appears, a stylist with vivid eyeliner. “We’re keeping your hair long and soft tonight,” she says. “Minimal jewelry. We want glow.”

“Then I will glow,” I say, lifting my chin a little, letting the light catch my freckles.

“And please, Lila, no interviews,” Jules says. “Smile, wave, backstage candids only.”

“I get it,” I say. I always understand. Public, private, the line between.

Marco leans into the frame. “Hi, Jules,” he says and waves with icing on his fingers.

Jules laughs. “Hello, sir. Are you the cookie boss today?”

“Yes,” Marco says. He wipes his hand on my apron. “I am the boss.”

“Then approve an extra cinnamon roll for yourself,” Jules says.

The call ends. I end the call and text Maya.

Fittings at three, runway at five. Can you grab the garment bag and pick us up at 2:50?

Her reply pings fast.

Done.

I slip the phone back in my pocket and switch to cash for a man who hands me a ten for a coffee.

The chime goes again. A jogger in a neon beanie, cheeks bright from the cold, laughs as snow shakes from his sleeves.

A woman with a dimpled smile and cherry-red lipstick compliments the tree-shaped sugar cookies.

A neighbor pats Marco’s head and says his frosting technique has improved.

His chest puffs and his shoulders straighten.

“Mom,” he says, voice smaller now because the song on the playlist is softer and the rush has thinned, “why does Liam’s dad pick him up and mine does not?”

The tray in my hands feels heavier. I set it down.

Marco watches me with those steady eyes.

He’s four, and he collects patterns. He sees who waits at the gate and who comes into bakeries holding hands.

Marco and I have our rhythm, but he’s starting to note the places where it’s different from others.

“Some families have lots of people,” I say, tying a ribbon on a box. “Some have a few. Some have a mother and a child who are very good at cookies.”

He thinks. “Santa can bring a dad,” he says. He’s not teasing.

“Santa brings toys,” I say. I run my fingers through his hair. “Mothers bring everything else.”

He nods hard. In his world, rules can be adopted if they make sense and if there’s sugar after. I hand him a small gingerbread man from the imperfect pile. He bites the head with solemn focus.

“Clean hands, little boss,” I say. He wipes them and jumps down from the stool, the pride of a child trusted with a task.

By nine, the sidewalk has shoveled ridges, and cars on the avenue hiss through slush.

The morning pulse slows. I refill the biscotti jar and line up croissants, apricot Danishes, and mini panettoni with red twine.

I hand a hot paper cup to a man who works at the auto shop and take a bag of change from Ms. Alvarez next door.

She insists that I break it for her. My helper, a college kid named Ren, slips behind the counter and takes over the espresso machine with competent hands.

He has ink on his fingers and careful eyes.

“Go sit for five,” he says. “You’ve got flour on your cheek.”

I sit on the stool by the back door and breathe through my nose.

I check the list on the wall. Catering at eleven for the school staff room.

Brownies, snowflake sugar cookies, two dozen turkey sandwiches.

I stack boxes and label them in neat letters.

Marco draws on the corner of an invoice with a serious frown, adding buttons to a snowman.

Marco’s question keeps tugging at the back of my mind, small but steady, like a drip I cannot tighten. I press the thought down, hard, the way I press dough into shape. There’s too much work on my hands for ghosts.