Chapter 1 – Elena
Chap-ter 1 – Elena
Elena Moretti
The small Ital-ian town of Rav-ello, nes-tled along the Amalfi Coast, is a pic-turesque haven of cob-bled streets, sun-drenched pi-az-zas, and pas-tel-col-ored build-ings over-look-ing the sea. Dolce Vita, my bak-ery, sits at the heart of this charm-ing town, its warm glow and invit-ing aroma draw-ing in lo-cals and tourists alike. The rhythm of daily life is peace-ful—un-til the night when ev-ery-thing changes.
The scent of cin-na-mon and espresso lingers in the air as I knead dough, the rhyth-mic push and pull of my hands against the floured sur-face bring-ing a quiet kind of peace. Out-side, the early morn-ing streets of our lit-tle Ital-ian neigh-bor-hood hum with life—ven-dors set-ting up their carts, old men ar-gu-ing over foot-ball, and the faint melody of an ac-cor-dion player down by the square. It’s a fa-mil-iar sym-phony, one I’ve come to rely on, a re-minder that this world I built for my-self is steady, safe.
This bak-ery is my world. My sanc-tu-ary. My es-cape from the blood-stained legacy that still lurks in the shad-ows of my past.
When I was a child, my world was chaos—se-crets whis-pered in hushed tones, locked doors, and an un-der-cur-rent of vi-o-lence that was im-pos-si-ble to ig-nore. I grew up in a world where power was mea-sured in blood and loy-alty came at the cost of free-dom. But here, in Dolce Vita, life is sim-ple. Dough, sugar, and cof-fee. Cus-tomers, who know me by name, who come in for their morn-ing pas-tries and leave with a smile. It’s a far cry from the life I left be-hind. And I in-tend to keep it that way.
Sofia hums be-side me, rolling out a fresh batch of crois-sant dough. "You should ex-pand."
I glance at her, my best friend since child-hood, with her long blonde hair tied back in a loose pony-tail and a smudge of flour on her cheek. "Ex-pand?" I scoff, reach-ing for a rolling pin. "I barely have time to breathe as it is."
Sofia shrugs. "It’s a good prob-lem to have, cara. You make the best pas-tries in the city, and ev-ery-one knows it. You could open a sec-ond lo-ca-tion. Maybe even hire more help."
I roll my eyes, but se-cretly, I let her words warm me.
My bak-ery, Dolce Vita, is my pride and joy. It’s my es-cape from the whis-pers of mafia deal-ings, the blood-soaked lega-cies of fam-i-lies who think loy-alty is mea-sured in bul-lets. My par-ents had ties to that world, dis-tant but un-avoid-able. I wanted none of it. I built this life with my own two hands, with-out blood money, with-out fa-vors. Just hard work, de-ter-mi-na-tion, and a re-fusal to be any-thing other than what I chose to be.
This bak-ery is my sanc-tu-ary.
Or at least, it was.
The front door slams open so hard that the chime over-head falls silent, and my hands freeze in the dough.
Three men in black masks storm in-side, their heavy boots echo-ing against the tiled floor. The scent of yeast and sugar is sud-denly over-pow-ered by some-thing else—some-thing sharp and metal-lic.
Fear.
My heart kicks into over-drive, my pulse a fran-tic stac-cato against my ribs. I know dan-ger when I see it. I know men like this—preda-tors with noth-ing but vi-o-lence in their veins.
Sofia gasps, step-ping back as one of the men—broad shoul-ders, thick arms, the kind of build that screams en-forcer—grabs a rolling pin from the counter and tosses it aside like a twig.
"Elena Moretti," the tallest one snarls, voice muf-fled by his mask. "Where is she?"
Sofia’s gaze snaps to me in panic.
Shit.
I swal-low hard, school-ing my fea-tures. "Who’s ask-ing?"
Wrong an-swer.
The clos-est man lunges.
I barely have time to re-act be-fore he grabs my wrist, yank-ing me for-ward so hard that my back slams against the counter.
"Let go of me, ass-hole—"
"Wrong name, sweet-heart," he hisses, lean-ing in so I can see his blood-shot eyes be-hind the mask. "We know who you re-ally are. You are the Ro-mano girl!"
The blood drains from my face.
No.
No, no, no.
That name doesn’t be-long to me. It can’t.
The Ro-mano fam-ily is power, blood, and bru-tal-ity. They rule a world I swore I’d never be a part of. But if these men think I be-long to them—
I grit my teeth and twist in his grip, bring-ing my knee up as hard as I can. It con-nects with his stom-ach, and he grunts, loos-en-ing his hold just enough for me to wrench free. I stum-ble back, reach-ing for some-thing—any-thing—to de-fend my-self with.
My hands close around a metal tray.
I swing it hard.
It smashes into the side of his head, send-ing him reel-ing.
An-other man surges for-ward, but I duck, adren-a-line spik-ing through my veins. My world is re-duced to in-stincts, sur-vival. I lash out again, but he catches my wrist mid-swing and yanks me for-ward, twist-ing my arm painfully be-hind my back.
I scream, thrash-ing, but the grip is un-re-lent-ing. Pain shoots up my arm as he shoves me for-ward, my cheek slam-ming against the cold coun-ter-top.
"Stop fight-ing," he growls. "You be-long to the Ro-manos."
"Like hell I do," I spit, twist-ing sharply.
I man-age to stomp down on his foot, mak-ing him grunt. I whirl around, el-bow-ing him in the ribs be-fore scram-bling to-ward the knife rack.
I al-most make it.
A hand fists in my hair, yank-ing me back with bru-tal force. A cry tears from my throat as I’m slammed against the counter again, vi-sion swim-ming.
The un-mis-tak-able sound of a gun cock-ing fills the room.
Then, chaos.
Gun-fire erupts, shat-ter-ing glass.
The man hold-ing me stum-bles back as blood splat-ters against the counter, his body hit-ting the floor with a sick-en-ing thud.
I don’t scream. I should, but the sound lodges in my throat.
Sofia has been fight-ing her own bat-tle with yet an-other at-tacker. She man-ages to hit him with a pot, and then she drops be-hind the counter. I fall to the ground be-side her just as more shots ring out, one of them hit-ting the espresso ma-chine be-hind me in an ex-plo-sion of steam and metal.
The air is thick with gun-pow-der, the acrid scent burn-ing my nose. My fin-gers dig into the flour-dusted tiles, my breath hitch-ing with each burst of gun-fire. I should move, should hide, but my body won’t co-op-er-ate.
Foot-steps—heavy, pur-pose-ful. Each step closer, mea-sured, deadly.
Then, a voice—calm, cold, and ter-ri-fy-ingly fa-mil-iar.
"You just made a big fuck-ing mis-take."
A sec-ond shot. A third. The bod-ies hit the floor.
Si-lence.
I press a shak-ing hand to my chest, my breath com-ing too fast. And then—
Boots stop in front of me.
I force my-self to look up.
And there he is.
Dante Russo.
Six-foot-three of lethal pre-ci-sion. Ice-blue eyes as cold as the steel of the gun he’s still hold-ing. Black suit, crisp and per-fect, not a wrin-kle out of place de-spite the fact that he’s just killed three men.
His gaze sweeps over me, as-sess-ing. Not with con-cern. No, Dante Russo doesn’t do con-cern.
He tilts his head slightly, his dark brows draw-ing to-gether.
"You’re alive."
It sounds more like an ac-cu-sa-tion than re-lief.
"Good to see you, too, Dante," I mut-ter, shov-ing off the floor, ig-nor-ing the way my legs shake. "I don’t sup-pose you’re here for a latte?"
His lips twitch, but it isn’t a smile. Dante Russo doesn’t do smil-ing ei-ther.
He steps closer, his pres-ence swal-low-ing the air be-tween us. "Pack a bag. You’re com-ing with me."
I blink. "Ex-cuse me?"
His ex-pres-sion hard-ens. "Now, princess."
I bris-tle. "I’m not go-ing any-where with you."
"Not up for dis-cus-sion." He shrugs as he hol-sters his weapon and moves close to me. I draw back, ex-pect-ing an at-tack. In-stead, he just ca-su-ally bends down and lifts me up over his shoul-der.
I start to protest and ask him to drop me, but he just replies, “Save your fight for the en-emy. I’m on your side.”
My face is burn-ing with anger.
I left that world of vi-o-lence be-hind me. Adopted by the Moretti fam-ily, I had no choice but to es-cape be-cause of their un-end-ing feud with the Ro-mano fam-ily. The last thing I want is to be drawn back into this world.
My eyes well up with tears, but there’s some-thing in his voice that some-how reaches out to me. What-ever it is, it’s come for me, and just like that, my quiet lit-tle life is over.
Sofia peeks out from be-hind the counter, eyes wide. "Uh…good luck?"
I shout back at her, "Traitor!"
Dante smirks. "You’re gonna need it."