Chapter 1
Alina
I stand behind the counter, kneading dough with hands that move on autopilot, my mind racing. The sweet, yeasty aroma of freshly baked bread fills the air, but even that comforting smell can’t hide the decay creeping through the bakery.
The walls are faded, the paint cracked. The counters, once warm and polished, are worn from years of use. Customers are few and far between, and most of the tables sit empty, just like the register most days.
Mom always said I was a dreamer, and perhaps she’s right. I’m one of those people who can’t help hoping for something better. Even when I know it’s against all odds, against all logic. I still have hope that things will get better.
I glance out the wide window that faces Mayfield Road.
Little Italy, once a lively, thriving hub of Cleveland, still holds some of its charm.
The family-run restaurants and cozy cafes survive, but everyone knows why—this neighborhood belongs to the Russo family.
They control it all. They’re the reason some businesses stay afloat and why others vanish overnight.
I press the dough harder, trying to block out the rising panic clawing at my insides. “Get it together, Alina,” I mutter under my breath. Mom always said baking was like therapy, a way to ground yourself when the world felt out of control. But no amount of kneading can fix the mess Dad left behind.
He’s gone, vanished without a trace, leaving nothing but unpaid debts and broken promises. I want to be angry, but fear has a tighter grip on me. Every day feels like a countdown to losing this bakery—my home, my last connection to Mom.
The door chimes, startling me. My head snaps up, expecting one of the regulars. Instead, a man steps inside, and the air seems to shift around him.
He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a black suit that looks like it cost more than my annual rent.
His hair is dark and neatly combed, with just enough of a wave to soften the sharpness of his jawline.
His gray eyes, cold and calculating, sweep the room with quiet authority, lingering on every detail before settling on me.
My gaze flicks to his hands—tattooed, strong-looking hands that seem out of place against the crisp cuffs of his shirt. One of them adjusts his lapel with casual precision. Everything about him is deliberate, controlled, and intimidating.
As he steps closer, the faint scent of something dark and woodsy reaches me.
It’s expensive, like everything else about him.
His presence makes the bakery feel even smaller, and I’m suddenly hyper-aware of my own appearance—flour-dusted hands, ripped jeans, and a faded top with a hole near the shoulder.
“Alina Moretti,” he says, his voice low and even. It’s not a question—it’s a claim.
I freeze, my hands stilling in the dough. “Who’s asking?” I force out, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Rafe Russo.” He steps closer, his shoes clicking softly against the scuffed tile floor. “We need to talk.”
The name Russo sends a chill through me. If a Russo is here, it’s never for anything good.
“What about?” I ask, my throat dry.
“Your dad’s debt.”
My stomach drops. I swallow hard and wipe my hands on my jeans, leaving pale streaks behind. “I don’t know where he is,” I say quickly.
“Doesn’t matter.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “He made a deal, and debts don’t vanish just because he did.”
“I don’t have the money,” I stammer, gesturing around the bakery. “Does this look like a place swimming in cash?”
A faint smirk pulls at his lips, but there’s no humor in it. “Miss Moretti, I’m not interested in your excuses. Your dad promised you’d pay if he couldn’t. That’s why I’m here.”
Anger flares, momentarily overriding my fear. “So what? You’re here to scare me into handing over money I don’t have?”
Before I can react, he’s around the counter. His hand closes around my throat, not tight enough to cut off my air but firm enough to make his dominance clear. He presses me back against the wall, the cool plaster sending a shiver through me.
“Careful,” he murmurs, his voice dangerously soft. “You don’t want to test me.”
My heart pounds so hard I can feel it against his hand. His eyes burn into mine, dark and unrelenting, and for a moment, I can’t tell if the heat flooding my body is fear or something darker. His cologne surrounds me, that expensive, woodsy scent making it harder to focus.
“Get off me,” I manage, my voice trembling.
He leans in, his thumb brushing my jaw as his gaze dips deliberately down my body. His smirk widens as his eyes linger on my chest, then slowly rise back to mine.
“You’ve got some fight in you,” he murmurs, his voice like velvet. “I like that.”
He releases me suddenly, stepping back with an infuriating calmness. “But fight won’t save you.”
I glare at him, the heat in my cheeks burning hotter. “Then what will?”
“And you’re out of options,” he says smoothly, ignoring my question.
His gaze sweeps over me again, slower this time, his smirk turning into something darker. He leans casually against the counter, adjusting his cuffs like he has all the time in the world.
“I’ll make it simple,” he says. “One week. You stay with me, and your dad’s debt disappears.”
I freeze, my blood running cold.
“You can’t be serious,” I whisper.
“Oh, I’m very serious.” He tilts his head slightly, the faintest glint of amusement in his storm-gray eyes.
I glance around the bakery, at the cracked paint and empty tables, and feel the weight of Mom’s memory pressing down on me. If I refuse, I’ll lose everything—her legacy, my home, my dignity.
“Fine,” I spit out, the word tasting like poison. Shame curls in my chest, but I push it down, forcing myself to meet his gaze. There’s no point in fighting what I can’t change.
Rafe straightens, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. “Good. Pack a bag. You’re leaving with me.”
As he steps back, I catch the faintest hint of something predatory in his smile, as though he’s already imagining how this week will go.
If I thought I’d be left alone to gather my things from the small studio above the bakery, I’m sorely mistaken. Rafe follows me, his footsteps unhurried but deliberate. I feel his eyes on me the entire time, burning into my back as I shove a few belongings into a battered suitcase.
The tiny studio smells faintly of yeast and old wood, and the single window facing the street offers no comfort. By the time I close the suitcase, my palms are sweating.
When the door to the bakery closes behind me, it feels like I’m stepping out of one life and into another—a far more dangerous one.