Resisting the Mobster (Lords of New York #5)

Prologue

Matilde

Sometimes, I dream of that night. The chill and the rustle of leaves from the tree outside my bedroom window.

The branches would scrape against my window and create giant animated shadows that looked like monsters.

Most nights, I would simply yank the covers over my head and go back to sleep, but that night, the shadows appeared larger. Scarier.

And the night was cold.

So cold.

So fresh are the memories that I can practically feel the chill on my skin, and every time I do, I wonder… What if I’d never woken up that night or snuck into my parents’ bedroom to cuddle with them?

Heck, I wasn’t even supposed to be home that night. I’d turned down my twin sister’s offer to join her for a sleepover at a friend’s house and decided I wanted to stay home. But what if I’d gone to the sleepover with Arianna instead?

Then maybe…just maybe, I wouldn’t have found myself locked in my parents’ closet, tears and snot running down my face as I watched a monster kill them. If I had stayed in my room, then I wouldn’t have seen or heard what no fourteen-year-old should.

Then I wouldn’t be crying while decorating my cousin’s wedding cake.

I sniff back tears before they can fall, fanning my eyes with my hands.

Baking was something my mother and I shared—weekend mornings covered in flour, her patient hands guiding mine as she taught me to pipe frosting roses and fold delicate pastry dough.

She always said I had a gift. I always knew I would be a baker from a very young age and thought I’d spend years learning beside her before I had to worry about doing it alone.

But I’m doing this alone. Without her.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

This isn’t the time to be mourning the past. No, I reserve those moments for when I’m alone in my bedroom and need to cry myself to sleep just to ease the ache in my chest. Definitely not here in my aunt’s kitchen and not when I still have so much left to do.

Sofia’s wedding cake isn’t going to decorate itself and I’m already running behind schedule.

I volunteered to make the cake when Sofia mentioned Aunt Bianca was hiring some expensive bakery in Manhattan.

My cousin had looked so overwhelmed by the whole affair—the arranged marriage, the Rossis, all of it—and I wanted to give her something made with love.

Something personal. Aunt Bianca had fought me on it, of course.

She’d wanted to impress the Rossi family with a designer cake, not “amateur hour,” as she’d called it.

But Sofia insisted, and for once, Uncle Giovanni sided with his daughter. Sofia rarely asked for anything, and I think even Uncle Giovanni recognized this was important to her.

I’m putting the finishing touches on the sugar flower cascade when I hear footsteps in the hallway—too heavy to be any of my cousins, too measured to be Uncle Giovanni’s impatient stride.

“Hello?”

The voice is deep, unmistakably male, and definitely not anyone I recognize. I lift my head, swiping hastily at my damp cheeks, and my breath catches when a figure appears in the kitchen doorway. A dark striking figure framed by the soft morning light.

He hasn’t noticed me yet, his eyes scanning the kitchen, so I take a moment to study him.

My gaze travels over dark tailored pants, a crisp white shirt that highlights the olive tones of his skin.

The shirt is tucked in neatly, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal dark tattoo lines that disappear beneath the fabric.

And that chest—Christ, I’ve never seen anything like it.

The way the shirt stretches across his shoulders is impossible to ignore.

I shake my head from the thoughts, swiping at my wet cheeks again before clearing my throat to pull the man’s attention to me.

“Um, can I help you?”

His head turns toward me, and it’s like being hit with a hammer.

The air leaves my lungs as I find myself staring at a face that’s a striking combination of dark and light.

His hair is a rich raven black, thick and neatly styled to fall just across his forehead.

A perfect frame for that face and those eyes…

Christ, those eyes.

They’re a pale mesmerizing green, like the leaves of a willow tree in the springtime, flecked with hints of gold. They’re intense, too—dangerous in the way they watch me and track my movements as I step away from the counter, dusting the excess powdered sugar from my apron.

“Miss Marino?" he says in a deep, rich baritone voice that sends butterflies fluttering in my stomach.

“I’m Matilde Marino.”

“My name is Luca Conti. I’m here for the cake.”

“The…cake?”

He lifts a single dark brow. “The wedding cake. For Matteo Rossi and Sofia’s wedding.” He slides his hands into his pockets as he strides toward me, and I try to ignore the way my heart races. “I'm in charge of wedding security. I’ll be escorting it to the venue.”

“Oh, right. Of course.” I blink at him, my brain struggling to catch up. “I’m almost done. Just a few more details and then…” I gesture vaguely at the three-tiered cake beside me.

“I can wait.”

I should be nervous about being in here alone with a man I don’t know, but I’m not.

Thing is, I’ve always been wary of men after witnessing firsthand how easily they could transform into monsters.

And yet, I’ve let this stranger into the kitchen, and my nervous system isn’t threatening to shut down.

Not even with those intense eyes on me. There’s something about him that doesn’t make me afraid—something that makes me feel… safe.

It doesn’t make sense. But I don’t have time to question it.

“Would you like some coffee while you wait?” I ask, moving toward the pot I brewed earlier.

“There’s fresh cream in the fridge, and I have some…

” I pause, glancing at the tray of sugar cookies I made yesterday—extras from the batches I baked for the wedding party.

“Sugar cookies? Most of the family is too nervous to eat anything this morning, so they’re going untouched. ”

“Coffee would be great. Black.” He moves closer, I catch the warm and woody scent of his cologne with hints of musk that make my head swim. "And I never say no to cookies.”

I pour his coffee and plate a few cookies, hyperaware of his presence behind me. When I turn around, I nearly bump into him—he’s closer than I expected—and some of the powdered sugar from my apron transfers to his dark shirt.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry—” I reach out instinctively to brush it away, and my fingers press against the solid wall of his chest. Heat floods my cheeks as I realize what I’m doing and snatch my hand back.

But he catches it.

His grip is warm and firm, and the contact sends a jolt through my entire body. Those green eyes hold mine, and I forget how to breathe.

“You have sugar on your face, Matilde,” he murmurs, his voice low.

“What?”

“Powdered sugar.” He releases my hand and reaches up, his thumb brushing gently across my cheekbone. The touch is featherlight, but it sends sparks cascading down my spine. “There.”

I’m certain my face is the color of a tomato.

“The, um, the cookies,” I manage, shoving the plate toward him and stepping back before I combust. “Try one.”

He picks up a cookie, his eyes never leaving mine, and takes a bite. Something shifts in his expression—surprise, then pleasure.

“These are incredible.”

“They’re just sugar cookies,” I mumble, but warmth blooms in my chest at the compliment.

“They’re the best sugar cookies I’ve ever had.” He finishes the cookie in two more bites and reaches for another. “And you make wedding cakes, too?”

I nod, glancing at my work. Three tiers of vanilla bean sponge with Italian buttercream, decorated with hand-piped lace patterns and delicate sugar flowers that took me hours to craft. “Sofia asked me to. I’m…I want to open my own bakery one day.”

“If everything you make is this good, you’ll have lines out the door.”

The sincerity in his voice makes my stomach flutter. I open my mouth to respond—

The click of heels against marble echoes from the hallway, and I drop my head, fidgeting like a kid facing the principal. Aunt Bianca sweeps into the kitchen, her perfume overpowering every other scent in the room.

She’s one of the scariest people I’ve ever met. After she and my uncle took my twin sister and I into their home, I learned pretty early that she resented us and saw us as a burden on her household. I learned to avoid her, but that became impossible when Sofia asked me to bake her wedding cake.

Aunt Bianca has not forgiven me for that.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” she snaps as she enters the kitchen, those cat eyes sweeping from me to Luca and back again. “You had just one job, Matilde. One job.” Her gaze lingers on Luca, and her expression shifts—Loss becomes calculation. “And who is this?”

“Luca Conti.” He doesn’t smile, doesn’t offer his hand. His voice is polite but cool. “I’m with wedding security. Here to escort the cake to the venue.”

“I see,” Aunt Bianca’s eyes narrow slightly before she turns back to me, her sneer firmly in place. “Well, don’t let me interrupt your…socializing. Though perhaps if you’d spent less time entertaining guests and more time working, the cake would be finished by now.”

My cheeks burn with humiliation. “It is finished. I was just—”

“Then box it up and let Mr. Conti do his job.” She smooths her already-perfect hair. “And clean yourself up before you come to the venue. You look like you’ve been rolling in flour.”

She sweeps out without another word, leaving her cloud of perfume behind.

I can’t bring myself to look at Luca. The silence stretches between us until he speaks, his voice gentle.

“The cake is beautiful, Matilde.”

I look up, surprised by the softness in his tone—so different from my aunt’s sharpness. Those green eyes hold something that looks almost like…protectiveness.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“I’ll make sure it gets to the venue safely.” He holds my gaze a moment longer. “And I’ll see you there.”