Chapter 2 - The Fire Inside the Bakery
The heavy mahogany doors of the study seemed to close with the finality of a prison cell gate, though Vincent had explicitly promised Penny she was no prisoner. The irony wasn't lost on her. She stood by the roaring hearth, her fingers tightly clutching the hem of her oversized sweater, watching Vincent and Frankie exchange rapid, low-voiced instructions.
“Moretti thinks he can use her to flush me out,” Vincent said, adjusting the cuffs of his crisp white shirt. The silver links caught the firelight, flashing like cold steel. “He thinks because she’s your mother, you’ll be the bait he needs to breach the North Side defenses.”
“She’s not my mother anymore,” Penny said, her voice shaking, yet carrying a sudden, hard edge that made both men pause.
Vincent turned his head slowly, his dark eyes locking onto hers. There was a flicker of genuine respect in his gaze—something raw and unpolished that hadn't been there a moment ago.
“Good,” Vincent murmured, stepping toward her. “Because in this world, sentimentality is a death sentence. Frankie, prep the armored sedan. We’re moving her.”
“Moving her? Where, boss? The safehouse on Maple Street?”
“No,” Vincent said decisively. “Moretti knows every safehouse I’ve used in the last five years. We’re going to the bakery.”
Penny blinked, stepping back. “My bakery? Are you insane? If Moretti is looking for me, Sweet Confections is the first place he’ll check! My name is on the lease, my face is on the local business registry—”
“Which is precisely why it’s the last place he’ll look,” Vincent interrupted, his tone brooking no argument. He stopped just inches away from her. Close enough that Penny could see the tiny flecks of amber in his dark irises. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his broad chest. “Moretti expects me to hide you in a fortress. He expects guns, guards, and high walls. He doesn't expect me to tuck Chicago’s most dangerous asset—my leverage, in his twisted mind—above a dusty flour-sifted pastry shop on the North Side.”
“An asset?” Penny’s cheeks flushed hot. “I’m not an asset, Mr. Marlow. I’m a baker!”
“You are whatever keeps you alive tonight,” Vincent said softly, his hand reaching out. For a terrifying second, Penny thought he was going to touch her cheek, but his fingers merely brushed a stray lock of honey-brown hair behind her ear. His knuckles grazed her temple, sending a sudden, electric shiver racing down her spine. “Trust me, Penelope.”
Twenty minutes later, Penny found herself bundled into the back of a black, heavily armored Mercedes-Benz that blended seamlessly into the rainy Chicago night. The city lights blurred past the bulletproof windows like streaks of neon paint.
As they pulled onto the quiet neighborhood street where Sweet Confections sat between the laundromat and the florist, Penny’s heart hammered against her ribs. The bakery looked entirely normal, its amber window sign glowing softly through the drizzle, oblivious to the storm brewing around it.
Vincent’s men moved with terrifying, silent efficiency. Within moments, the back alley was secured, and Penny was ushered through the discreet side door that led directly up the narrow flight of wooden stairs to her tiny apartment above the shop.
The apartment was freezing.
Penny rushed to flick on the radiator, the old pipes hissing and clanking into life with a familiar, comforting sound. But nothing felt comforting tonight. The walls felt thin. The world outside felt hostile.
“Is this safe?” Penny asked, wrapping her arms around herself as Vincent stepped into the tiny living room, ducking his head slightly to avoid the low ceiling.
“As safe as it gets for the next twelve hours,” Vincent said, walking over to the front window and parting the floral curtains by a fraction of an inch to peer out into the street. The moonlight caught the sharp line of his jaw and the dusting of silver at his temples. He looked out of place here—too large, too powerful, too dangerous for a room smelling faintly of vanilla and cinnamon.
“You don't have to stay here, you know,” Penny said quietly, watching the broad expanse of his back. “You have an army of men. You could be back in your mansion, managing your empire.”
Vincent dropped the curtain and turned around slowly. He leaned back against the peeling wallpaper, crossing his arms over his chest.
“My empire runs itself, Penelope. But my responsibilities... those require a personal touch.”
“Because of the debt?”
“Because of *you*,” Vincent corrected softly.
Penny’s breath caught. She looked down at her worn sneakers, her cheeks burning. “I’m a liability. You said it yourself. Moretti thinks I know things.”
“Moretti is a fool who thinks everyone operates like him,” Vincent replied, his voice dropping into a register that sent warmth flooding through her veins. He pushed off the wall and took a step toward her. “He thinks people are bought, sold, and traded. He doesn't understand that some things are worth protecting simply because they are good.”
Penny looked up, her gaze locking with his. The air between them felt thick, charged with an unspoken tension that had nothing to do with the mob war outside. She was used to men looking right through her—or worse, looking at her with disdain. But Vincent Marlow looked at her as if she were the only person in a room full of shadows.
Before either of them could speak, a sharp, metallic tap echoed from the alleyway window downstairs.
Vincent’s body went rigid in a fraction of a second. The relaxed, almost tender expression vanished, replaced instantly by the lethal focus of a mafia boss.
He raised a single finger to his lips, signaling Penny to stay silent, and drew a sleek, suppressed pistol from his shoulder holster with a smooth, practiced motion that made Penny’s stomach drop.
*They found us,* she thought, panic clawing at her throat.
Vincent crept toward the door of the apartment, easing it open just an inch to listen to the sounds drifting up from the bakery below.
May you like
The heavy wood of the front shop door groaned. Footsteps—heavy, deliberate, and entirely unfamiliar—creaked across the wooden floorboards downstairs, right past the display cases where Penny’s leftover apple turnovers sat waiting in the dark.
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