Chapter 2 - The Bakery Floor
By 5:00 AM the next morning, the smell of rising yeast and warm cinnamon filled the air, anchoring me back to reality.
I tied my apron around my waist, flour dusting my forearms as I began kneading the sourdough. The rhythmic push and pull of the dough was my therapy. It required physical exertion and focus, leaving no room for the ghosts of Chicago to creep back into my head.
Mila and Leo were still asleep upstairs in our small, cozy apartment above the shop. The storm from yesterday had cleared, leaving behind a crisp, frost-laced mountain morning.
The front bell chimed at 6:30 AM, right on schedule. Old man Pike usually dropped off the morning paper and checked the back oven seals.
"Morning, Elena," a deep, gravelly voice greeted me.
My hands froze in the dough.
That wasn't Mr. Pike.
I turned around slowly, wiping my hands on a towel. Marco Bellini stood in the center of the bakery floor. He had discarded his tailored overcoat, wearing a simple black turtleneck and dark slacks, but his presence still dominated the small space, making the walls feel like they were closing in. He looked tired. The dark circles under his amber eyes suggested he hadn't slept a wink.
"How did you get in?" I asked, my voice dangerously level. "The front door is locked."
Marco held up a small, brass skeleton key. "Mr. Pike is a creature of habit. He leaves his spare key on a nail behind the rain gutter. It took me thirty seconds to find it."
"You broke into my bakery," I said, stepping away from the counter, my heart rate spiking. "I told you to leave yesterday, Marco."
"I didn't break in, Elena. I let myself in." He took a slow step forward, his eyes scanning the flour-dusted room, taking in the humble equipment, the wooden display cases, the warmth radiating from the brick oven. "You're running a bakery. You, who spent your college years studying corporate law and international finance, are baking bread in the mountains."
"I am living an honest life," I shot back, my chin lifting defensively. "Something foreign to a man who runs an empire built on blood and extortion."
Marco flinched, the words landing like physical blows. But he didn't raise his voice. He didn't unleash the terrifying temper his rivals whispered about in hushed tones across Chicago boardrooms. He just looked at me with a profound, aching sorrow.
"You think I wanted that life for us, Elena?" he whispered, closing the distance between us until I could smell the familiar, clean scent of his cologne—sandalwood and rain. "You think I chose this? After you vanished, the empire became my cage. Every empty room in that mansion on Lake Shore Drive reminded me of the night I lost you."
"You didn't lose me, Marco," I said, my voice shaking despite my best efforts. "I found you. In our bed. With Clara."
Marco stopped dead. His amber eyes widened in genuine, unadulterated confusion.
"With... with who?" he asked, his brow furrowing deeply.
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"Don't play games with me," I snarled, the three years of bottled-up fury finally cracking open. "Clara. My sister. In our bed. I saw you. I heard you."
Marco stared at me, his mouth opening slightly as the gears in his head turned, processing words that clearly made no sense to him. "Elena... what are you talking about? Clara? I haven't spoken to Clara since our wedding reception."
