I THREW A BAG OF FLOUR AT THE MAFIA BOSS — THEN HIS NIECE CALLED ME HIS "FAMOUS GIRLFRIEND"

The table was forty feet long, crafted from dark walnut, set with hand-painted porcelain. At the head sat Donna Elena, the matriarch, cutting her veal with surgical precision. To her right sat Matteo, looking completely at ease in yet another tailored suit, having showered away the street grime. I sat directly across from him, trapped in a cashmere sweater Carmela had practically forced over my head in a second-floor guest suite.

Sofia sat beside me, her plate mostly untouched, pushing a roasted potato around with her fork.

"So," Donna Elena began, dabbing her lips with a linen napkin. "A Rossi. Antonio’s blood."

"You knew him?" I asked, looking up from my untouched soup.

"I was seven when he ran," the old woman said, her eyes distant, clouded with memories older than the empire her sons maintained. "He was the clever one. The one who understood that counting gold is a curse, but feeding people is a trade. He stole the ledger to stop my father from killing his partners. He thought he could buy peace."

"He did buy peace," I said firmly. "He lived a quiet life. He died in his sleep with flour on his apron, not blood on his shoes."

A cold stillness swept the room. Carmela froze with her wine glass halfway to her mouth.

Matteo didn’t raise his eyes from his steak. "Watch your tongue, Emily."

"Why?" I challenged, turning my gaze fully on him. "Because you're used to people trembling before you speak? I didn't ask to be part of this history. My grandfather gave up everything to get away from men like you."

"And yet," Matteo said softly, finally looking up, his gray eyes pinning me to my chair, "here you are. Sitting at my table, wearing my sister’s clothes, eating my food."

"I didn't eat your food," I replied, shoving the porcelain bowl an inch forward. "And the second your guards give me clearance, I’m walking out that gate."

Sofia made a tiny, choked sound beside me. Her spoon clattered against the table, and she looked down, her small hands shaking under the edge of the linen.

My anger sputtered out instantly. I looked at the fragile girl, then reached across the gap between our chairs, gently resting my hand over her icy fingers. She didn't pull away. In fact, her small hand turned upward, clutching mine with desperate strength.

Matteo watched the interaction, his expression shuttering, the hard lines of his mouth relaxing by a fraction of an inch.

"Sofia," Matteo said gently. "Go upstairs with Carmela. The tea is ready in the library."

The girl nodded reluctantly, releasing my hand only when Carmela came around the table to guide her away. Once the heavy oak doors swung shut, the dining room felt three times larger and infinitely colder.

"Moretti has called a council," Donna Elena announced, her voice turning entirely businesslike. "Tomorrow night at the St. Regis. He claims he wants to negotiate borders in Queens. But he will bring up the girl. He wants Sofia sent to a convent in Switzerland to ensure our compliance."

"Over my dead body," Matteo said, his voice flat, absolute.

"Then you must present strength," Donna Elena replied, leaning forward on her cane. "A bachelor boss is viewed as transient, unstable. The syndicate requires permanence. If you appear with Antonio Rossi's granddaughter on your arm—the union of the two original houses—the commission will not back Moretti’s claim."

"Wait a minute," I stood up so fast my heavy chair screeched against the parquet floor. "No. Absolutely not. I am not an accessory for a mob negotiation!"

"It isn't an offer, Miss Rossi," Donna Elena said coldly.

"It is an offer," Matteo interrupted, rising to his full height. His frame dominated the space, but his eyes were fixed on me, dark and calculating. "Two million dollars, deposited into an escrow account under your name. Full ownership of the building your bakery sits in, free and clear of all debts and liens. And complete, 24-hour security for the rest of your life."

I stared at him, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "And what do I have to do?"

"Stand beside me for three hours," Matteo said, walking slowly around the table until he stood before me. "Let them believe you belong to me. Smile for the cameras. And tell Sofia that tomorrow morning, you will teach her how to bake your grandfather’s bread."

I hated how easily he found the pressure point. The building lease. The safety. And that broken girl upstairs.