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

For three weeks, I threw myself into the only rhythm that made sense. I arrived at three in the morning instead of four thirty. I kneaded until my shoulders burned. I scrubbed the copper pots until they shone like mirrors. I filled the display cases with apricot tarts, almond biscotti, and heavy loaves of dark rye that sold out by nine o'clock every single morning.

The neighborhood was peaceful. The mysterious black sedans that used to idle at the corner had vanished entirely. No one shadowed my steps; no one broke my windows. The deed to the building was framed in simple pine and hung behind the counter, right beside my grandfather’s silver sugar tin.

I had everything I had fought for during four years of seventy-hour work weeks.

And I had never felt more miserable in my life.

Every time the brass bell rattled above the door, my heart would leap violently into my throat, only to sink like a stone when a neighborhood regular stepped in asking for a sesame bagel. Every time I smelled cedarwood or black pepper on a passing stranger on the sidewalk, my breath would catch, leaving behind a cold, hollow ache in the center of my chest.

I hated him. I told myself that every morning while measuring salt. I hated his violence, his world, his arrogance, his casual assumption that everything could be bought with a wire transfer.

And yet, every night when I closed the steel security gate, I found myself staring down the empty, wet street, searching for a tall man in a tailored charcoal suit who had the audacity to stand still while I covered him in flour.

On a rainy Tuesday afternoon, the bell chimed with a gentle, polite ring.

I wiped my hands on my apron, stepping out of the kitchen with a customer smile plastered across my face. "Good afternoon, what can I get—"

The words died in my throat.

Standing by the display case was Sofia.

She wasn't wearing an oversized coat anymore. She wore a neat navy school uniform, a yellow raincoat draped over her arm, her hair gathered in a clean, glossy ponytail. She had color in her cheeks, and her dark eyes were clear, bright, and alive.

Beside her stood Carmela, holding an umbrella and smiling like a conspirator.

"Sofia?" I whispered, coming around the counter.

The girl didn't say a word. She ran straight toward me, throwing her arms around my waist with the same fierce, desperate warmth she had shown in that smoky kitchen. I sank to my knees on the wooden floorboards, wrapping my flour-dusted arms around her, burying my face in her clean hair.

"You didn't come to Sunday dinner," Sofia murmured into my ear, her voice steady and whole. "Mama Elena made pasta with sardines. It was terrible without your bread."

"I... I had to work, sweetheart," I lied, my throat burning with unshed tears. "I have a shop to run."

Carmela walked over, her heels clicking softly against the floor. "The shop runs very well, Emily. But my brother does not."

I looked up, blinking back the sting in my eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"He hasn't slept more than two hours a night since you walked out the gate," Carmela said plainly, crossing her arms. "He sits in the library staring at that ridiculous silver tin in the photograph. He broke three phones last week because the dock managers were being incompetent. He is completely intolerable."

"He has his empire back," I said, rising to my feet, trying to summon the anger that had kept me safe for three weeks. "He has his ledgers and his docks. He doesn't need a baker."

"He didn't buy the Queens docks for the syndicate, Emily," Sofia spoke up, taking my floury hand between her small, warm fingers. "He bought them because the shipping line imports the organic wheat flour your grandfather used to use from Palermo."

I froze. "What?"

"Two hundred tons of ancient Sicilian grain arrived at Red Hook yesterday," Carmela said with a knowing, wicked smile. "He has nowhere to store it. Unless, of course, the owner of Rossi Bakery agrees to accept a very stubborn, very difficult delivery."