THE HONEY AND RYE BAKER

The air in the bakery kitchen vanished.

I stared at the photograph on Roman’s phone. It was me, wearing my oversized gray sweatpants, brushing my hair in front of my bedroom mirror. The photo was stamped with a date from three weeks ago.

Long before Roman ever walked into my bakery.

Long before he ever threw a fake girlfriend proposal at me.

“Why?” I whispered, the word barely making it past the tight lump in my throat. “I’m a baker. I wake up at three in the morning and I make bread. Why is an old man taking photos of my bedroom?”

Roman pocketed the phone. His eyes were scanning the kitchen, suddenly evaluating every window, every shadow, as a potential threat.

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” Roman said, his voice hard. “Leo has my sister’s rosary. He’s watching my niece. He’s photographing you. You are connected to Elena, Clare. Somehow.”

“I’ve never met your sister!” I protested, backing up until my spine hit the cold stainless steel of the industrial oven.

Lily slowly lowered her legs from her chest. She looked at me, her eyes darting across my face as if searching for something.

“Clare,” Lily said softly. “What was your mother’s maiden name?”

I blinked, completely thrown by the question. “Russo. Why?”

Roman inhaled sharply. He took a step toward me, the realization hitting him so hard he physically braced himself against the prep table.

“Maria Russo?” Roman asked.

“Yes,” I said, my heart pounding against my ribs. “She died when I was ten. What does this have to do with anything?”

Roman rubbed a hand over his face, letting out a heavy, ragged breath. “Maria Russo was my father’s head accountant. She was the one who hid the family’s money before Marcus tried to take over the syndicate. She was the only one who knew where the offshore accounts were.”

The kitchen started to spin. “My mother was an elementary school teacher.”

“She was a ghost,” Roman corrected gently. “And when she died, the location of that money died with her. At least, that’s what Marcus believed.”

Lily stood up, ignoring the flour dusting her sweatpants. “Unless she left a map. And unless Marcus thinks Clare has it.”

It all clicked into place with sickening clarity. Leo wasn’t stalking me. He was protecting me. He was watching the daughter of the woman who held the key to the Duca fortune. And now, Marcus’s men had found Leo.

Which meant they were coming for me next.

Roman’s radio clicked.

“Boss,” the guard outside said. “We found a bus ticket in Leo’s apartment. Chicago to Milwaukee. Departs in one hour. Attached to it is a locker key. Union Station, Locker 402.”

Roman looked at me. “We have to go. Now.”

“I’m not leaving my bakery,” I panicked, looking around at the rising dough, the cooling racks of pastries. It was my whole life. It was all I had left of my mother.

“Clare, listen to me,” Roman said, closing the distance between us. He didn’t touch me, but his presence was overwhelming, grounding me in the chaos. “Marcus Vance burns everything he touches. If you stay here, you die. I swear on my life, I will protect this place. But right now, I need to protect you.”

I looked into his dark eyes. I saw the ruthless Mafia boss, yes. But beneath that, I saw the man who had ordered plain black coffee for a week just to make sure his niece ate a single piece of bread.

I untied my apron and threw it on the counter. “Let’s go.”

Union Station was a chaotic swarm of commuters, echoing announcements, and bitter winter drafts. Roman walked slightly ahead of us, his body completely shielding Lily and me. Two of his men flanked us, hands resting conspicuously inside their heavy coats.

We reached the bank of rusted lockers near the lower platforms.

Locker 402.

Roman slid the key into the slot and turned. The metal door popped open with a hollow click.

Inside sat a single object.

It wasn’t a gun. It wasn’t a stack of money.

It was a faded, brightly colored child’s drawing. Stick figures of a mother, a father, and a little girl standing in front of a yellow house with a red roof.

Roman pulled it out, frowning. “What is this?”

Lily gasped. She reached out with trembling fingers and traced the red crayon roof.

“I drew this,” Lily whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek. “I drew this the day before the fire.”

Roman turned the drawing over. On the back, written in hurried, smeared blue ink, was a single sentence.

The baker’s daughter knows the recipe.

I stared at the handwriting. My mother’s handwriting.

Before I could even process what it meant, the screech of tires echoed through the loading zone behind us. A black Mercedes SUV slammed to a halt directly blocking the station doors.

The back window rolled down.

Sitting in the backseat, wearing a perfectly tailored wool coat and a sickeningly calm smile, was Aunt Sophia.