At 9:17 P.M., I was the only waitress brave enough to approach table four, where Boston’s most feared mafia boss was slowly dying in front of everyone.

Three months passed.

The grand opening of *Henderson’s Bakehouse* had been covered by every food magazine in Boston. Every morning, lines wrapped around the corner of Hanover Street for our signature rosemary focaccia and lemon-thyme brioche rolls.

I had hired six young women from local shelters, paying them double the industry wage with full health benefits. The nightmare of Richard's tyranny had been replaced by a workplace of dignity and laughter.

One rainy Tuesday afternoon, as the lunch rush cleared, the little brass bell above the door chimed.

I wiped flour from my hands and stepped out from behind the prep counter. "Welcome to Henderson's, how can I—"

I stopped.

Standing near the display case was a woman in her late forties, wearing a tailored camel-hair coat. She had dark hair streaked with silver, elegant features, and eyes the exact same shade of storm-grey as Dominic's.

She looked at the display of pastries, then looked up at me with an unreadable expression.

"You're Chloe," she said, her voice smooth, cultured, and undeniably Romano.

"I am," I replied carefully, wiping the counter. "Can I help you?"

"I am Camilla Romano. Vincenzo’s younger sister. Dominic’s aunt."

The hair on my arms stood up. Dominic had mentioned Camilla once—she had lived in exile in Milan for fifteen years following the car bombing that took Dominic's parents, having refused to participate in the syndicate wars.

"He never told me you were in Boston," I said evenly.

Camilla walked slowly along the counter, inspecting the pastries with an aristocratic eye. "Dominic doesn't know I’m here. I took the red-eye from Milan last night when I read that the Romano syndicate had surrendered its southern docks to municipal oversight."

She stopped, turning to face me. "My family has ruled this coast for seventy years through terror and discipline, Miss Henderson. And in ninety days, a twenty-six-year-old waitress has convinced my nephew to turn our family legacy into a shipping co-op and a pastry shop."

"If you came here to threaten me, Mrs. Romano, you’re wasting your time," I said, leaning forward on the counter, refusing to back down. "Your nephew almost died because of your family’s 'legacy.' He was poisoned by his own blood for money and cocaine. If you think terror and discipline are worth dying alone on a restaurant floor, you don't know Dominic at all."

Camilla stared at me. Her expression was cold, calculating, and severe.

For five agonizing seconds, neither of us spoke.

Then, unexpectedly, the corners of Camilla’s mouth curved into a faint, approving smile.

"Good," she murmured, pulling a pair of leather gloves from her hands. "At least you have a spine. The Romano women have always had to carry the courage when the men lose their minds to violence."

She reached into her purse, pulled out an ancient, leather-bound recipe book with hand-stitched parchment, and set it gently on the marble counter.

"My mother’s cannoli and panettone formulas from Palermo," Camilla said softly. "Passed down for four generations. Dominic’s mother loved them. Treat them with respect, Chloe."

I blinked, stunned. "You're... giving this to me?"

"I am giving them to the woman who gave my nephew his soul back," Camilla replied, turning toward the door. "Tell Dominic I will be at the estate for Sunday dinner. And tell him that if the wine isn't properly tested, I will slap him myself."