The mafia boss had been rejected by beautiful women in penthouses, heiresses at charity galas, and one actress who had actually cried when he refused to buy her a house.

Two weeks into the arrangement, the quiet sanctuary of Sophie’s temporary bakery kitchen on West Oak Street was completely ruined.

Not because the renovation was failing—it was going magnificently. The new deck ovens had been installed, the marble counters were polished, and the copper racks gleamed under bright lights.

It was ruined because Luca Bellini was sitting on a wooden flour crate in the back corner, wearing a navy tailored suit, eating a warm almond croissant off a paper towel.

"You shouldn't be here," Sophie said, wiping down the marble counter with a damp rag.

"I own the building," Luca reminded her, taking another bite.

"You own the real estate company that owns the building," she corrected, pointing a flour-dusted spatula at him. "There is a operational difference. You are distracting my painters."

Across the room, two construction workers were meticulously painting the baseboards, hyper-aware that one of the most powerful men in the city was quietly observing them.

"They are working thirty percent faster because I am here," Luca replied smoothly. "It’s called management efficiency."

Sophie rolled her eyes, but she couldn't suppress the small smile tugging at her mouth. Over the past fortnight, the terrifying mafia figure had slowly morphed into a constant, strangely reassuring presence in her life. He showed up unannounced at odd hours. He brought her black coffee from the local diner when she worked past midnight. He listened—actually listened—when she ranted about butterfat percentages and yeast hydration.

"Try this," Sophie said, walking over to him and holding out a small ceramic plate. On it sat a delicate, golden tart topped with pale yellow curd and a dusting of powdered sugar.

Luca looked down at the tart, then up at her. "What is it?"

"Meyer lemon and rosemary," she said. "Your grandmother told me her mother used to make a savory lemon tart in Sicily. I’ve been testing recipes for her birthday party next week."

Luca took the small silver fork she handed him, cut off a piece, and placed it in his mouth.

Sophie held her breath. She didn't care about the opinions of food critics or wealthy patrons, but for some absurd reason, she wanted Luca to like it.

He chewed slowly. His eyes closed for a fraction of a second. When he opened them, the usual guarded coldness was completely gone.

"It tastes like my childhood," he said softly. " Summers in Palermo before my father died."

"Really?" she whispered.

"Really," he said, setting the plate down on the crate beside him. He stood up slowly, taking a step toward her. "You have magic in your hands, Sophie."

"It's just science and practice," she stammered, feeling her face heat up as he closed the distance between them.

"No," Luca murmured, stopping inches away. His hand came up, his thumb softly brushing against her jawline, wiping away a fleck of powdered sugar. "It's heart. Everything you make has heart. It’s something my world lost a long time ago."

Sophie forgot how to breathe. The air between them grew thick and heavy with a sudden, unbearable heat. His eyes fell to her lips, dark and intense, and for one terrifying, magnificent second, she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted to feel the rough press of his mouth against hers, to know if he tasted like lemons and dark espresso.

Before he could close the gap, the bell above the bakery front door chimed loudly.

"Luca!"

The sharp voice shattered the moment.

Marco stepped into the kitchen, his posture rigid, his face pale. Behind him stood a tall woman in an ivory silk suit with sleek silver hair and diamond studs in her ears. Her eyes were cold, scanning the flour-dusted room with absolute disgust.

This was Victoria Bellini—Luca’s mother.

"Mother," Luca said, his voice instantly dropping ten degrees as he stepped between Sophie and the door. "You didn't inform me you were returning from Milan."

"Clearly," Victoria said, her sharp gaze locking onto Sophie like a missile targeting a threat. "If I had known my son was spending his afternoons in a commercial kitchen with a peasant girl, I would have caught a flight weeks ago."

Sophie stepped forward, her spine stiffening. "I'm not a peasant girl, Mrs. Bellini. I am a master pastry chef."

Victoria sneered, stepping closer and looking Sophie up and down. "You are an opportunistic little liar. I know about the contract, Miss Bennett."

The room went dead silent.

Sophie’s heart turned to lead. "What?"

Victoria pulled a folded document from her leather handbag and tossed it onto the marble counter. It was a copy of the contract Vance had drafted—the one specifying the hundred thousand dollar payment.

"My contacts in Vance’s office were very helpful," Victoria spat, turning her glare back to Luca. "You bought her, Luca! You hired a fake bride to manipulate your grandmother’s health so you could secure her voting shares in the family trust before the annual board meeting!"

Luca’s jaw tightened so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. "That is between me and Nonna, Mother. Leave Sophie out of this."

"Leave her out?" Victoria laughed bitterly. "She took your money! She’s taking fifty thousand dollars of our family money to fund this cheap little bakery! She doesn't care about you or Nonna Rosa. She's a gold-digger who found an easy mark."

Victoria turned back to Sophie, her eyes burning with malice. "How much to pack your bags and leave Chicago tonight, Miss Bennett? Double what he offered? Name your price."

Sophie looked at the document on the counter. Then she looked at Luca.

He was watching her, his face an unreadable mask of cold marble. He didn't defend her. He didn't deny the accusation about the voting shares.

A sick, cold realization bloomed in Sophie’s chest. The warmth, the conversations, the lemon tart—it was all part of a corporate war. He hadn't chosen her because she was genuine. He had chosen her because she was convenient, cheap, and easily bought.

Sophie slowly reached up, pulled the heavy diamond ring off her finger, and set it down right on top of the contract.

"Keep your money, Mrs. Bellini," Sophie said, her voice dropping to a terrifyingly quiet whisper. "And take your contract with you."