I bit my tongue against pointing out that he wasn’t a Rossi. Not by blood. Both he and my uncle took it as a slight that I avoided family functions, that I very clearly rejected the family business.
To me, the family business was baking and that was the dream I was trying with all my might to see through.
I sat stiffly through dinner, forcing smiles when they were warranted and dutifully cleaning my plate.
“How is the bakery?” Angelo wanted to know as we moved on to dessert.
“Fine.” I nodded despite it being anything but. I didn’t want his blood money, never had. I’d rather see the bakery fail.
His expression darkened. “I very much doubt that, based on how empty it is every time I visit. We are family, Francesca. I’m youronlyfamily.” He pointed out, inciting a wave of fury to rise in my chest. “If you need help, you ask.”
Was it some sort of guilt that caused him to offer? He’d taken my parents from me and now wanted to make some sort of amends, no matter how small? Or was it simply family pride, that no Rossi should financially struggle? I never understood what motivated him in conversations like this.
“I will ask,” I lied quietly, pushing my black-rimmed glasses further up my nose. It was a nervous gesture that I’d been working to control.
“You do that.” How he managed to make his response sound like a threat I wasn’t sure, but a threat it was.
When dessert was over, I tactfully bid farewell, eager to escape the lion’s den. There was part of me that always wondered if one of these days I wouldn’t be allowed to leave.
It was only after I was safely in my car, guiding it through the iron gate and onto the road beyond that I released the choked sob I’d been holding in, my hands shaking as I gripped the wheel.
My only family was a monster of a man who only wanted me in his life to wield his power over me. Even after all these years I longed for the warm embrace of my parents, of my grandparents. I hadn’t been held, comforted, in so long. My life was one of survival.
Despite my best efforts, I was just as trapped as Nonna had been all those years before, and my parents before that. They’d paid with their lives in trying to break the shackles of my uncle’s metaphorical prison.
This would not be my fate. I would get out.
Somehow.
Chapter 2
FRANCESCA
“Frannie, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Anita called the next morning, rising from her regular table by the window. She and a few others came in every day without fail, determined to see one of the few remaining Italian bakeries in Vegas remain in business.
Unfortunately, buying a cup of coffee and sitting for two hours wasn’t going to move the needle much.
The bell over the door tolled moments later, signaling the entrance of the most heart-shatteringly gorgeous man I’d ever seen. I nearly dropped the coat I was in the process of helping Anita put on. His muscular frame filled the doorway as he stepped through, his captivating gray eyes meeting mine before landing on an empty table by the counter.
“You’re such a dear.” Anita smiled sweetly, unaware that my hands now shook and breath hitched as I finished putting her coat on her. “Are you sure you don’t want to meet my grandson? You two would make such a lovely couple. He’s a looker.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I assured her, not for the first time. “But no, thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I waved as she made her way slowly out the door.
I could feel the man’s eyes on me as he sat, waiting patiently, his large hands clasped on the table, his leather vest stretched over his muscular frame. My eyes cut to the Knights Motorcycle Club insignia on the back of his vest, feeling afraid of its potential meaning and a bit curious. With the life of crime the majority of my family was embroiled in or had been lost to, I had no interest in welcoming more violence into my life. But oddly enough, something about this man appeased that initial fear.
His head lifted, his eyes on mine as I walked over to his table. His gaze roved my face, studying me with an intent that had me shifting my weight on tired feet.
“What can I get you?” I asked, impressed with myself when my tone was measured instead of the breathy, fluttering mess I felt like on the inside.
“Coffee, black,” he replied, his voice a low timbre that went straight to my core.
“For here?” I asked.
His eyes held mine. “For here.”
I turned on a heel, eager to escape his gaze while at the same time wanting to soak in it.
“Quiet day?” he asked, looking around the empty bakery.
