Chapter 4 - The Shadow on the Wall
The next seventy-two hours felt like a surreal fever dream that had broken loose from reality.
Bellamy’s Bakery was closed. Not by the police, but by a discreet team of men in dark suits who arrived at dawn, replaced the shattered display cases with bulletproof glass, paid the bakery owner three times the market value of the entire building in cash, and posted two quiet, broad-shouldered men near the front entrance twenty-four hours a day.
Emma had tried to go home to her small, two-bedroom apartment in Queens on Tuesday morning, but when she arrived, she found her landlord waiting outside with a look of utter bewilderment.
"Emma?" the old man had stuttered, holding out a set of gold keys. "Some men in suits came by. They paid off your five-year lease in full. They had your stuff packed by professional movers. They said you live in Manhattan now."
Emma stood on the sidewalk, her small duffel bag slung over her shoulder, feeling a mixture of indignation and awe.
Before she could pull out her phone to call the police—or Dominic Moretti—a long, sleek black Lincoln Town Car pulled quietly up to the curb.
The rear window rolled down.
Mia’s face appeared, her nose pressed against the glass, her hands already moving wildly in ASL:
Get in! Get in! Papa made pancakes!
Emma couldn't help the small laugh that escaped her lips. She shook her head, pulled open the door, and slid into the broad, leather interior.
Sitting opposite her, sipping black espresso from a porcelain cup while reading a financial paper, was Dominic. He was dressed casually today in a dark cashmere sweater, though the lethal aura around him hadn't diminished in the slightest.
"You can't just move my apartment, Mr. Moretti," Emma said, keeping her voice firm as the car glided smoothly into Manhattan traffic. "I have a life. I have a job."
Dominic set his coffee down. He looked at her—really looked at her—taking in the stubborn line of her jaw.
"Victor was not working alone, Miss Brooks," Dominic said softly, his voice dropping into that dark, heavy register. "The man you pinned to the floor was my second-in-command for eight years. He was working with the Falcone syndicate out of Brooklyn. They wanted Mia to force my surrender. You broke their trap. You humiliated them."
Emma’s breath caught in her throat.
"Which means," Dominic continued, leaning forward, his gray-blue eyes locking onto hers, "as long as you are walking around Queens alone, you are a target. The Falcones know who you are. They know a female baker made their best hitmen look like amateurs. They will come for you to save face."
"I can take care of myself," Emma said, though her stomach twisted nervous knots.
"I know you can," Dominic replied, and to Emma's shock, a tiny, genuine smile touched the corner of his stern lips. "I saw you throw a two-liter steel pitcher through a man’s face. You have more courage in your little finger than half the men who work for me. But you shouldn't have to fight them alone."
Mia tapped Emma’s knee gently.
Please stay with us, Emma, Mia signed, her eyes pleading. Papa’s house is big and quiet. Nobody speaks to me there. The guards only use radios. Papa knows some signs, but he works all day. I am lonely.
Emma looked from the child’s small, hopeful face to Dominic’s guarded expression.
"My estate in Greenwich has a full commercial pastry kitchen," Dominic added quietly, looking out the window as if pretending it wasn't a bribe. "Imported French ovens. Marble counters. You can bake whatever you want. I will pay you five times your bakery salary to act as Mia’s personal companion and head of household culinary staff."
Emma sat back against the leather seat, her mind reeling.
She thought of her cramped Queens apartment. She thought of her late brother, Noah, and the promise she had made beside his hospital bed twelve years ago: Your language will never be forgotten.
Here was a child trapped in a golden cage, surrounded by men with guns who loved her but couldn't speak her language, drowning in the same silence Noah had faced before he found his voice.
Emma looked at Dominic. "Two conditions, Mr. Moretti."
Dominic raised an eyebrow. "Name them."
"First, I am not your servant. If I see something dangerous or wrong regarding Mia, I will speak my mind, and you will listen."
"Done," Dominic said without hesitation. "Second?"
"You learn sign language with us. Every night. One hour. No phones, no meetings, no mafia business. You sit down with your daughter and you learn to talk to her."
The interior of the Lincoln went completely silent. The driver in the front front seat caught Emma's eyes in the rearview mirror, his jaw practically dropping in terror at her audacity.
Dominic stared at Emma for three long seconds. The silence stretched until it felt like thin ice.
May you like
Then, Dominic Moretti lowered his head, a soft, rich chuckle echoing in his chest.
"Miss Brooks," he said, turning his face to look at her with an intensity that made Emma’s skin flush warm. "You really are an extraordinary woman. Deal."
