Chapter 4 - Protection and Powdered Sugar
Three days later, the morning sun broke over the brick storefronts of Chicago’s West Town neighborhood, casting long golden light across the display window of Sweet Beginnings Bakery.
Inside, the air smelled intoxicatingly of melted butter, roasted espresso, melted chocolate, and vanilla bean.
Elena was standing behind the high glass display counter, her dark hair tied back in a messy bun, wearing a flour-dusted denim apron over a cream sweater. She was checking the temperature on an industrial deck oven while simultaneously keeping one eye on the triplets, who were sitting at a small wooden table in the corner coloring in giant storybooks.
The brass bell above the front door chimed.
"Welcome to Sweet Beginnings, we open in ten minutes—" Elena began automatically, wiping her hands on her apron as she turned around.
She stopped dead.
Adrien Moretti walked through the door.
He was not wearing his dark, razor-sharp evening suit today. Instead, he wore a charcoal grey cashmere sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his forearms, dark trousers, and tailored leather boots. In his hand, he carried a massive, polished wooden box tied with a thick velvet ribbon. Behind him, two enormous men in suits—men who looked like they broke boulders for breakfast—were carrying three heavy, high-end ergonomic children’s study desks.
"Adrien?" Elena gasped, her jaw dropping. "What... what is all this?"
"Good morning, Elena," Adrien said, his deep voice filling the small bakery. He set the heavy wooden box on a nearby bistro table. "The girls mentioned their playhouse in the backyard was falling apart. I had my craftsmen build a modular cedar kit. And these desks are for their reading."
Lily, Sophie, and Emma dropped their crayons instantly.
"Mr. Moretti!" Lily squeaked, scrambling out of her chair with Sophie and Emma right on her heels. They rushed over, surrounding his legs like three small, hyperactive ducklings.
"Is that a real cedar kit?" Sophie asked, her eyes glittering with analytical delight as she sniffed the air near the wooden box. "With cedar shingles?"
"With cedar shingles and reinforced brass hinges," Adrien confirmed, dropping down to one knee so he was at eye level with them. "And waterproof windows."
Emma stepped up, her small hand reaching out to touch his cashmere sweater. "You came back," she whispered softly.
Adrien looked at the quietest triplet. His expression softened into something profound and protective. "I told you I would."
Elena walked out from behind the counter, looking between Adrien and her daughters with a mixture of intense gratitude and deep, rising alarm.
"Adrien, this is too much," she said, her voice dropping as she pulled him aside while the girls eagerly inspected the desk delivery. "These desks alone cost thousands of dollars. We barely know each other! We went on one date!"
"One date that lasted three hours," Adrien corrected, standing up and looking down at her. "And I don't give gifts to impress people, Elena. I give them because those children are doing their homework on a broken folding table in your back room."
Elena flushed, defensive pride rising in her chest. "We manage fine—"
"I didn't say you didn't manage," Adrien interrupted gently, his tone firm yet surprisingly sweet. "You are an extraordinary mother. But you don't have to carry every heavy thing by yourself."
Elena stared at him, the sharp edge of her pride softening under the sheer, unwavering sincerity in his dark eyes. No man had ever offered to help her without expecting something in return. Her ex-husband had run the moment the ultrasound confirmed triplets, leaving her with hospital bills and broken promises.
Before Elena could speak, the bakery’s front door opened again—not with a gentle chime, but with a hard, aggressive bang that rattled the glass pane.
Two men walked in.
They weren't dressed like Adrien’s men. They wore cheap leather jackets, heavy silver chains, and carried the unmistakable, greasy air of low-level street thugs. The taller one, a heavy-set man with a scar across his chin named Frankie "Guns" Rizzo, kicked the door stop out of the way and strolled right up to the display counter.
"Morning, beautiful," Frankie sneered, slamming a heavy palm onto the glass counter, leaving a greasy smudge. "It’s the first of the month. Time to pay the neighborhood sanitation fee."
Elena’s face went instantly pale. She stepped back, her hands instinctively reaching behind her to pull the triplets closer.
"I paid Mr. Sal three weeks ago," Elena said, her voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts. "He said I was covered through the end of the year."
"Sal got replaced," the second thug growled, leaning over the counter and knocking over a small display stand of iced sugar cookies. The cookies shattered against the floor. "New management, new rates. Five hundred bucks a month, or these nice glass windows of yours might catch a sudden case of flying bricks."
Lily gasped, hiding her face in Elena’s apron. Emma started to cry silently.
Elena’s chest heaved. "I don't have five hundred dollars in cash right now! I have to pay my flour supplier today!"
"Not our problem, lady," Frankie barked, reaching across the counter to grab Elena’s wrist. "Pay up, or—"
A hand caught Frankie’s wrist mid-air.
It didn't look like a fast movement, but it was absolute. Adrien’s scarred hand locked around Frankie’s arm with the crushing pressure of a hydraulic press.
Frankie gasped, his eyes flying wide as he turned to face the man standing beside him.
Adrien hadn't raised his voice. He hadn't drawn a gun. But the air inside the bakery instantly plummeted by thirty degrees. The two bodyguards delivering desks immediately stepped in front of the triplets, blocking their line of sight with their massive frames, shielding the children completely.
"You are standing in a place of business," Adrien said. His voice was a flat, terrifying whisper that made the hair on the back of Frankie’s neck stand up. "You are breaking pastries. And you are frightening a mother and her children."
"Who the hell are you?!" Frankie shouted, trying to wrench his arm free. He couldn't move an inch. "Let go of me, asshole! Do you know who we work for?! We work for the Falcone family!"
Adrien tilted his head slightly. A small, chilling smile touched the corner of his lips.
"I know who you work for," Adrien whispered.
Adrien twisted Frankie’s wrist down and inward. A sickening snap echoed through the bakery, followed by Frankie’s high-pitched, agonizing scream as his wrist dislocated. Adrien didn't stop there; he swept his leg forward, kicking Frankie’s kneecap out from under him, dropping the two-hundred-pound thug to the floor like a sack of wet flour.
The second thug reached inside his leather jacket for a gun, but Adrien was already moving.
Adrien grabbed the second thug by the throat, shoved him backward into the heavy oak front door, and slammed his head against the wood once. The thug’s eyes rolled back, and he slid down to the floor, unconscious.
Adrien stood over the two groaning men, his breath completely steady, his cashmere sweater immaculate. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a silk handkerchief, and wiped his fingers.
"Danté," Adrien called out calmly toward the front entrance.
Danté stepped through the door, holding two large coffee cups. He looked down at the two crippled thugs on the floor, didn't blink an eye, and took a sip of his coffee.
"Take these two trash bags out of the lady’s shop," Adrien ordered smoothly. "Throw them in the river. Or give them to the dogs. I don't care which."
"Consider it done, Don Moretti," Danté said, tossing his cup into a bin and dragging both men out by their collars as if they were bags of dry leaves.
Adrien turned back toward the counter.
Elena was staring at him, her hands pressed over her mouth, her hazel eyes wide with absolute, stunning terror—not at the thugs, but at him.
She had seen it. The lethal, practiced speed. The cold, casual cruelty with which he had broken a man’s bones. The title Danté had used.
Don Moretti.
Adrien stopped ten feet away from her. The air in the room felt heavy, suffocating, soaked in powdered sugar and violence.
"Elena," Adrien said softly, taking a step toward her.
"Don't," Elena whispered, backing away until her spine hit the rear industrial ovens. "Don't come closer."
She looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time. The dark suit, the scarred hands, the absolute authority that made grown men tremble. The puzzle pieces of his identity slammed together in her mind with devastating clarity.
"You're not in real estate," Elena breathed, tears brimming in her eyes. "You’re Adrien Moretti. The head of the Moretti crime family."
Adrien stood frozen in the middle of her bakery. The promise he had made to three little girls three nights ago rang in his ears like a solemn church bell.
May you like
I will not lie to her about who I am.
"Yes," Adrien said, his voice flat and heavy with tragic truth. "I am."
