The bell above the door chimed—a light, cheery sound that felt like a sacrilege compared to the heavy silence of the blacked-out SUV idling at the curb.

Vincenzo stepped inside, the smell of gunpowder still clinging to the wool of his overcoat. He was a man of sharp edges and cold shadows, a shadow that had just spent the last three hours deciding who lived and who died in this city. His pulse was still racing, his knuckles throbbing from a "negotiation" that had turned messy.

Then, he saw him.

Leo was standing behind the flour-dusted counter, his frame slight but his posture commanding. He was wearing a pale blue apron that matched the soft curve of his eyes, his hair tucked back by a simple white headband. To anyone else, he looked like a delicate porcelain doll. To Vincenzo, he was the only thing that felt real.

Leo didn't look up from the tray of eclairs he was meticulously piping. "You’re five minutes late, Vincenzo. The ovens are already off."

Vincenzo’s jaw tightened. Any of his lieutenants would have been executed for such tone, but he just stepped closer, his shadow falling over the glass display. He leaned over the counter, his eyes dark and hungry, tracking the movement of Leo’s steady hands.

"I had business," Vincenzo rasped, his voice like gravel. He reached out, his gloved hand hovering inches from Leo’s cheek—an obsessive, possessive gesture he couldn't control. He wanted to scoop the baker up, carry him away to a fortress where no sun or man could touch him.

Thwack.

Leo didn't even flinch as he brought a wooden rolling pin down firmly on the counter, inches from Vincenzo’s hand.

"Business doesn’t pay the heating bill, and it certainly doesn't get you a fresh loaf," Leo said, finally looking up. His gaze was fierce, unimpressed by the custom-tailored suit or the dangerous aura radiating off the man in front of him. He reached out, grabbing Vincenzo’s hand—not with fear, but with a firm, grounding grip.

Leo’s eyes narrowed as he spotted a dark red smear on Vincenzo's cuff.

"You’re bleeding on my floor," Leo scolded, his voice dropping to a stern, low velvet. He didn't pull away; instead, he stepped around the counter, forcing the mafia overlord to back up until he hit the wall. Leo stood his ground, a head shorter but twice as intimidating in that moment. "I told you, Vincenzo. If you want to come into my shop, you leave the monster outside. Go to the back, wash your hands, and sit down. Now."

Vincenzo, the man who held the city's throat in his palm, simply exhaled. The tension left his shoulders. Under Leo’s stern command, the "monster" went quiet.

"Yes, Leo," Vincenzo murmured, his obsession flaring as he watched the baker return to his work, already dismissing the king of the underworld as if he were nothing more than a messy child.

Vincenzo headed for the sink. He would burn the world down for a man who dared to tell him no.