Prologue
Iawoke with a start, covered in sweat, as I had so many nights over the past year. It was as though I could still smell the smoke, still hear the loud boom that had signaled the explosion that had taken my parents’ lives.
I stared up at the ceiling of my grandparents’ house that, though familiar, still didn’t feel like home. If my parents were still alive, even at eleven I would have been welcomed into their bed for a reassuring snuggle. But my grandparents had to be up soon to open the family bakery and at their older age, they didn’t need anything hindering the little amount of sleep they got. They already had another kid to raise that they hadn’t bargained for.
They tried their best to hide it but the strain of losing my parents, of raising me and keeping the bakery running wasn’t lost on me. And I couldn’t lose them. They were all I had left.
With that thought in mind, despite it being before dawn, I got up, prepared to work a few hours at the bakery before school.
I’d had to grow up quickly over the past year, memories of a carefree childhood like a distant dream that had happened to someone else.
“No, no, tesoro,” my nonna chided gently, showing me just how to roll the dough between my fingers a few hours later as we prepared to open the bakery for the day. She’d been calling me her treasure in Italian since I was born.
I nodded dutifully, knowing it was important to her that I learn how to bake, that I take on the family business someday.
I was at the counter, my grandparents in the back when they walked in. My uncle Angelo, followed by his right-hand man, Bruno.
Pure hatred and fear quickened my pulse in equal measure as they watched me with cunning eyes. I knew my uncle was evil, had known it for as long as I could remember, just as I knew he’d killed my parents. There was no proof, not that it would have done anything anyway. He had the whole city of Las Vegas under his twisted thumb.
“Francesca, you’re looking well,” he greeted coolly, his dark eyes assessing and cruel.
“Growing up so fast,” Bruno noted as his gaze remained on me a beat too long.
I was scared of my uncle but I was downright terrified of Bruno. He looked at me as though I was a woman as opposed to a child. I always avoided them both as best I could.
“Angelo, what are you doing here?” Nonna’s voice was tight as she greeted her son. She knew what he was, what he’d done. I could see it in her eyes when she looked at him.
“Can’t a son come by to visit his mother and niece?” my uncle replied easily. “Plus, there’s nowhere else in town to get a decent cannoli,” he added.
She nodded stiffly; it was obvious even to me that he scared her. “Francesca, time to get to school,” she told me under her breath.
She didn’t have to tell me twice. I swiped up my backpack, all too ready to be rid of them.
“Francesca, you’re turning into a beautiful young woman,” Bruno praised.
“It’s Frannie.” I somehow found the voice to speak. I hadn’t planned to create a nickname for myself, but hearing my full name on his lips had soured it, despite it being given to me by my parents.
He cocked a brow, seemingly amused. “Is it now? For a pretty Italian girl like you? I like Francesca much better.”
I knew better than to argue further, and with a quick nod made for the exit.
I looked back at my nonna, watching her observe her son with a guarded expression. She couldn’t escape him. She was stuck, trapped really, in more ways than one.
I couldn’t help but feel as though I’d already been given the same fate.
Chapter 1
PRESENT DAY, FRANCESCA
The familiar smell of coffee and sweet dough tickled my nose as I slid the last batch of cannoli into the display case. I’d been up long before the sun and had been daydreaming of getting off my feet since lunch.
It would be a while yet before that happened.
After my grandparents passed, the bakery had fallen to me. Now, five years later, I was struggling to run things on my own. The Vegas Strip had grown exponentially over the years, with large chains bringing more and more competition to the area. I was barely making ends meet.
But I loved to bake. I loved to experiment in the kitchen. Sometimes it went so wrong but more often than not it went deliciously right. As it turned out, under my nonna’s tutelage I’d turned into a skilled baker. But talent in the kitchen didn’t translate into being able to pay the bills. At least not for me, not anymore.
The bakery had been struggling before my grandparents passed. But at least there had been two of them, and I’d helped as much as I could. Now, it was only me and I struggled to stay afloat.