26

Alexander

After Josephine leaves, the apartment falls into a silence that’s almost too loud.

I pace a slow loop between the kitchen and the living room, staring at the couch where we kissed. Where we didn’t stop. Where we started something that ended with her coming apart beneath me and walking away after I fell asleep.

I can’t shake the feeling that last night changed things, and not just between us.

It’s in the way she avoided my eyes this morning, in the stretch of silence that wasn’t awkward but thick with somethingunspoken. Like we’re standing on the edge of something, hearts racing, waiting for someone to move first.

My phone buzzes with a text on the counter, and I don’t have to look to know who it is.

I don’t read it, I hit call instead.

Nicholas answers on the second ring. “You’re up early.”

“I haven’t really slept, especially after our conversation last night.” I drag a hand through my hair.

“Any word?”

“Nothing solid. But I talked to two of my guys. Bratva leadership denies involvement in that last note. They’re holding the line for now. The streets are quiet.”

I exhale through my nose. “Then who the hell sent it?”

A pause stretches.

“My gut says it’s someone personal. Not Bratva. Not some rando. This was close. Intimate.”

The word sits heavy in my gut. Intimate. Like whoever left it knows exactly how to twist the knife.

“Someone watching me?”

“Watching both of you,” he corrects, and the way he says it makes my skin crawl.

I clench my jaw. “Keep pushing. I want a name.”

“I’ll get it,” Nicholas promises. “Just… watch your back, yeah?”

“I’m done being a fucking target. And I’m done letting her be one.”

I hang up and stare at the phone in my palm, my pulse still hammering.

This used to be about cleaning up my mess. Now it’s about keeping her safe.

And that’s a hell of a lot more dangerous motivation.

The smell hits me the second I push open the door, cinnamon, butter, almond, sugar. It’s warm in the way memories are, wrapping around me like a childhood blanket.

The place is barely bigger than a closet, tucked into the corner of a sleepy Brooklyn block. Brick walls, dusty wood shelves, a chalkboard menu with smudged prices. Nothing flashy. Just comfort.

I step up to the counter, clearing my throat. “Box of chocolate-dipped cannoli. And almond crescent cookies.”

The older woman behind the register, short, with gray streaks in her tight bun and shrewd eyes that miss nothing, tilts her head.

“You a Madrigal?”

My chest tightens. “Yeah. Alexander .”

Her face softens. “Your mama came here every time she was in town. Always said this place reminded her of home. She used to sit right over there.” She gestures to a tiny two-top table by the window. “Wouldn’t leave without a box of cannoli and crescents for her son.”

Something cracks open in my chest, sharp and sudden. “She used to bring me here when I was a kid.”

“I remember. Big brown eyes. Always trying to steal an extra cookie when she wasn’t looking.”

A rough laugh escapes me. “That tracks.”

She nods, slipping the pastries into a box. “She had good taste.”

“Yeah, she really did.”

When I step outside, the cold bites a little harder than before, but I don’t feel it. Not really.

I’m carrying a box of pastries, sure. But what I’m really holding is a piece of Mom, a woman who made me believe I was more than my father’s name. A woman whose love didn’t come with conditions or strategies or exit clauses. My mother gave that kind of love freely. Fiercely. And maybe Josephine is part of that, too.

She makes me want to be the man my mother always saw.

“I’m done being a fucking target. And I’m done letting her be one.”

I hang up and stare at the phone in my palm, my pulse still hammering.

This used to be about cleaning up my mess. Now it’s about keeping her safe.

And that’s a hell of a lot more dangerous motivation.

The smell hits me the second I push open the door, cinnamon, butter, almond, sugar. It’s warm in the way memories are, wrapping around me like a childhood blanket.

The place is barely bigger than a closet, tucked into the corner of a sleepy Brooklyn block. Brick walls, dusty wood shelves, a chalkboard menu with smudged prices. Nothing flashy. Just comfort.

I step up to the counter, clearing my throat. “Box of chocolate-dipped cannoli. And almond crescent cookies.”

The older woman behind the register, short, with gray streaks in her tight bun and shrewd eyes that miss nothing, tilts her head.

“You a Madrigal?”

My chest tightens. “Yeah. Alexander .”

Her face softens. “Your mama came here every time she was in town. Always said this place reminded her of home. She used to sit right over there.” She gestures to a tiny two-top table by the window. “Wouldn’t leave without a box of cannoli and crescents for her son.”

Something cracks open in my chest, sharp and sudden. “She used to bring me here when I was a kid.”

“I remember. Big brown eyes. Always trying to steal an extra cookie when she wasn’t looking.”

A rough laugh escapes me. “That tracks.”

She nods, slipping the pastries into a box. “She had good taste.”

“Yeah, she really did.”

When I step outside, the cold bites a little harder than before, but I don’t feel it. Not really.

I’m carrying a box of pastries, sure. But what I’m really holding is a piece of Mom, a woman who made me believe I was more than my father’s name. A woman whose love didn’t come with conditions or strategies or exit clauses. My mother gave that kind of love freely. Fiercely. And maybe Josephine is part of that, too.

She makes me want to be the man my mother always saw.

She stares at me, eyes narrowing, but her breath catches.

She picks up the box instead, fingers lingering on the lid a beat too long, like she’s trying to steady herself.

Her hand shakes almost imperceptibly before she opens it.

“Cannoli,” she says, teasing. “Let me guess. You saw them and thought of yourself?”

I grin. “I’m cream-filled and irresistible. What can I say?”

She laughs despite herself. It’s quiet, but it’s real.

She breaks off a piece and pops it into her mouth. Powdered sugar coats her lips, and I swear I lose a full second of thought.

She takes another bite, and her eyes flutter closed for a second. “Damn. That’s actually incredible.”

The little moan she lets slip might just kill me.

She licks the sugar away slowly. “You’re staring.”

“Can you blame me?”

She finally makes eye contact, that little grin still playing on her mouth.

The sight knocks the wind out of me, low and sharp.

My chest tightens with a hunger that’s not just lust. It’s need. The kind that makes you stupid and brave all at once.

She shakes her head. “You’re impossible.”

“Only for you.”

Her expression shifts just slightly, softer, warmer, and she tilts her head. “You keep feeding me like this, and I might actually start to like you.”

I lean back. “Careful,dolcezza. I might start hoping that’s true.”

But as I watch her walk away, still licking sugar from her fingers, one thought roots itself deep.

What happens after the merger? Do we go back to pretending none of this mattered… or is this just the beginning of something…real?