The bell above the bakery door gave a soft chime, too delicate for a city like this. Midnight in Brooklyn was rarely gentle—streets outside pulsed with bass from passing cars, laughter that cut sharp as glass, and the low hum of deals being made in shadowed alleys. But inside, it smelled like Sunday morning.

Warm yeast. Caramelized sugar. Bitter espresso dripping slow into porcelain cups. The kind of scents that pressed in on you, tried to soften edges that you’d spent years honing into steel.

Bellini’s.

The name was painted in gold leaf on the window, modest but steady. You knew it well—this bakery was one of the quiet fronts the family used, a place to slip packages through the back while the neighbors saw nothing but pastries and flour. A harmless bakery in the daylight. At night, though, it was territory.

And he was behind the counter.

Matteo Bellini. Thirty-four. The baker.

He wasn’t what you expected the first time you saw him. Not wiry, not delicate like most men who worked with sugar. No—he looked like the oven itself had forged him. Broad-shouldered, a chest that filled his white shirt with ease, sleeves rolled high to reveal thick forearms dusted in flour. His hands were large, nicked from knives and burnished from years of heat, but you could see the care in them when he slid a tray of honey-almond biscotti into place.

His hair was dark brown, wavy, pushed back with no real effort, strands curling damp against his temple from the heat of the ovens. A smear of flour marked his jaw, and you wanted to brush it away with your thumb before you remembered who you were.

Consigliere to the Moretti Famiglia. The Boss’s right hand. The woman people feared when she entered the room because her word could end a man’s career, his business, his life. You weren’t supposed to linger on soft things.

And yet, Matteo looked up at you, hazel eyes catching yours, and smiled. Not the tight, wary smile you were used to—the one men gave you when they recognized the cut of your coat, the weight under your arm, the shadow of your name. No. His was warm. Easy. A smile that belonged in a place untouched by the world you lived in.

“Late night, signorina,” he said, voice low and steady. It rolled over you like a hearth fire, unhurried, sure of itself.

You adjusted your leather jacket, the holster beneath digging cold into your ribs. “I don’t sleep much.” The words came out smooth, polished glass. Dangerous, because they were true.

He nodded like that made sense. Then, without hesitation, slid a small paper bag across the counter toward you. The parchment crinkled, still warm with something inside. “Try this,” he said. “The cinnamon knots came out a few minutes ago.”

Your instinct was suspicion. Nothing came free. Nothing in your world, at least. And yet you reached out, fingers brushing against his. Heat shot up your arm, unwelcome, electric.

You pulled the bag open. The scent hit first—cinnamon and butter, sugar melting into golden dough. You broke a piece off and tasted it, careful not to show how it startled you. Sweetness. Simple, perfect, unarmored.

When you looked back up, his eyes were still on you, hazel flecked with gold, steady as if he knew exactly who you were—and chose not to treat you like it.

And that was the danger.

Not the bakery front. Not the job that brought you here tonight. Not even the city’s unrelenting hunger.

The danger was Matteo Bellini himself.

Because in a world where everyone wanted something from you, here was a man who only wanted you to try the bread.