I dread my phone ringing. Not just because messages are much more civilised, though that’s definitely the case. It’s so intrusive to make someone’s phone yell at them until they talk to you. A message ping doesn’t necessitate panicked handwashing when you’re in the middle of a messy baking moment and have eggy fingers, butter smeared on your forehead, and flour on your boobs.
What? I had an itch.
No, I dread my phone ringing because invariably it is my father making a demand from the next room, when he could just get up.
“Whisky,” he barks. “And tea for my guest.”
Not sure if his orders would be better via message, actually. Maybe semaphore?
As I put the kettle on, clean myself up, and pull out the fancy cut-glass decanter with the whisky, I feel kinship with the guest. One sniff of my father’s clear beige nail varnish remover—sorry, whisky—makes me want to barf. It’s not even as though my father really likes it. When I swap out the expensive bottles for the stuff on special offer, he doesn’t notice the difference. A lack of taste that will ultimately lose him his little slave: me.
There was a short time when I looked forward to messages on my phone. I did beta reading of romance novels to make money towards one of my first escape attempts, and the buzz as a new smutty story arrived, or an author thanking me for my comments, made my heart fill with helium.
Finding all my earnings stolen was how I discovered my father taps my phone. My father called it “rent” when I asked him, and had one of his goons punch me in the stomach when I complained.
I try not to complain anymore.
They’re in the grandest of the reception rooms, all gaudy old uncomfortable furniture and paintings of sludgy landscapes in gilded frames. The man my father is talking at has his back to me. His curly cropped hair is so black it has a sheen of blue as well as flecks of silver and his broad shoulders are encased in a fine grey wool suit that I know without touching would be warm.
My father’s shoulders are by his ears, uncharacteristically tense for a mafia boss. He ignores me as I start to unload the tray onto the low table between him and the unknown man.
“This is an excellent investment opportunity. I would prefer to keep it for myself, but some of my capital is tied up at the moment.”
I manage not to snort with derision as I place the cups and saucers. Tied up? Yeah. His money is very tied up with the Westminster mafia he owes money to. This man will be fleeced if he invests. Probably deserves it though, he’ll be a mean old mafioso like the rest of—
I glance across to the man my father is attempting to con, and I’m caught.
His eyes. They’re light blue and staring into me. Not over my head, or examining my chest with idle speculation. He’s looking at me as though he can strip away my outward appearance and these shapeless dark clothes and see the swirls of pink and green and blue I imagine make up my soul. As though he can see stars in my drab, colourless eyes and a rainbow in my brown hair. This man looks at my plain appearance and freckled cheeks like I’m an oasis after weeks in the desert. Like I’m beautiful.
Which I’ve been told repeatedly, I’m not.
But him, he’s utterly compelling.
Not handsome, exactly. Nothing like the slick and preening young men who work for the Kensington mafia, with their designer clothes and smooth jaws. Nope. This man looks exactly like what he is: a powerful and ruthless mafia boss. Broad shoulders, muscled thighs, a light smattering of hair at the wrists exposed by crisp white cuffs. Strong and dangerous and gruff and… Kind? I’m probably making that last bit up, but his eyes are more summer morning sky than winter glacier. Although his hair is salt and pepper, the stubble on his jaw is black, and a thin curved scar runs across his cheek.
He knows about pain, this man.
“Interesting.” The man’s voice is rough and low, lightly accented. Italian maybe? He flicks his gaze dismissively to my father, then returns to me. “Tell me about the potential profits.”
My neck creaks like I’m stone as I drag my eyes to my role. Anonymous maid serving drinks.
My father begins a long and deliberately confusing explanation of his con. He’s sweating and nervous, trying to sound authoritative but this man has him rattled.
The man is dominant. There’s no other word. The strongest of a pack of wolves, with his light eyes. It’s not his house, but he’s utterly at ease. He leans back, and for a second I’m self-centred enough that I think it’s so he can see me from the corner of his eye as I finish transferring the contents of the tray to the table.
I pour out exactly two fingers of whisky for my father and while he gulps half of it down, I ask, “Would you like milk and sugar, sir?”
“Marco.”
I blink and almost say we don’t have any of that. But his name. Oh gosh that sinks into me all the way to the bone. Marco is exactly the right name for him. Straightforward and blunt, but also rich and lyrical.
“Marco.” I bite my lip and nod to prevent myself from repeating his name to myself again and again. It replays in my head anyway. Marco.
Then the significance hits me. A mafia boss. Called Marco.
Marco Brent.
I go still. Even I have heard of the kingpin of the Brent mafia. Dangerous. Secretive. Powerful. Obscenely wealthy. Marco Brent is a bogeyman, head of the most discreet, subtle mafia of London. Brent is whispered in fear and respect by my father’s henchmen.
“Milk, no sugar. Thank you…?”
“Felicity,” I squeak as I pour the milk with shaking hands.
A grunt of disapproval comes from the other side of the table as my gaze meets Marco’s and there’s a ghost of a smile around his mouth as he takes the tea I offer, murmuring, “Thank you, Felicity.”
I know it means happiness, but I’ve never felt any joy at people saying my name. It generally means there’s washing up to do or someone needs a three-course meal made in forty minutes’ time.
But Marco saying my name… that does feel like happiness. Fizzing, popping, laughter and spinning around, bright-coloured exhilaration. I should be scared, but being regarded by Marco is how I imagine it feels to be wrapped in a sun-warmed towel after a cool, invigorating swim in a clear green-blue ocean. A shiver of heat and comfort, the scent of salt.
“As I was saying,” my father continues with his pitch.
Marco takes me in as I stand, pale blue gaze dragging slowly up from my sensible black shoes, bare calves, shapeless knee-length black dress in a scratchy material I’ve never quite identified, to my face. I fight the urge not to fidget as he regards my hair, pulled back into a neat French braid. I can feel that a dark strand has come loose, as my soft flyaway hair often does, and is lying untidily across my cheek.
He follows the movement of my hand as I sweep the tendril behind my ear with something hungry in his expression.
That focus on me is… I can’t remember anyone making me feel so special. There’s a connection between us. It is as instant and undeniable as water into icing sugar. However rich he is, I don’t want Marco to end up in the twenty-minutes-too-long-in-the-oven cake that my father is preparing.
“Would you like a cupcake?” I blurt out just as my father says, “The gross capital gain will have compound interest and make crypto look like peanuts.”
My father goes red in the face. “That won’t—”
Marco cuts him off. “I’d love one of your cupcakes.”
I snatch up the tray and rush out.
“There’s no need to humour her,” my father says in a carrying voice. “Thinks she’s something special because her mother was my whore—”
I shut the door and take the labyrinthine route to the kitchen. I don’t allow myself to think as I place yesterday’s baking onto a tray. I rifle through the cupboards until I find my father’s favourite decorations—gold powder—and sprinkle it over a few of the cakes with delicately piped buttercream and icing butterflies.
Is that clear? I hope so. I add a bit more.
My father is still speaking as I enter. The massive silver tray is tricky to juggle with the doors, but I chose it because it’s too big to hold for long and might draw Marco away from my father so I can warn him.
Marco looks over as I place the tray onto a table on the other side of the room, well away from where they’re sitting.
“Will you come and choose?” Please let my father be typically lazy.
“Just bring two over here,” my father grunts. “We have urgent business to discuss.”
Ahhggg. That’ll spoil everything.
“Yes, sir.” He likes it when I call him sir. Makes him feel superior or something.
“I’ll choose myself.” Marco’s lip curls and he stands with deliberate slowness. His eyes flash cold and he strolls over to the tray of cakes, and lounges, one hand in his pocket. No hurry.
I pick up one of the gold cakes with plenty of icing, and scuttle over to my father, placing it on a plate for him. He scowls and gives me a look I know means, You’re pushing your luck.
One day I’ll leave here and open a bakery. I’ll make my talent for making cakes into a legitimate company so successful it’ll make my father’s mafia enterprise look like the failing forgot-the-eggs cake it is. As incompetent as it is illegal.
After all, he hasn’t realised in over six months that I’ve been slowly skimming off money from the grocery budget via the special offers that provide cash back rather than a discount. Despite calling me into his office and examining each item on the receipt every week, he doesn’t look at what really matters. He growls over things like cheap pyjamas, despite my actually needing new sleepwear. But he doesn’t notice the pricey branded tinned tomatoes or sugar.
And every week I pocket the extra, saving for the day I will escape.
In the meantime, I’m going to help this terrifying, scarred kingpin who has shown me the kindness of looking at me rather than through me.
Marco has his face turned as though regarding the cakes, but is watching from the side of his eye as I walk back to him.
“They all look perfect,” he says, but he is looking right at me, not the cakes. “I don’t normally have a sweet tooth, but I’m tempted beyond belief by your… cake.”
Pleasure skitters down my spine from the expression of unfettered desire on his face. Oh god why does he have to be a mob boss? Why can’t he be a cupcake aficionado I meet when I’m set up in my new life?
“Don’t choose that one.” I point at one of the cakes I slathered in gold. “It’s so pretty, but the decoration doesn’t taste of anything. The plain-looking ones are better.” There’s no inflection in my phrase, and I’ve made the same comment many times, so no one listening would suspect. But does Marco understand what I mean?
His gaze lingers on my lips and my heart races.
“I agree. The overlooked ones are the sweetest.”
But still, he’s not looking at the cupcakes. He won’t have noticed the cake I’m indicating is the gold one. The cake signifying wealth. The ones that are just a sheen of gold on top, but aren’t as valuable as they seem.
I move to his side.
“You can’t trust him,” I whisper, the words tumbling out.
“Did you make these?” he says loud enough for my father to hear, then adds under his breath, “Are you in danger? Do you need help?”
From a kingpin? Because that worked out so well for my mother. Marco is gorgeous, yes, but I can’t allow that to fool me.
“I made them all myself.” I reply at normal volume, shaking my head, then add, “He owes money to Westminster.”
The kingpin raises one eyebrow and the corner of his mouth hitches up. “That’s quite a talent you have.”
Yes, it is actually. No one takes any notice of me so they continue talking about confidential matters while I clear up their breakfast or serve afternoon tea. And for him to smirk? Pah.
“They shot the kneecaps from my father’s second-in-command,” I hiss.
“Uncivilised pigs.” He adjusts his cuffs. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
We’re talking in undertones, and it’s a given that we’re friends. I don’t know why. But he trusts me and I trust him.
Because he saw you, a little voice pipes up. He noticed you when you’re invisible to everyone else.
“If you ever decide to sell these cupcakes, let me know. I’d be happy to help.” As he looks at me, heat flares over my skin, stealing my breath.
“Anytime,” he adds, and it feels like a promise.
I nod and Marco finally casts a cursory glance over the cupcakes.
“This one is mine.” He takes the simplest of the cupcakes; the one I would have chosen. White butter icing with a slice of strawberry on top. Elegant. He strips back the paper and bites.
A raw sound of enjoyment and appreciation comes from him as he chews. I stare unabashedly at his dark and bristly jawline. I wonder what it would feel like beneath my fingertips. He swallows and oh gosh, his throat. It’s so strong and firm and I fight the urge to rub my thighs together. I’m flushed and more aware of the space between my legs than I ever have been before in my twenty years of life.
I glance across at my father, who is just finishing his cake, brushing crumbs from his chin.
Marco finishes his mouthful and pins me with that pale blue gaze again. “Delicious, cara. Thank you.”
Cara. A sweet Italian endearment in his husky voice.
It probably means nothing. Just gratitude for having warned him off working with the Kensington mafia.
But the next batch of icing I make I’ll be adding tiny drops of blue until I recreate the colour. The blue of his eyes.
“Don’t stop baking,” he murmurs as he walks away, back to my father. “I’ll be back to claim everything.”
