Chapter 6 - The Bakery in Astoria
Three days later.
The morning sun flooded through the front glass windows of The Daily Glaze in Astoria, illumination dust motes dancing over wooden tables, fresh flour bags, and bright trays of golden, freshly baked blueberry muffins.
Milo sat on a high chair behind the bakery counter, wearing a tiny white apron that Claire had custom-made for him, happily swinging his little legs while eating a chocolate-glazed donut. The dark circles under his eyes were gone, his cheeks were rosy, and his infectious three-year-old laughter filled the cozy shop.
Claire stood behind the coffee espresso machine, wiping down the stainless steel steam wand. She looked tired, but a deep, profound peace had returned to her face.
The front brass bell above the door chimed softly.
Claire looked up, expecting a local morning regular.
Instead, the tall, imposing figure of Nico Falcone walked into the small bakery. He wore a crisp dark grey suit without a tie, looking entirely out of place among the flour sacks and pink pastry boxes, yet carrying himself with an easy, magnetic grace.
Behind him, parked along the quiet sidewalk of Astoria, sat two sleek black SUVs with tinted windows.
Milo’s eyes lit up instantly. "Daddy!" he squealed, waving his sticky, chocolate-covered hand in the air. "Look! I got a donut!"
A rare, beautiful smile broke across Nico’s handsome face. He walked straight past the counter, reached down, and lifted Milo out of the high chair, carrying the boy effortlessly on his hip, completely unconcerned about the chocolate smudging against his six-thousand-dollar bespoke suit.
"Hey, dragon," Nico said warm, pressing a kiss against Milo’s hair. "Did you save one for me?"
"No, I ate it all!" Milo giggled, hugging Nico’s neck tightly.
Claire watched them, her heart fluttering violently in her chest. Over the last three days at St. Catherine's, she had watched Nico transform. The cold, distant mafia don who had ruled through fear had spent every night sleeping in an uncomfortable plastic armchair beside Milo’s hospital bed, reading him bedtime stories about fire trucks and dragons in a low, gentle voice.
"You're late," Claire said, trying to force a stern tone, though a small smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "I thought you had a morning board meeting in Manhattan."
"I rescheduled it," Nico said, setting Milo back down on the counter with a clean napkin to wipe his face. "Family comes first."
Claire stopped wiping the espresso machine. She looked into Nico’s dark, intense eyes, the heavy word—family—hanging in the warm air between them.
"Nico," Claire began softly, stepping around the counter. "We need to talk about what happens now."
Nico nodded once. He turned to Luca, who was standing quietly near the front door. "Luca, take Milo into the back kitchen and show him how the flour mixer works."
"Yes, Don Falcone," Luca smiled, stepping forward and gently taking Milo’s hand. "Come on, kiddo. Let's make a mess."
Once the kitchen door swung shut behind them, leaving the front of the shop in quiet stillness, Nico turned his full attention to Claire.
"I spoke with my legal team yesterday, Claire," Nico said, his voice dropping to a serious, steady pitch. "I am setting up a forty-million-dollar trust fund for Milo. The title to this building—the entire four-story property—has been purchased under your name. No mortgage, no rent, forever."
Claire blinked, taking a step back. "Nico, I didn't ask you for money—"
"I know you didn't," Nico interrupted firmly. "That's why you're getting it. You raised my son in safety while I was fighting a war. You earned everything I have."
He stepped closer to her, stopping just inches away, his dark gaze piercing right into her soul.
"But the money isn't what I came here to talk about, Claire," Nico confessed low, reaching out to gently touch the edge of her waist. "I came to ask for something else."
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"What?" she whispered, her breath catching in her throat.
"Forgiveness," Nico said.
