I stand anyway.
When the handle turns at 6:58, because apparently even Dario’s punctuality gets needy, I nearly combust.
The door swings wide and Dario walks in, dragging half the sunset behind him and looking… no, really nervous.
Dario Marchetti. World’s sexiest criminal. Nervous in my bakery like he’s about to ask for extra ketchup at a five-star restaurant.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” he says.
We stand there, three feet apart, neither of us moving.
And then he smiles, that small, real smile, the one I saw in the courtroom, the one he gave me in his kitchen.
I think, Oh.
There you fucking are.
I knew you’d find me.
Chapter Thirty-Three
DARIO
She’s wearing the apron.
That’s the first thing I notice when I walk through the blue door. Not the flowers on the counter or the candle flickering by the window or the way the bakery smells like almonds and sugar. The apron. Teal with copper buttons. The one I spent two hours choosing because it had to be perfect, had to be the exact opposite of everything beige and faded about her old life.
It looks better on her than I imagined.
Most things do.
Twelve years in the family. Exposed to violence and manipulation and conversations that could end in blood. And right now, standing in a bakery in Colorado looking at a woman in a teal apron, I can’t find a single useful word.
She breaks first. Laughs. That real laugh. The one I heard in my kitchen when she was wearing my shirt and eating my affogato before we took each other apart in the foyer.
“You’re early,” she says.
“Two minutes.”
She arches an eyebrow. “For you, that’s basically running behind. Should I check your pulse?”
“I couldn’t wait.”
The words come out honest. The kind of admission I never make because admissions are weaknesses and weaknesses get exploited.
“Relatable.” She gestures to the plate on the counter. “I made you something.”
Amaretti. Golden and cracked and dusted with powdered sugar. Italian. Traditional. The kind of cookie my grandmother used to make before she died.
I pick one up. Take a bite.
“They’re perfect,” I tell her. “Better than perfect.”
“Well.” She ducks her head, but I can see the flush on her cheeks. “I had some motivation.”
I set down the amaretti. Look at her properly for the first time since I walked in.
