“Try telling her no. Go on. I’ll watch.”
I just laugh. “He’s right. She’s terrifying. But at least she tips.”
Dario mutters, but he’s grinning all the way out the door.
I linger in the kitchen, sticky with flour and adrenaline, staring at the doughy carnage of my life.
A year ago, I was Stevie, Professional Ghost. Now I’m Zoey Carter, baker, wife, proud owner of the horniest harem in Colorado, and occasionally even functional adult.
I used to be invisible. Now I feel like a disco ball on parade.
It’s chaos, it’s loud, it’s messy as hell, and it’s mine.
I wouldn’t trade a second of it.
The day goes how days go in my new feral domesticated state: a never-ending parade of sugar, sass, and small, ridiculous joys.
Enzo appears out of nowhere, cup in hand, like he’s gunning for a gold star in husbandry. Saul rubs my shoulders until I actually remember I have a body and not just a pile of stress.Dario tries to steal bites straight off the cooling rack and pretends to look innocent when he’s caught with chocolate on his mouth.
Our customers are basically extended family at this point. Tom and his pornstache, the Saturday soulmates who never order anything new, the pack of teenagers who pretend they’re not obsessed with my cannoli but literally cry when we run out.
The Blue Door is booming. Saul’s spreadsheet kink is in overdrive, Dario’s looking at commercial properties with that ‘what if we took over the world’ gleam, and Enzo’s got deeply passionate takes on parking logistics.
It’s a lot. It’s chaos. It’s everything I wanted before I even knew how to want this much.
By six, we’ve murdered another day. Chairs up, floors swept, every tray licked clean by the hungry masses. The smell of bread and sugar lingers like the world’s kinkiest air freshener.
Enzo flips the sign, grinning like he’s just robbed a bank. Saul’s finishing paperwork with that scary-efficient cop energy. Dario finally peels off his apron, shakes out his hair, looks like a Calvin Klein ad for gluten.
“Home?” he rumbles, already sliding an arm around my waist.
“Home,” I say, and mean it so hard it aches.
We tumble out onto Main Street like a tiny parade, four disaster humans, pink sunset slashing the sky, the mountains all smug in the background.
Saul grabs my hand, Enzo slings his arm over my shoulder, Dario flanks us like the world’s hottest bodyguard.
Our house is just up the hill. A ten-minute stumble if I’m in heels, which I never am, because this is Colorado and I’m not a masochist. Dario picked the place for proximity, but I swear it’s because he likes to see me run for the door when it snows.
It’s a house built for big feelings and questionable decisions. Four bedrooms, but let’s be real, we’re mostly crammed into the master like human Tetris. The guest room is for timeouts or when Enzo decides he needs to reset his circadian rhythm. Translation: binge horror movies and eat cereal out of the box.
Space isn’t really an issue anymore. The kitchen, though, fuck me, the kitchen is industrial porn. Dario ‘I like to cook’ Marchetti installed appliances so fancy I’m scared to touch them.
I quit fighting it. It’s my favorite show: Dario bossing the stove around, taste-testing like a man possessed, then watching my face like I’m the Michelin Guide and about to award him five stars with my panties.
Tonight, he makes pasta. Something simple, aglio e olio, garlic and oil and fresh parsley Enzo grew himself because apparently ex-mobsters make great gardeners.
We crowd around the big table, four plates, four forks, enough shared history and chaos to make any therapist weep.
“Saul, investor hellscape Tuesday. Are you bringing the numbers?” Dario asks.
“Already sent. You owe me cookies,” Saul answers.
“Enzo, deliveries?” Dario asks.
“Moved the flour so it won’t clash with your existential crises.”
Dario nods, all Don Corleone in an apron, then turns to me. “Stevie.”
