The Curvy Baker and the Godfather

2

Matteo POV

I did not have time for this s**t today.

The black SUV rolled to a stop outside the little pink-striped bakery. My men had already dragged the three idiots out and lined them up on the sidewalk like the worthless dogs they were. They worked under me. Low-level collectors. They were supposed to squeeze money from deadbeats, not terrorize women in flour-covered aprons.

I stepped out, buttoning my jacket. The afternoon sun felt too bright for the mood I was in. At forty-one, I had seen enough blood and betrayal to know that softness got you killed. Yet here I was, wasting minutes on a bakery debt.

Inside, the smell of sugar and warm bread hit me first. It was… soft. Like her.

She stood behind the counter, rolling pin in her hand like a weapon, dark curls messy with flour, cheeks flushed. Curvy. Full hips, soft arms, the kind of body that made a man forget rules. Twenty-six, maybe. Young. Too young. And those eyes — big, brown, and blazing with anger instead of fear.

My collectors stammered excuses. “Boss, the old man owed—”

“Shut up,” I said quietly. They shut up.

I looked at her again. Sophia Russo. My men had given me the name on the drive over. She did not flinch. Most people did when I walked in. She lifted her chin and gripped that rolling pin tighter.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said, voice steady but sweet underneath. “I was handling it.”

A small laugh almost escaped me. Handling it. With a rolling pin against three of my guys. Brave. Stupid. Fascinating.

“Handling it?” I stepped closer. The counter separated us, but I could see the rise and fall of her chest under that apron. “They work for me, Miss Russo. Your father borrowed money. Money that was never paid back.”

Her eyes flashed. “My father is dead. I’ve been paying what I can. This bakery is mine. I built the business back up after he passed. I’m not selling it to thugs.”

Thugs. She called my men thugs to my face.

I should have been annoyed. Instead, something warm and unfamiliar stirred in my chest. Sunshine wrapped in stubbornness. She had no idea who I was, or she did and still chose to argue. Either way, it was rare.

One of my collectors muttered something under his breath. I did not even look at him. “Take them away. Make sure they understand the new rules. No more visits here.”

They dragged the men off. The door closed. Silence filled the small bakery, broken only by the hum of the display case.

Sophia set the rolling pin down but did not back away. “I don’t need your help, Mr. De Luca. Whatever your name means around here, I’m not afraid of you. I’ll find the money another way.”

I studied her. The flour on her cheek. The way her full figure filled the space behind the counter. The fire in her eyes. Most women in her position would be crying, begging, offering whatever they thought I wanted. Not her. She argued.

It fascinated me more than it should.

“How much?” I asked.

She blinked. “What?”

“The debt. Exact number.”

She hesitated, then named it. A decent sum, but nothing that would touch my accounts. I could wipe it out with one call.

“Don’t,” she said quickly, reading my face. “I’m not a charity case. And I’m definitely not one of your… whatever you call the women who fall at your feet.”

My lips twitched. Grumpy as I was, this girl was pulling reactions out of me I had not felt in years. “You have courage, Sophia. Not many people talk to me like that.”

She crossed her arms under her breasts, pushing them up slightly. My gaze flicked down for half a second before I locked it back on her face. Dangerous territory.

“Courage or stupidity?” she shot back. A small, tired smile touched her lips. “Either way, this is my life. My bakery. I won’t lose it because my father made mistakes.”

I stepped around the counter. Close enough to smell vanilla and sugar on her skin. She did not move back. Good.

“I’m paying it,” I said. Flat. Final.

Her eyes widened. “No. You can’t just—”

“I can. And I will.” I pulled out my phone and made the call. Two minutes later, it was done. The debt vanished. The bakery was safe. For now.

Sophia stared at me like I had grown two heads. “Why? You don’t even know me.”

I slipped the phone back into my pocket and looked down at her. She was shorter than me, softer, brighter. Everything I was not. The age between us felt heavy — fifteen years of blood on my hands versus her world of flour and sweetness.

“Because I decide what happens in this neighborhood,” I said. My voice came out rougher than I meant. “And because I don’t like men who scare women trying to survive.”

She swallowed. Her gaze dropped to my mouth for a fraction of a second, then back up. Tension crackled in the small space between us.

“This doesn’t mean I owe you anything,” she whispered.

A slow smile pulled at my lips. First real one in months. “We’ll see about that, Sunshine.”

Her cheeks flushed darker. I turned toward the door before I did something stupid, like touch her.

But as I stepped outside into the sunlight, I already knew.

This curvy little baker had just walked straight into my world. And I was not letting her walk back out.