The Curvy Baker and the Godfather

3

Sophia POV

My hands would not stop shaking.

I watched Matteo De Luca slip his phone back into his pocket like he had just ordered coffee, not erased a debt that had been choking me for months. The bakery felt smaller with him in it. His broad shoulders took up space, his dark suit looked too sharp against my flour-dusted counters, and his eyes… those cold, dark eyes kept pulling me in even though every instinct screamed danger.

“You paid it,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Just like that.”

He turned back to me. At forty-one, he carried his age like armor — silver at his temples, lines around his eyes that spoke of hard years, and a jaw so sharp it could cut glass. Fifteen years older than me. A lifetime of difference. Yet when he looked at me, I felt seen in a way that made my skin warm.

“You owe me now, Sophia.”

The words landed heavy. I swallowed hard and stepped back until my hips bumped the counter. My full figure pressed against the edge, apron strings digging in. “I told you I don’t want charity. I’ll pay you back. Every cent. With interest if that’s what you want.”

Matteo’s mouth curved into that almost-smile again. Grumpy. Controlled. Like smiling cost him effort. He leaned one hip against the display case, arms crossed over his wide chest. The movement made his jacket pull tight across his shoulders. God, he was big. Powerful. The kind of man who made the air feel thicker.

“Money is not what I want.”

My heart stuttered. Heat rushed to my cheeks. I thought of the loan sharks’ leering eyes and braced myself. “Then what?”

He studied me slowly. Not the gross way the others had. This felt deeper. Like he was peeling back layers. “I have a gathering in three days. Important people. My world. They expect the best. You will bake for it.”

I blinked. “Bake? Desserts?”

“Yes.” His voice was low, rough. “Cakes, pastries, tiramisu, whatever you do best. Enough for sixty guests. My men will pick everything up the morning of. You deliver perfection, and we are even.”

Sixty guests. In three days. My mind spun. The bakery barely kept up with regular orders. I had no big catering equipment. No staff. Just me, my old oven, and stubbornness.

“That’s impossible,” I said. “I can’t—”

“You can.” He pushed off the counter and stepped closer. The scent of his cologne — dark, woody, expensive — wrapped around me. “Or I can let the debt stand. Your choice, Sunshine.”

I hated how that nickname made my stomach flutter. I was not sunshine. I was tired, stressed, and covered in flour most days. But the way he said it, like he had already decided something about me, made my knees feel weak.

“Why me?” I asked, lifting my chin even though he towered over me. “There are bigger bakeries. Professional caterers who do mafia parties all the time.”

Matteo’s eyes darkened. “Because I want you.”

The words hung between us. My breath caught. He must have seen the panic in my eyes because he added, “For the desserts, Sophia. Your work is good. I tasted one of your cookies on the floor earlier. Best thing I’ve had in months.”

A small, surprised laugh escaped me. “You ate a cookie off my floor?”

“Floor’s clean enough.” That almost-smile again. It softened his ruthless face for half a second. Then the cold mask returned. “My world is not kind. But I protect what’s mine. Do this, and your bakery stays safe. No more collectors. No more threats.”

I bit my lip, thinking. The bakery was my everything. My father’s dream. My safe place. Losing it meant losing the last piece of family I had left. But agreeing to this meant stepping into Matteo’s world. A mafia gathering. Dangerous men. And him — watching me.

“I’m not afraid of you,” I said quietly. It was half true.

Matteo leaned in slightly. Not touching, but close enough that I could see the faint scar along his jaw. “Good. Fear is boring. Courage is interesting.”

My pulse raced. He was so different from anyone I had ever met. Cold on the outside, but there was heat underneath. I could feel it. The age gap should have made me back away. Instead, it made everything feel more intense. He was a man who had lived, who commanded respect with one look. And he was looking at me like I was a puzzle he wanted to solve.

“Fine,” I whispered. “I’ll do it. But this makes us even. No more debts. No more favors.”

He straightened, satisfied. “For now.”

For now? I opened my mouth to argue, but he was already moving toward the door. He paused with his hand on the knob and glanced back. His gaze traveled over my curves, slow and deliberate, before settling on my face.

“Wear something comfortable while you bake. But send the desserts looking like they belong in my world. Elegant. Beautiful.” His eyes lingered one more second. “Like their maker.”

Heat flooded my body. I crossed my arms over my chest, suddenly aware of how my apron hugged my full breasts and wide hips. “You’re bossy, you know that?”

“Comes with the title, Sunshine.” He opened the door. The bell jingled like normal life was still possible. “My men will bring supplies tomorrow. Anything you need.”

Then he was gone. The black SUVs pulled away, leaving the street quiet again.

I sank onto the stool behind the counter, legs trembling. What had I just agreed to? Baking for the mafia. For him. Matteo De Luca — the Godfather who paid my debts like it was nothing and called me Sunshine like it was my name.

My mind raced with recipes. Chocolate hazelnut cake. Lemon ricotta cookies. Tiramisu with extra mascarpone the way Nonna taught me. I would need to work late every night. But I could do it. I had to.

Still, as I locked the bakery door that evening and walked upstairs to my small apartment above the shop, I could not shake the feeling that one impossible condition had just opened the door to something much bigger.

Matteo’s face kept flashing in my thoughts. That cold stare. That rare almost-smile. The way his presence filled every corner of my bakery.

I touched my flushed cheek and whispered to the empty room, “What have I done?”

Sleep did not come easy that night. And when it finally did, I dreamed of dark suits, silver-threaded hair, and strong hands that promised both safety and sin.