Chapter 1 - They Thought the Overweight Baker Was Easy Prey—Until I Reached Into My ApronMy name is Nora Bennett.
And on the night I met Vincent Costello, I was covered in flour, exhausted, and absolutely furious about a ruined batch of cinnamon rolls.
I had no idea that before sunrise, half of Chicago would be talking about what happened in that alley.
I certainly didn't know that the man bleeding against the brick wall would eventually become the most important person in my life.
At that moment, I only knew three things.
It was freezing.
My bakery was supposed to be closed.
And twelve armed men were standing between me and the back door.
I tightened my fingers around the old Zippo lighter inside my apron.
Vincent's eyes dropped toward my hand.
His expression changed.
Just slightly.
Enough for me to understand that he had noticed the fuel.
I had worked around ovens for twelve years.
I knew exactly how quickly gasoline could become a problem.
But I also knew something else.
The leaking fuel wasn't mine.
Someone had deliberately punctured the tank of the delivery van parked near the alley.
And the twelve men had positioned Vincent directly beside it.
They hadn't intended to leave witnesses.
The blond man stepped toward me.
“You really don't understand what you're looking at, sweetheart.”
“I understand plenty.”
“You're standing between us and a dead man.”
I looked at Vincent.
He was pale.
His left hand pressed against his thigh.
Blood ran between his fingers.
Yet he was still watching me.
“Are you actually dying?” I asked.
One corner of his mouth lifted.
“Not tonight.”
The blond man laughed.
“Listen to him.”
Then he pointed his pistol at me.
“Move.”
I didn't.
His expression hardened.
“Move.”
“No.”
The word came out quieter than I expected.
But I meant it.
He stepped closer.
“You think being brave makes you dangerous?”
“No.”
I looked at the leaking fuel.
“I think being stupid makes people dangerous.”
One of the men behind him laughed.
The blond man didn't.
He looked toward the van.
Then back at me.
“You saw that?”
I shrugged.
“I own a bakery.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Flour, sugar, yeast, grease, gas.”
I smiled.
“People underestimate bakers.”
Vincent suddenly coughed.
Blood appeared at the corner of his mouth.
I glanced at him.
“You okay?”
“Better than you.”
“That's debatable.”
His eyes almost smiled.
The blond man raised his pistol.
“Enough.”
I lifted the Zippo.
He froze.
Vincent's eyes narrowed.
I flicked the lid open.
Click.
The sound seemed impossibly loud.
Every man in the alley stared at the flame.
The blond man looked down.
Then he finally saw the fuel spreading across the pavement.
His face changed.
“Shoot her!”
Vincent moved first.
He grabbed my arm and pulled me sideways.
The gunshots erupted.
I dropped the lighter.
It landed in the fuel.
For one heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then—
WHOOM.
Fire raced across the pavement.
The men screamed.
The blast knocked two of them against the brick wall.
Vincent dragged me behind a dumpster.
“Stay down!”
“I thought you said you weren't dying.”
“I changed my mind.”
“You're welcome.”
He stared at me.
“You're insane.”
I looked at the flames.
“Probably.”
Then another explosion shook the alley.
The delivery van erupted.
The armed men scattered.
Vincent tried to stand.
His injured leg buckled.
I caught him.
“You're heavier than you look.”
He stared at me.
“You're carrying me?”
“Apparently.”
“You're a baker.”
“Yes.”
“You're not supposed to be able to do this.”
“I'm not supposed to be dealing with twelve armed idiots either.”
He almost laughed.
Then his eyes rolled backward.
“Vincent?”
Nothing.
“Vincent!”
I slapped his cheek.
His eyes opened.
“Don't do that.”
“Then stay conscious.”
He looked at me.
“You just saved my life.”
“No.”
I looked toward the flames.
“I saved my bakery.”
He smiled.
That was the first time I saw the man behind the legend.
Not Vincent Costello, the feared mafia boss.
Just a wounded man trying not to die.
Then sirens sounded in the distance.
Vincent's expression immediately changed.
“We need to leave.”
“Police?”
“Worse.”
“What could be worse than police?”
He looked at me.
“My enemies.”
I sighed.
“Of course.”
Then I helped Chicago's most feared mafia boss through my bakery's back door.
And neither of us realized that someone had already been watching from the roof across the street.
May you like
Someone who had seen exactly what I had done.
Someone who now knew I was Vincent Costello's weakness.
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