A bloodied stranger collapsed into my bakery at three in the morning with twin infants strapped to his chest, pleading with me to keep the police out of it. Within minutes, armed enforcers were searching the alley for him, and I realized the dying father crouching in my back room was Gabriel Moretti—the most dangerous underworld figure in Chicago.

Six months later.

The grand opening of Moretti & Miller's Patisserie in downtown Chicago was the event of the season. The mayor was there, the chief of police was there, and the pastries were selling out faster than I could bake them. It was beautiful, high-end, and perfectly safe.

I wiped flour off my apron and walked into the back office.

Gabriel was sitting in the leather chair, bouncing a giggling Leo on his knee while little Mia slept peacefully in a luxury bassinet nearby. He was wearing a tailored suit, a pristine white shirt, and a gold watch. The king of Chicago. But to me, he was just Gabriel.

He looked up as I entered, a soft smile breaking through his normally intimidating features.

“How’s the front?” he asked, pulling me onto his lap. Leo instantly reached for my hair, babbling happily.

“Busy. We’re going to need more staff,” I laughed, resting my head against Gabriel’s shoulder.

“Whatever you need, mia regina (my queen),” he murmured, kissing the side of my neck.

I looked at the beautiful babies, at the stunning bakery Gabriel had built for me just as he promised, and at the man who had crashed into my life on a rainy Tuesday. I had lost a broken life, but I had gained an empire.

“Gabriel?”

“Yes, Clara?”

“Don't ever get shot again.”