The Mafia Boss’s Ex-Fiancée Called the Plus-Size Baker Fat in Front of His Family—Then Emily Smashed a Pie Into Her Face, Exposed His Grandfather’s Manipulation, and Made Adrian Prove He Could Protect Her Without Ever Trying to Control Her

Emily’s fingers closed around the aluminum pie plate and, before anyone could mistake her warning for embarrassment, she shoved whipped cream directly into Vanessa’s face.

The room froze.

Vanessa staggered backward.

Two Morello security men took one step forward.

Adrian lifted his hand.

They stopped.

“She assaulted me!” Vanessa shouted.

Frank stepped between them.

“She defended me.”

Emily stared at him.

“You started this.”

Frank’s smile was considerably less confident than it had been seconds earlier.

“Technically.”

“Frank.”

“Fine. Yes.”

Adrian looked at Emily.

Not Vanessa.

Not his grandfather.

Emily.

“What happened?”

Before she could answer, Sophie stepped forward.

“Miss Hale was insulting Emily. And earlier she humiliated me after I dropped a tray.”

Vanessa whipped toward her.

“That is ridiculous.”

“I saw that part,” Adrian said.

Vanessa stopped.

Frank sighed.

“I may also have encouraged things.”

Emily slowly turned.

The anger on her face changed.

“What does that mean?”

Frank looked suddenly older than eighty.

“I knew Vanessa would react if she thought Adrian was interested in you.”

Adrian’s expression hardened.

“You deliberately provoked her?”

“I wanted her to stop treating Emily like she was beneath her.”

“You wanted to teach Vanessa a lesson,” Emily said.

Frank looked at her.

“That’s not—”

“You used me to do it.”

“No.”

“You decided you liked me. Then you decided Adrian liked me. Then you decided that meant you could arrange circumstances until everybody behaved the way you wanted.”

Frank’s face fell.

“I thought I was helping.”

Emily pulled off her bakery apron.

“That is exactly the problem.”

The room became painfully quiet.

“You treated me like a piece on your board because you thought the ending would be nice.”

“Emily—”

“That isn’t friendship.”

Frank stopped speaking.

Adrian understood before his grandfather did.

This was not about a pie anymore.

Frank’s interference had been affectionate.

Funny.

Almost charming.

It was still control.

Emily gathered her things.

“I’m going home.”

Frank took a step after her.

“Not tonight.”

She did not raise her voice.

That made the refusal sharper.

Adrian could have ordered a car.

He could have insisted she remain until security cleared the building.

He could have told himself it was protection.

He did none of those things.

He moved aside.

Emily walked past him.

At the doorway, Vanessa called after her.

“You really think walking away changes what everyone saw?”

Emily stopped.

For one moment, Adrian expected her to turn.

She did.

“What did they see?”

Vanessa wiped cream from her cheek.

“You embarrassing yourself.”

Emily looked around the ballroom.

Then back at her.

“No. They saw me lose my temper after you insulted me. I’ll own that.”

That answer seemed to surprise everyone.

Emily continued.

“But tomorrow I’ll still own my bakery work. Sophie will still deserve respect. Frank will still have crossed a boundary. And Adrian will still be your ex-fiancé.”

Vanessa’s face tightened.

Emily looked toward Frank.

“You wanted me to stand up for myself?”

Frank swallowed.

“Yes.”

“Then live with the fact that I’m doing it with you too.”

She opened the ballroom door.

Cold Chicago air swept inside.

Adrian watched her leave.

He wanted to follow.

Every instinct trained into him said problems were solved by action.

Find the threat.

Control the variables.

Fix the damage.

But Emily had just named the deeper problem.

People around her kept deciding what she needed before asking.

So Adrian stayed exactly where he was.

Frank stared at the closed door.

“I ruined this.”

Adrian looked at his grandfather.

“You don’t get to decide that either.”

Frank looked up.

Adrian’s voice remained quiet.

“Tomorrow, you apologize. Not because you want her to forgive you. Because she deserves the apology.”

“And you?”

Adrian looked toward the doorway Emily had disappeared through.

“I stop.”

For Frank, that sounded impossible.

For Adrian, it might have been the hardest order he had ever given himself.

Because if Emily ever came back into their lives, she would have to do it without one Morello man arranging the path beneath her feet.

Adrian kept his word.

He did not follow Emily home.

He did not call that night.

He did not send flowers the next morning.

He did something harder.

He went to Rose & Rye and found Frank sitting outside with a coffee he had not touched.

“You like her,” Adrian said.

Frank looked up.

“Very much.”

“Then stop turning her into a solution for my life.”

Frank’s expression tightened.

Adrian sat opposite him.

“You decided we would be good together.”

“I still think—”

“That isn’t relevant.”

Frank went quiet.

“You told the family enough to make them believe she and I were already involved. You maneuvered her into that dinner. Then you encouraged Vanessa because you wanted a confrontation.”

“I wanted Vanessa to expose herself.”

“You used Emily as the bait.”

Frank flinched.

Adrian rarely needed to raise his voice.

He did not now.

“I thought I was helping,” Frank said.

“I know.”

Adrian looked through the bakery window.

Emily was inside, tying her apron before opening.

“That is why you need to understand the problem.”

Frank followed his gaze.

“I love you.”

“I know.”

“I want you happy.”

“That doesn’t give you authority over how I become happy.”

Frank looked at him.

Adrian continued.

“And liking Emily doesn’t give you authority over her choices either.”

For most of his life, Adrian had watched men use threats, money and obligation to force outcomes.

Frank’s methods seemed different.

They came with jokes.

Pastries.

Family affection.

But control wrapped in affection was still control.

“If you respect her,” Adrian said, “let her decide what she wants.”

Frank remained quiet for a long time.

Then he nodded.

That afternoon, he returned alone.

Emily saw him enter and continued frosting a cake.

“No schemes?”

“No schemes.”

“No mysterious invitations?”

“No.”

“No suspiciously convenient family events?”

Frank sighed.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“A little.”

He approached the counter but did not cross the employee gate.

That, too, Emily noticed.

“I owe you an apology.”

Her piping bag stopped.

Frank took a breath.

“I treated liking you as permission to interfere with you. I decided I knew what would make Adrian happy, then I decided you might make him happy, and somewhere in there I forgot neither of you belonged to me.”

Emily’s expression softened slightly.

“I embarrassed you. I put you into a conflict you did not choose. And then when Vanessa reacted exactly the way I expected, I acted as though that proved I was right.”

He shook his head.

“It only proved I manipulated the situation.”

No joke followed.

Emily placed the piping bag down.

“Thank you.”

Frank nodded.

“Are we all right?”

“We’re getting there.”

He smiled carefully.

It might have ended there.

Vanessa ensured it did not.

Within days, whispers reached Rose & Rye.

Emily had deliberately befriended Frank to reach Adrian.

She had manipulated an elderly man.

She had engineered the dinner confrontation.

Some versions suggested she had thrown the pie because Adrian refused her.

Others claimed she was already secretly involved with him.

The rumors were absurd.

They were also dangerous for the bakery.

Rose & Rye supplied several events connected to the same charity network, and suddenly committee members were asking whether the bakery remained an “appropriate partner.”

Emily’s manager called her into the office.

“I believe you.”

She looked at him.

“But?”

“But perception matters to committees.”

Emily closed her eyes.

Of course it did.

That afternoon, Adrian called.

She stared at his name before answering.

“If you’re about to threaten someone, don’t.”

“I wasn’t.”

“If you’re about to buy the charity, also don’t.”

A pause.

“That was not my plan.”

“You paused too long.”

His voice almost warmed.

“I have a meeting with the committee tomorrow.”

Emily sat straighter.

“Why?”

“Because Morello businesses sponsor the program.”

“And?”

“They asked for my account.”

Her stomach tightened.

“No intimidation.”

“I heard you the first time.”

“No implied intimidation.”

“Emily.”

“No silent mafia staring until everyone suddenly discovers morality.”

“I do not know what that means.”

“Yes, you do.”

He was quiet.

Then, “What do you want me to say?”

That question changed something.

Not what should I do?

Not let me fix this.

What do you want me to say?

“The truth.”

“Nothing else?”

“Nothing else.”

“Good.”

The committee meeting began the next morning.

Vanessa sat at one end of the table.

Emily stood near the back beside her manager.

Adrian entered alone.

No security entourage.

No threats.

No theatrical anger.

The committee chair cleared her throat.

“There are concerns regarding Miss Carter’s conduct and the possibility that she used a relationship with Mr. Morello to obtain access to charitable events.”

Adrian looked toward Emily once.

Then back to the committee.

“Emily Carter attended the dinner as Rose & Rye’s designated representative.”

Several people shifted.

“My grandfather pursued the friendship with her. Not the reverse.”

Vanessa remained motionless.

“Frank invited her into family settings without explaining that he had encouraged relatives to assume she and I were involved.”

The chair frowned.

“And were you?”

“No.”

Adrian paused.

“I asked Emily out after the dinner.”

Heads turned toward her.

Emily stared at him.

“She said no.”

Silence.

Complete silence.

Even Vanessa looked surprised.

Adrian continued without protecting his pride.

“So if the concern is that Emily used romantic access to obtain business opportunities, the timeline disproves it.”

One committee member looked uncomfortable.

“The altercation—”

“Vanessa insulted Emily.”

Vanessa straightened.

“And Emily threw a pie.”

Adrian looked at Emily.

“She has never denied that.”

Emily felt something loosen inside her chest.

He was not rewriting the story to make her perfect.

He was simply refusing to let anyone lie about it.

“She should not have thrown it,” Adrian said.

Emily almost smiled.

“But her professional conduct before and after that event has no connection to my personal interest in her.”

He looked around the table.

“If Rose & Rye loses business because Emily threw a pie, make that decision openly.”

A pause.

“If it loses business because people invented a story about her chasing me, then at least have the courage to admit you are punishing a woman for a relationship that never existed.”

Nobody answered.

The rumors collapsed faster than they had spread.

Facts were less entertaining.

They were also harder to argue with when the most powerful person in the room deliberately made himself look rejected to establish them.

Afterward, Emily caught Adrian outside.

“You told an entire committee I rejected you.”

“It was accurate.”

“Didn’t hurt?”

He looked wounded.

“Catastrophically.”

Emily laughed before she could stop herself.

Adrian smiled.

Then his expression changed.

“I could have handled Vanessa differently that night.”

“I know.”

“I wanted to.”

“What stopped you?”

“You.”

Emily blinked.

“You had already said you did not need me fighting your battles.”

“That usually doesn’t stop powerful men.”

“No.”

His hands slipped into his coat pockets.

“I’m learning.”

Emily studied him.

He had protected her reputation without claiming her.

Without threatening anyone.

Without pretending she needed him to establish her worth.

He had told the truth.

Even the part that cost his ego.

“Can I try again?” he asked.

Emily raised an eyebrow.

“No family involvement?”

“No.”

“No charity committee?”

“No.”

“No grandfather hiding behind pastry displays?”

Adrian glanced through the bakery window.

Frank immediately ducked.

Emily burst out laughing.

Adrian closed his eyes briefly.

“I can make no guarantees regarding him.”

“Fair.”

He looked at her.

“Coffee?”

Emily tilted her head.

“That’s the terrifying Adrian Morello’s big offer?”

“I’m reducing operational risk.”

She made him wait.

Not because she needed convincing.

Because powerful men probably did not spend enough time waiting for answers they could not control.

Finally, Emily smiled.

“Coffee.”

One word.

No arrangement.

No family strategy.

No one engineering an outcome.

Adrian opened the bakery door for her.

Then stopped.

Emily looked at him.

“You coming?”

“You said coffee.”

“Yes.”

“You choose where.”

That nearly made her laugh again.

She stepped onto the sidewalk.

“Now I know you’re scared.”

“Terrified.”

They walked three blocks to a small café where nobody knew their story.

Adrian did not choose her seat.

He did not order for her.

He did not turn the conversation into questions about whether she could handle his world.

Instead he asked about hers.

Emily told him she had started baking beside her mother when she was nine.

She talked about opening the bakery before sunrise.

The terror of large wedding orders.

The satisfaction of watching apprentices become decorators.

The humiliation of a former boyfriend who once insisted he loved her while constantly suggesting ways she could become more acceptable to other people.

“He wanted me smaller,” Emily said.

Adrian’s eyes narrowed.

“Physically?”

“In every possible way.”

She wrapped both hands around her coffee.

“Less loud. Less stubborn. Less ambitious. Thinner. Easier to introduce.”

Adrian remained quiet.

Emily looked at him.

“No threat?”

“What?”

“You look like you’re considering one.”

“I don’t know him.”

“That has historically not been a requirement in your family.”

The corner of his mouth moved.

Then he surprised her.

“He was wrong.”

Emily exhaled.

“I know.”

Adrian nodded.

He did not tell her she was beautiful as if that would erase the wound.

He did not make her body into a debate he intended to win on her behalf.

He simply believed her when she said she knew her own value.

That mattered.

They finished the coffee.

Outside, Adrian stopped beside his car.

“I’d like to see you again.”

Emily waited.

He did too.

“Ask.”

His expression changed.

“Emily Carter, will you have dinner with me Friday?”

She smiled.

“Friday works.”

Then Frank came barreling out of Rose & Rye across the street, spotted them together and visibly began preparing to say something.

Emily pointed at him from twenty yards away.

“Don’t.”

Frank stopped mid-step.

Adrian looked at his grandfather.

For perhaps the first time in eighty years, Frank Morello actually obeyed.

Emily laughed.

And Adrian realized something he had never learned from running companies or commanding men.

Restraint did not make him less powerful.

With Emily, it was the first thing that made his power safe.

Their first dinner happened without Frank.

Mostly.

Emily noticed the restaurant host trying not to smile when Adrian arrived and immediately suspected interference.

“Did your grandfather call?”

“No.”

“Adrian.”

“He called me.”

“That is not the same answer.”

“He may have suggested six restaurants.”

“And?”

“I chose a seventh.”

Emily considered that.

“Acceptable.”

Months passed.

Dating Adrian changed Emily’s schedule sometimes.

It changed the number of security-conscious explanations she received before public events.

It changed how many people suddenly remembered her name.

It did not change who she was.

She still arrived at Rose & Rye before sunrise.

Still decorated cakes.

Still corrected staff without humiliating them.

Still smelled faintly of vanilla or buttercream when Adrian picked her up after long shifts.

He never asked her to leave.

Never offered to buy the bakery as though ownership were a romantic gesture.

Once, when Rose & Rye needed a new commercial mixer, he offered to replace it.

Emily stared at him.

“No.”

“It is equipment.”

“It is my equipment.”

“It is broken.”

“We are capable of purchasing machinery without organized crime financing.”

He looked almost offended.

“All my bakery-mixer funds are legitimate.”

She laughed.

“Still no.”

The following morning, Emily and her manager ordered the mixer themselves.

Adrian never mentioned it again.

That mattered more than the offer.

His habits did not vanish instantly.

Sometimes he still phrased requests like instructions.

One evening he said, “You’re not going to that supplier meeting alone.”

Emily looked up from her laptop.

“Try again.”

He frowned.

“The neighborhood has had three robberies this month.”

“Useful information.”

“I’ll send someone.”

“Not a request.”

Adrian went silent.

Emily waited.

Finally he said, “Would you be willing to take a driver?”

“Why?”

He explained the robberies.

The time.

The parking area behind the supplier warehouse.

The specific concern.

Emily considered it.

“Yes.”

He nodded.

No victory in his face.

No satisfaction that she had obeyed.

Because she had not.

She had chosen after receiving information.

That distinction became the foundation of them.

Frank learned too.

Slowly.

Painfully.

He stopped manufacturing coincidences.

Mostly.

When Emily caught him attempting to place Adrian beside her at a charity auction, she moved Adrian’s name card to another table.

Frank gasped.

“That is seating sabotage.”

“Consequences.”

Adrian walked past.

“I see nothing.”

“Coward,” Frank muttered.

Emily smiled.

Vanessa remained farther away.

They did not become friends.

Emily did not need that.

Apologies did not require intimacy.

Months after the pie incident, Vanessa attended a charity committee reception at the same venue.

Emily was supervising dessert setup.

Vanessa approached alone.

Emily straightened.

“Please tell me there are no pies nearby.”

Vanessa looked embarrassed.

“That was deserved.”

Emily raised an eyebrow.

“The pie?”

“No. Your suspicion.”

Silence stretched between them.

Vanessa glanced toward the ballroom.

“What I said that night was cruel.”

Emily waited.

“I was angry.”

“That explains it.”

“It doesn’t excuse it.”

That surprised Emily.

Vanessa took a breath.

“I treated your work like it made you beneath me. I treated your body like it gave me permission to decide what kind of man could want you.”

“Yes.”

Vanessa flinched but nodded.

“And I was wrong.”

Emily did not rush to make her comfortable.

“I’m sorry,” Vanessa said.

Another pause.

“Thank you.”

“That’s all?”

Emily looked at her.

“What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know.”

“Forgiveness scene? Hug? Joint pastry?”

Despite herself, Vanessa almost smiled.

“No.”

“Good.”

Emily adjusted a cake stand.

“I accept that you apologized. It doesn’t make us friends.”

“I understand.”

And apparently she did.

Vanessa left.

Emily returned to work.

No grand reconciliation.

No demand that two women become close because one man once connected their lives.

Just accountability.

That mattered too.

Frank’s eighty-first birthday arrived in early spring.

Emily carried the cake into the Morello dining room herself.

Adrian opened the box.

Then stared.

Frank leaned closer.

Across the top, in gold icing, Emily had written:

Happy 81st, Francis.

Frank recoiled.

“Absolutely not.”

Emily smiled.

“Personal growth.”

“Betrayal.”

Adrian laughed.

Not the restrained almost-laugh she had first seen in the bakery.

A full, helpless laugh.

Frank pointed at him.

“You’re encouraging her.”

Adrian composed himself with difficulty.

“I’ve learned not to interfere.”

“Coward.”

Emily kissed Frank’s cheek.

“Happy birthday.”

He grumbled for another three minutes before asking for the largest legal slice his cardiologist permitted.

Later, he stood to give a toast.

Everyone expected stories about Adrian.

Frank surprised them.

He thanked the bakery workers who had catered the dinner.

By name.

Sophie.

Marcus.

Elena.

Emily’s manager.

Then he looked at Emily.

“For being the first person in years who talked to me like I was a man before I was an age, a medical condition, or a Morello.”

Emily blinked.

Frank smiled.

“You told me no when I wanted two cannoli.”

“You were lying to your cardiologist.”

“I remain offended.”

People laughed.

Frank’s expression softened.

“And when I interfered in your life because I thought affection gave me the right, you told me no again.”

Emily swallowed.

“That one I needed more.”

Her eyes burned.

She hated crying in public.

Frank saw it and, for once, did not make a joke.

“Thank you.”

Emily nodded.

Later, she stood alone near the balcony doors until Adrian found her.

“You okay?”

“Your grandfather made me cry.”

“I’m considering another pie.”

“I’ll hold him.”

Adrian smiled.

“Now that’s romance.”

Emily laughed.

He did not immediately touch her.

He had learned that too.

Instead he stood beside her until she slipped her hand into his.

Across the ballroom, an older acquaintance approached Frank.

“So Emily finally became Adrian Morello’s girlfriend?”

Frank’s eyes lit up.

Emily saw it from twenty feet away.

She pointed.

“Choose your next sentence carefully, Francis.”

Frank opened his mouth.

Adrian lifted one eyebrow.

The former Morello patriarch closed it again.

The room erupted in laughter.

Emily looked at Adrian.

“You trained him.”

“I deny responsibility.”

“Smart.”

Adrian studied her.

Not secretly.

Not cautiously.

Not as something surprising he had brought into his world.

With pride.

Years earlier, Emily had been loved by a man who constantly asked her to become easier for him to display.

Adrian had done the opposite.

He had never asked her to become smaller.

But Emily understood now that this was not enough by itself.

A man did not earn love merely by finding a woman beautiful.

Adrian had earned trust through behavior.

When Frank manipulated her, Adrian stopped.

When rumors threatened her reputation, he told the truth instead of threatening the room.

When she refused him, he accepted it.

When he worried about her safety, he learned to give her information instead of issuing commands.

When she insisted on keeping her work, her friendships and her decisions, he did not call that distance.

He called it hers.

The next morning, Emily returned to Rose & Rye at five-thirty.

At six-fifteen, Adrian arrived.

No security men inside.

No black cars blocking the storefront.

He carried coffee.

Emily looked up.

“Bribery?”

“Breakfast diplomacy.”

“You brought Frank something?”

Adrian placed a second cup down.

“Decaffeinated.”

“And pastry?”

“No.”

Emily narrowed her eyes.

“You’re cruel.”

“He ate two slices of birthday cake.”

“Good point.”

Adrian leaned against the counter while she finished a row of buttercream flowers.

There was something almost peaceful in watching her work.

“You’re staring.”

“I know.”

“People pay for cake-decorating classes.”

“How much?”

“Don’t buy one.”

“I was going to enroll.”

That made her pause.

“You?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He looked at the rose beneath her piping tip.

“Because you love it.”

Emily’s expression changed.

Not because the gesture was grand.

Because it wasn’t.

He was not trying to purchase her world.

He wanted to understand part of it.

“Saturday class,” she said.

“What time?”

“Seven.”

“In the evening?”

Emily smiled sweetly.

“In the morning.”

His face went still.

“You do this deliberately.”

“Every day.”

He exhaled.

“I’ll be here.”

Saturday arrived.

So did Adrian.

At 6:57.

Frank arrived at 7:03 wearing an apron he had purchased himself.

Emily stared.

“No.”

Frank looked wounded.

“I paid tuition.”

“Who told you about the class?”

He pointed at Adrian.

Adrian looked betrayed.

“You asked where I was going.”

“And you answered.”

“I was weak.”

Emily laughed.

For the next two hours, one of Chicago’s most intimidating men tried to pipe buttercream roses.

He was terrible.

Frank was worse.

Emily stood between them, correcting hand pressure and pretending not to enjoy herself.

Adrian crushed his fourth rose.

“This technique is inefficient.”

Emily took the piping bag from him.

“No. Your ego is interfering with the frosting.”

Frank nodded wisely.

“I have been saying that for years.”

“You cannot pipe a leaf.”

“That is unrelated.”

At the end of class, Adrian had produced three recognizable roses.

Emily examined them.

“Not terrible.”

“That sounded reluctant.”

“It was.”

Frank held up something that resembled decorative cabbage.

“What about mine?”

Emily studied it.

“Modern art.”

“I knew I had talent.”

Adrian shook his head.

That afternoon, when the bakery emptied, Emily and Adrian remained behind.

He helped clean the worktable.

No announcement.

No audience.

The same thing he had done the first day he carried cupcake boxes.

Emily watched him wipe buttercream from the counter.

“Do you remember the charity event?”

“The four hundred cupcakes?”

“You destroyed six.”

“Three.”

“Six.”

“Unproven.”

She smiled.

“You could have handed those boxes to anyone.”

“Yes.”

“But you kept carrying them.”

He shrugged.

“You needed help.”

“That was probably the first time I liked you.”

Adrian looked offended.

“The first?”

“You had potential at the birthday-cake emergency.”

“Stop calling it that.”

“Never.”

His expression softened.

“What was the moment you knew?”

Emily tilted her head.

“Knew what?”

“That this could become something.”

She considered lying.

Then decided he had earned the truth.

“The committee meeting.”

“Because I defended you?”

“No.”

Adrian waited.

“Because you told them I rejected you.”

He stared.

Emily laughed softly.

“You could have protected your ego and still crushed the rumor. You could have said we were friends. You could have made it sound ambiguous.”

“I suppose.”

“But you told the embarrassing truth because it was the truth that protected me.”

Adrian looked down at the cleaning cloth in his hands.

“You had already taught me the alternative.”

“What?”

“That helping someone without asking what they need can become another way of controlling them.”

Emily’s smile faded into something warmer.

Adrian continued.

“My family is very good at confusing intention with permission.”

“And now?”

“Now I try to ask.”

“Try?”

“I am still a Morello.”

She laughed.

He reached toward her.

Stopped halfway.

Emily noticed.

Then stepped into him herself.

His arms settled around her.

Not possession.

Not victory.

Welcome.

There was no audience.

No family expecting a result.

No ex-fiancée watching.

No grandfather arranging the moment.

Emily rested her cheek against his chest.

Adrian lowered his chin toward her hair.

“Dinner tonight?”

“I have inventory.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Family lunch.”

“Monday?”

She leaned back.

“You’re getting good at this.”

“At what?”

“Waiting.”

His mouth curved.

“I hate it.”

“I know.”

“But?”

Emily smiled.

“It looks good on you.”

Monday evening, he returned.

Emily was wearing flour on one sleeve.

Adrian held out his hand.

Not an order.

An invitation.

She looked at it.

The first time she had entered the Morello family’s orbit, Frank had decided she belonged there before she had even understood what was happening.

Vanessa had decided Emily could not belong.

Adrian had nearly allowed himself to believe that wanting her gave him the right to solve things for her.

Every one of them had been wrong in a different way.

Belonging was not something other people assigned.

Emily put her hand in Adrian’s.

She still belonged to herself.

That was precisely why choosing him meant something.

Behind the counter, Frank suddenly appeared from the kitchen carrying a pastry box.

Emily narrowed her eyes.

“What are you doing here?”

“I came for one cannolo.”

“Doctor?”

“One.”

“You bought two.”

Frank froze.

Adrian looked at the box.

Emily folded her arms.

Frank sighed and handed over one cannolo.

“You two are unbearable.”

Adrian opened the bakery door for Emily.

“Good night, Francis.”

Frank looked horrified.

Emily laughed all the way to the car.

And this time, nobody had arranged where she was going.

She had chosen it herself.