🥖 The Baker Who Threw Flour at the Mafia Boss and Found His Secret

Chapter 09 - Saint Agnes Home for Girls

Matteo said I was not going.

He said it in Italian first, then English, then the universal language of standing in front of the door like a wall with a watch.

I let him finish.

Then I picked up my coat.

“You need me,” I said.

“I need you alive.”

“Then do your job creatively.”

His eyes flashed.

“I am not joking.”

“Neither am I.”

The room watched us with the tired fascination of people witnessing two forms of stubbornness discover they were related.

Valentina cleared her throat.

“Rossi asked for Emily because he needs her to unlock something. Killing her before that would be inefficient.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“That was not comfort.”

“It’s the closest thing going.”

Sofia stood by the fireplace, hugging herself.

She had not cried after seeing the photograph of her mother.

That worried me more than tears would have.

Children who cry still believe someone might respond. Children who stop crying have started negotiating with God privately.

I went to her.

“I’ll find her.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No.”

She looked up.

“You’re not supposed to say no.”

“I know. Adults lie when they want children to feel better fast. But I’m not going to do that to you.”

Her lip trembled.

I bent so we were eye level.

“I don’t know how this ends. I do know your mother left a trail. Women don’t do that unless they believe someone will be brave enough to follow it.”

Sofia stared at me.

Then she whispered, “She liked lemon cake.”

“I already like her.”

Matteo looked away.

We left after dark.

Not alone, obviously.

Matteo had the moral flexibility of a criminal and the protective instincts of a wolf who had recently discovered a child under his porch. He agreed to the meeting, then sent half the city moving quietly around it.

Saint Agnes sat on the edge of an industrial district, a red-brick building with boarded windows and weeds growing through the steps.

It had once taken in pregnant girls and returned them to the world thinner, quieter, and missing babies nobody discussed.

Now it waited in the dark with the same appetite.

Matteo parked two blocks away.

“You stay behind me.”

“No.”

He stared.

“Emily.”

“I cannot look useful if I’m hiding behind your coat.”

He leaned close, voice low.

“If something happens—”

“Then throw flour.”

Against his will, his mouth moved.

The almost-smile lasted less than a second.

It steadied me anyway.

Inside Saint Agnes, the air smelled of dust, mildew, and old varnish. Our steps moved through halls where generations of girls had probably learned silence before motherhood.

A light glowed beneath a door at the end of the corridor.

Rossi waited inside what had once been an office.

Lucia sat behind him, tied but conscious.

Sofia had her mother’s mouth.

I knew it immediately.

Lucia looked at me and her eyes filled.

“Emily Bell.”

“You know me?”

“I know your grandmother saved my life after I was already grown enough to think saving was for children.”

Rossi clapped slowly.

“Beautiful. Truly. Women recognizing women across ruined family trees. Unfortunately, we are short on time.”

Matteo stepped forward.

Rossi lifted one finger.

A man in the corner moved, and I saw the small black shape of a phone in his hand.

A live video call.

On the screen, Sofia sat in Matteo’s house with Alessia behind her.

Another man stood near the window.

Inside the house.

Alessia did not know.

Matteo went very still.

Rossi smiled.

“You brought men. I brought one.”

“What do you want?” Matteo asked.

“The last recipe.”

“I don’t have it,” I said.

Rossi looked almost bored.

“Your grandmother hid a birth record, Emily. It names the child Enzo Vescari had outside marriage and the child the family swapped to erase the scandal.”

Lucia closed her eyes.

Rossi continued.

“One boy was raised as a Vescari. One boy was left with strangers. The wrong one inherited power.”

Matteo’s face did not move.

But I saw the blow land.

“Who?” I asked.

Rossi smiled.

“Ask him why he never looked like his mother.”

Matteo whispered, “Enough.”

Lucia opened her eyes.

“No,” she said. “Not enough.”

Then she looked at Matteo with a sorrow so deep it seemed older than the room.