Gianna
People think I'm delicate. Like I'm made of porcelain or spun sugar. And maybe I am, a little. But not because I'm fragile – but because I've spent most of my life trying to build softness in a world that doesn't know what to do with it.
I run a secret bakery on Instagram under a name no one in my family would recognize. I don't need the money. I need the quiet. The moment when someone bites into a warm scone and closes their eyes like they're safe, just for a second. I think that's the kind of magic that matters.
At Butter&Fig (my bakery), everything's hand-delivered in wax-sealed boxes tied with velvet ribbon – very mysterious, very cottagecore. If you know, you know.
I don't bake the goods at home. That would be… not ideal. I rent a tiny studio kitchen in the back of an old ceramics shop downtown. The woman who owns it thinks I'm working on a pastry-themed art project. Which, honestly, isn't that far off.
Deliveries go through a girl I met at the flower market – Maya. She's brilliant, has three phones, and couldn't care less about surnames. I trade her almond croissants for absolute discretion. Sometimes I leave boxes in bike baskets or behind the counter at a bookshop. It's a patchwork system, but it works. Quiet. No questions.
The money goes into an account under the bakery's name. I use it for flour, lavender, nice butter, secondhand tea sets.
When I'm not baking, I'm painting little wildflowers on thrifted teacups or reupholstering chairs I find on the street like some Victorian raccoon. I write letters I never send, grow marigolds on my balcony, and dream about this little café-bookstore I want to open one day. Honey & Ink. A place where nothing explodes and no one disappears.
I was born into the Moretti family, which means I've always been surrounded by power and secrets and a hundred kinds of silence. When I was ten, I lost both of my parents to a "car crash." I didn't ask too many questions. You learn not to. My uncle raised me like I was something precious, but not quite his. More like a treasured object you display but don't touch.
No one in my family really asks where I go. I've always been the sweet one, the soft one – plus-size and soft-spoken, more likely to get lost trying to find a new café than pull off anything remotely suspicious. My sense of direction is so bad, they once assigned a bodyguard with a GPS. Everyone just assumes I'm wandering around antique stores or baking scones no one eats. Which, to be fair… I am. Just not the way they think.
Honestly, I think my family doesn't think about me at all, so they never think I could be hiding anything. I've always been the one who cries easily and gets flour in her hair from working any recipe. Lena says I'm soft around the edges and get turned around in my own neighborhood. Sara accuses me of wearing cardigans like armor.
My family thinks I'm harmless – too tender, too dreamy, too busy hand-painting teacups to be up to anything. Which is exactly why no one ever asks.
Because they don't think I go anywhere.
That's exactly why no one suspects when I sometimes slip out before dawn, carrying boxes of pastries under a fake name, making deliveries through back alleys and backdoors. Because in a family like mine, being underestimated is the best way to carve out a secret life that's truly mine.
I've made my own world – small, sweet, soft. A little rebellion in powdered sugar and pressed flowers.
If you ask me, even the softest things deserve space to grow – just that sometimes, that means growing in the shadows.
I hadn't seen Dominic since I bandaged his hands.
But something about that night had changed me.
It had, for the first time in my life, made me feel like my feelings were worthy of being protected. That it was indeed a problem if people disrespected me to my face, and that I should do something about it.
It was something I'd never felt before.
My mind was listlessly wandering back to Dominic and his bruised hand and shut soul, when I realized there was conversation around the table. My third cousin, Greg, was talking. Again.
It wasn't the first time that he had made some snide comment, and I doubted it would be the last. But today, something about his face made me want to slap him. Maybe because I could see the gears turning in his mind, as if he was about to hit me with one of his usual insults. The air felt thick with tension, like it always did when Greg was around. He had this way of making me feel like I was a problem to be solved. Like I was something to be fixed.
"You're marrying Dominic Russo?" he sneered out of nowhere, pretending to be shocked, his eyes narrowing. "You sure that's a good idea? I mean, you don't exactly fit the trophy mafia wife type."
I raised an eyebrow at him, casually stirring my coffee. "Oh? And what is the trophy mafia wife type?"
He smirked, obviously ready to throw another jab, but I was five steps ahead of him. I had already had a bad day. He was not going to make it worse for me now.
"But since we're giving unsolicited opinions," I leaned in, my tone sweet, dripping sarcasm, "For the life of me, I wonder what it's like being you, Greg. To be so loud and so wrong all the time is impressive."
Greg scoffed, but I could see his lip twitch. He wasn't expecting me to talk back.
"And," I continued, my grin widening, "I really think you shouldn't worry about me. Maybe you could worry about why you think your thoughts are clever? Or why you're not on any of the important jobs? You're just… here. With the ladies. I think you're proof not everyone should share their opinions."
Greg's face reddened. The thought of being outdone by me was not something he was used to.
"You," he snapped, "Think you can hold your own now that you're marrying Russo? You're nothing but a fat – "
I cut him off with a loud, dramatic gasp, eyes wide. "Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. Dominic's been telling everyone how much he loves my curves. Maybe I should tell him you have a problem with me?"
Greg's eyes twitched, his hand freezing mid-air as he reached for his drink. I could practically hear the mental breakdown happening in his brain. The news of what Dominic had done to Russo must have travelled between the close-knit cousins.
I could see Dominic's threat to break Greg's jaw replay in his mind.
I bit back a laugh. I couldn't say I wasn't enjoying the aftermath of Dominic's cold, terrifying actions on my cousins. He had certainly made me want to be braver.
"Yep," I said, leaning back with a satisfied smirk. "It's actually one of the reasons he wanted to marry me. You can ask him, you know, if you want."
Greg sputtered, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
He knew I was making a low-key threat.
And Gianna Moretti never made threats.
Before he could muster up a comeback, I gave him a sweet smile, watching him fume, enjoying every minute as I got my revenge for the thousands of times he had insulted me. "By the way, Greg, if ignorance could burn calories, you'd be in great shape too. Maybe you'd have abs." I gave a knowing wink as he looked like he was about to explode.
"Tell me if you need Dominic to give you fitness advice!"
With that, I turned and waltzed out of the room, my head held high and my heart racing with the thrill of getting one over on him. Finally.
The café was one of Lena's picks, which meant everything was in grayscale and cost seven dollars too much. The barista looked like he'd rather die than make eye contact, and the playlist had the emotional range of a cigarette burn. I slid into the booth across from them with a paper bag of almond croissants and a storm cloud brewing behind my eyes.
Lena gave me the once-over. "You look like you got kissed and then hit by a truck."
"I did not get hit by a truck."
Sara raised her brows. "So the kiss part is accurate."
I dropped the bag between us like it weighed more than my guilt. "Maybe."
"Oh my god." Sara was already halfway leaning across the table, her glitter-dusted phone out and set to record. "Start from the cookies. You brought him cookies? What kind of seduction ritual –?"
"It wasn't seduction," I hissed. "I was trying to tell him I didn't want to marry him!"
Lena snorted. "And you did that with baked goods and a sleepwalking excuse?"
I buried my face in my hands. "This is a disaster."
"Start over," Lena said, voice low but sharp. "From the top. Office. Cookies. Kiss. And whatever the hell that scene with Russo and the bandages was."
So I did. I told them everything – the awkward stumble into Dominic's office, the kiss that burned through my bones like a brand, the fight with Russo, my fight with Greg, and Dominic's bloody knuckles. About the quiet moment after, when I bandaged his hand and asked him why, and he said, because I've decided you'll be my wife.
When I was done, the silence felt too big for the table. Then:
"Yikes," Lena said. "He sounds dangerous."
Sara turned to her. "He's hot. Also, clearly obsessed with Gigi."
"Obsessed is not the same as healthy," Lena countered.
Sara tilted her head. "Is anything healthy in her world? At least he stood up for her."
"He nearly killed her cousin."
"Who deserved it," Sara snapped. "You know how Russo treats her. You would've stabbed him with a salad fork."
Lena nodded slightly. "Okay, fair. Still doesn't mean Dominic's a good idea."
Sara's gaze sharpened, a flash of something protective in her eyes. "You judge Dominic, but let's not forget – Gianna's been through a hell of a lot worse. Her high school ex? The only guy she ever dated? Total nightmare."
Lena's voice dropped, steady but fierce. "He was toxic. Manipulated her every chance he got. Made her feel like she had to prove herself just to be worth something. It's not –"
Sara nodded, clenched her jaw, talking over Lena. "When Gianna refused to sleep with him, he didn't just sulk – he humiliated her. Publicly. Called her names, insulted her, spread rumors so ugly no one dared look her in the eye. She was just a kid back then."
I swallowed hard, the memory twisting cold in my gut. The betrayal. The shame. The silence that followed.
Lena leaned forward. "That's why Dominic sets off every alarm in me. This isn't just about being protective – it's about knowing how fast things can spiral when a man thinks he owns you."
Sara's tone softened but stayed firm. "I get that. But Dominic's different. At least with him, there's fire, not poison. He fights for Gianna in his own messed-up way. Better that than the last time, when she was broken and alone."
They both looked at me, the weight of years of friendship and scars pressing in.
Lena's warning was clear: Don't let history repeat itself.
Sara's hope was just as real: Don't close your heart just because the last chapter was dark.
They turned to me at the same time. I shrank into my coat.
"What do you want, Gigi?" Lena asked, softer now. "Not what your uncle wants. Not what Dominic thinks he's entitled to."
"I want… out," I whispered. "I want to make lemon verbena shortbread without wondering who's going to die if someone finds out I'm selling it."
I twisted the edge of my sleeve between my fingers. The silence between us made it easier to say the next part, like speaking into a cushion.
"I know he stood up for me. And I know what that looked like. But… I don't think it's because I matter to him. Not really." I swallowed. "I think he just sees me as his. Something he was told belongs to him now. And Dominic protects what's his – even if it's just out of principle. Or pride. He'd probably kill for a rock if someone declared it his wife."
Sara frowned, gently, but didn't speak. Lena's expression was unreadable.
"He told me," I said softly, "that he wanted to see how far he could push me before I begged him to stop."
That made Lena curse under her breath.
"I didn't even know what to say when he said it. Part of me wanted to disappear, and the other part…"
I decided not to share that deep down, the other part wished he'd kiss me into oblivion.
I looked up at them, trying to explain without unraveling. "I liked that my cousins finally shut up. That they were scared to talk about me like that again. It felt… good. But –"
Sara leaned in, elbows on the table, cutting me off. "Then why not use this? If Dominic's already on your side – "
"He's not."
"Oh, honey." She smiled gently. "He already threw hands for you. That man would burn the city down if you asked."
"He'd burn the city down because someone sneezed in his direction. It's not romantic – it's unhinged," Lena said. "And you'd be chained to that."
"I don't want to live in a world where people are only kind to me because they're afraid of what happens if they're not." I said softly. "And I don't need someone to burn down the city for me. I just want a quiet kitchen, soft music, and the freedom to make something sweet without it costing blood."
That was the end of this conversation.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I checked it. Cursed under my breath.
"What?" Lena asked.
"Problem with the bakery."
Sara and Lena both stiffened.
"Which part?" Sara asked.
"Deliveries. Maya says the usual flower market drop point is crawling with two guys in black cars asking questions about who she's working for. Someone's sniffing around."
Sara's brows furrowed. "Do you think it's Russo? Retaliation?"
"I don't know," I said. "It could be coincidence. It could be someone traced a box back to the bookshop. Maya said they didn't look like gangsters, but she's spooked. She's staying home today."
Lena was already pulling on her gloves. "Then we go now."
"Go where?" I asked.
"To the flower market. To see what the hell is going on," she said. "We walk the route, watch the watchers. Sara can flirt if needed."
"I will," Sara said brightly.
"I'm not dragging you both into this."
"You don't drag us," Lena said. "We show up. And if this little velvet-wrapped bakery is the only thing keeping you sane, we're not letting some goons in a Lexus ruin it."
I blinked hard. "Thanks."
"Besides," Sara added, finishing her coffee, "if it is Russo's people, that's good intel. You tell Dominic and let him go full wrath-of-God on them."
I opened my mouth. Shut it.
"You're both insane." I finally whispered.
"Correct," Lena said.
"Delightfully," Sara agreed.
We left the café in a knot of boots and coats, the gray sky low and heavy above us. The croissants sat forgotten on the table, cooling in their wax paper.
As we walked, I thought about what they'd said. About Dominic. About love that might not be safe but might still be real. About the way he'd looked at me like I was already his.
And the way my hands had trembled – not from fear, but something else entirely – when I touched his skin.
Maybe I was already in too deep. Maybe the world I built in sugar and silence wouldn't stand forever.
But today, we'd defend it.
Box by box. Petal by petal. Bite by bite.