Chapter 6 - The Sweetest Return
Three months later, the scent of vanilla, fresh yeast, and sweet butter filled the newly renovated kitchen of the Romano penthouse.
The high-end, sterile chef’s kitchen had been completely redesigned at Dante’s direct command to include traditional baking counters, heavy oak rolling pins, and industrial flour bins.
Mina stood by the marble island, wearing a flour-dusted apron, her dark brown curls pinned back neatly. Her cheeks had regained their warm, healthy glow, and her curves—soft, unapologetic, and breathtaking—filled her clothes with vibrant life.
She was currently kneading a fresh batch of dough for lemon pastries, humming a soft tune, when strong, warm arms wrapped around her waist from behind.
A familiar chin rested gently on her shoulder, and a pair of lips pressed softly against her neck.
“You smell like sugar,” Dante murmured, his voice rich and deep, lacking any of the coldness he had worn when they first met.
“I’m a baker, Dante. It comes with the territory,” Mina smiled, leaning back against his broad chest, feeling completely safe, completely cherished.
The tabloids had tried to run stories about the Plaza Hotel incident, but Dante had crushed them before they hit print. The Sterling family empire had indeed collapsed within forty-eight hours, serving as a brutal, unmistakable warning to anyone in New York who dared cross the Romano name—or touch Dante’s wife.
More importantly, Mina had stopped listening to the whispers. Because every single day, through his actions, his unwavering devotion, and the way his dark eyes devoured her with genuine reverence, Dante proved something vital.
He didn't want a cookie-cutter socialite. He wanted her.
“Your father called,” Dante said quietly, sliding his hands down to rest protectively over her rounded stomach—a new, miraculous development they had discovered just two weeks ago. “He says the Arthur Avenue bakery is expanding. He wants to know if you’ll design a new signature pastry for them.”
Mina turned in his arms, wrapping her flour-dusted hands around his neck, looking up into the dark eyes that still held a faint scar through the eyebrow, but held only absolute warmth when they looked at her.
“Tell him,” Mina whispered with a bright, radiant smile, “that I’ll make the best lemon pastries in New York. As long as my husband promises to eat the first one.”
May you like
Dante smiled—a rare, devastatingly handsome smile that few ever saw—and kissed her deeply.
“Consider it a deal, Mrs. Romano.”
