The Mafia Boss's Grandmother Locked Him In a Kitchen With a Curvy Chef — Then He Stopped Fighting It

The drive back to Lake Forest took place in the blue, predawn twilight of 5:30 AM.

The city of Chicago was waking up beneath a layer of low, gray clouds, unaware that a full-scale gang war had just been averted over a sheet pan of lemon curd and a box of handwritten recipe cards.

In the back of the Maybach, Frankie was slumped against the leather seat, the adrenaline finally draining from her system, leaving her limbs heavy as wet dough. Massimo sat beside her, silent, his gaze fixed out the window.

Suddenly, she let out a short, quiet laugh.

Massimo turned his head. “What is funny?”

“You,” she said, shaking her head, looking at him through exhausted eyes. “You slammed a sixty-five-year-old man’s head into a folding table because he called me a tramp.”

“He was inaccurate,” Massimo said mildly. “And he was breathing my air.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I am thorough.”

She leaned her head back against the leather headrest, closing her eyes. “My shop is still gone, Max. Two million dollars won't bring back my mother’s handwritten notes.”

Massimo reached into the inner pocket of his charcoal overcoat. He pulled out a worn, stained leather binder tied with a thick red ribbon and laid it gently in her lap.

Frankie opened her eyes. She froze.

Her hands moved with trembling reverence, touching the cracked leather. It was her mother’s binder. The corners were slightly scorched, smelling faintly of woodsmoke, but the pages inside—dozens of index cards covered in her mother’s neat, loopy cursive—were completely intact.

“How?” she breathed, looking at him with wide, shining eyes. “Tino said the shop was gutted!”

“Tino’s priority was to secure the perimeter,” Massimo said softly. “My priority was different. Before the fire department arrived, I sent two of my personal men through the rear fire escape with specific instructions to locate the green metal box beneath your pastry prep station.”

He looked down at his gloved hands, his voice dropping.

“You told me by the fire... that you build tables to bring people in. You can’t build a table without the foundation, Frankie. I couldn't let him burn your foundation.”

Frankie stared at him. The tears she had held back during the entire terrifying night finally spilled over her lashes, hot and fast. But they weren't tears of rage anymore.

She reached across the leather console between their seats, grabbed the lapels of his heavy cashmere coat, and pulled him down toward her.

Massimo didn't resist.

When her mouth met his, it wasn't tentative. It was fierce, hungry, tasting of salt, adrenaline, and the sweet, lingering scent of Meyer lemon zest that had clung to her skin all night. Her lips were soft, yielding against his hardness, her hands tangling into the short, thick hair at the nape of his neck.

Massimo let out a low, ragged groan from deep in his chest. His large hand came up, wrapping around the curve of her throat, his thumb cradling her jaw, holding her to him as he deepened the kiss with a possessive, breathtaking intensity that made the entire world outside the tinted windows disappear.

He pulled her across the console until she was practically in his lap, his other arm wrapping tight around her waist, crushing her lush, curvy body against the hard, unyielding wall of his chest. For fifteen years, Massimo Riva had controlled everything in his life through discipline and steel.

In ten seconds, Frankie Bello had shattered every defense he owned.

When they finally parted, both of them were breathing hard, their foreheads resting together in the quiet sanctuary of the car.

“You’re an impossible man, Massimo Riva,” she whispered, her thumb brushing over the faint scar on his eyebrow.

“And you,” he murmured, his lips brushing against the corner of her mouth, “are never going back to making bread alone.”

The car turned through the high iron gates of the Lake Forest estate. But as the Maybach pulled up the long, winding drive, the headlights swept over something that made Massimo’s entire body lock instantly into rigid tension.

Parked in front of the main portico was not one of his security vehicles.

It was an unmarked, black sedan with government plates. Standing on the stone steps, wrapped in an overcoat, was Gemma Riva—and beside her stood two men in tailored navy suits holding federal identification badges.

Tino turned around in the passenger seat, his face white as salt.