Chapter 3 - The Queen’s WardrobeBy Monday afternoon, the quiet bakery in Astoria felt like a lifetime away.
Mara stood in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror in the master suite’s massive walk-in closet, staring at her reflection in utter disbelief. A sleek, emerald-green velvet dress hung on her curves like it had been molded specifically for her body, accentuating her waist and falling in a rich, luxurious line to the floor.
Two high-end boutique stylists from Manhattan were packing up their garment bags in the corner, whispering admiringly in Italian.
“Signora Marlowe has such an incredible silhouette,” one of them murmured to the other as they bowed out the door.
“I am not a signora,” Mara called after them, though her correction was entirely ignored.
The door opened behind her, and Julian stepped into the closet carrying a leather briefcase. He stopped, whistled softly, and nodded in approval.
“Dante was right. Emerald suits you much better than the gray cardigans.”
Mara turned around, crossing her arms over her chest. “Did you just inspect my closet, Julian? Because if you did, I want you to know my collection of cat-themed aprons is non-negotiable.”
Julian chuckled, setting the briefcase on a marble island in the center of the closet. “Relax, Mara. You’re officially the talk of the estate. By sunrise this morning, word had already spread among the security detail, the kitchen staff, and the outer administrative offices that the boss had spent the night holding a baker from Queens and didn't throw her out a window. You’ve achieved mythical status.”
“It was an accident!”
“In our world, there are no accidents,” Julian said, his tone turning slightly more serious as he popped the latches on the briefcase. “Which brings us to why I’m here. Dante wants you to look over these digital ledger sheets from the Marlowe Shipping Port in Brooklyn. Something doesn't add up in the customs declarations for the last three quarters.”
Mara walked over to the island, looking down at the tablet Julian handed her. Her baker’s brain—accustomed to tracking inventory, fluctuating dairy prices, profit margins, and supplier discrepancies down to the exact gram—instantly kicked into gear.
She scrolled through the columns of figures, her hazel eyes narrowing.
“This is amateurish,” Mara muttered, tapping the screen.
“Explain,” Julian prompted.
“Look here,” she pointed to a row of container weights. “They’re logging thirty tons of dry goods arriving from Marseille, but the warehouse receiving dock logs show a net weight variance of four tons. That doesn't match normal spoilage or packaging loss. Someone is falsifying the manifest weights to smuggle smaller, high-value cargo inside shipping pallets.”
Julian leaned in, staring closely at the data. “Jewelry? Electronics?”
“Or bearer bonds,” a deep voice rumbled from the doorway.
Dante stood leaning against the doorframe, wearing a black turtleneck that made his broad shoulders look even more imposing. His eyes met hers, filled with a sudden, sharp respect that made Mara’s breath catch.
“Smart,” Dante said, walking into the closet. “That exact discrepancy is where Maroni’s courier was trying to siphon micro-chips from our European tech imports.”
“Tessa didn't know what was inside those boxes, did she?” Mara asked quietly, looking up at him. “She was just a mule because she was desperate.”
“She was a pawn,” Dante corrected, stopping just inches from Mara. The scent of him washed over her, warm and intoxicating. “Just like you were supposed to be an inconvenience. But instead, you walked right into the center of my life and started untangling my problems before you even had your morning coffee.”
“I’m a baker, Mr. Marlowe. I like things measured correctly,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady despite how close he was standing.
“Dante,” he corrected softly. “If you’re going to run my estate by morning and balance my ledgers by afternoon, you can stop calling me Mr. Marlowe.”
Before Mara could think of a witty retort, a sharp ring echoed from Julian’s secure satellite phone.
May you like
Julian pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and his face instantly went pale.
“Boss,” Julian said, his voice hard. “We have a breach at the Brooklyn port. Jimmy Maroni himself just showed up with twenty armed men.”
