Revenge is Sweet E-Book

Lee Savino

• Herausgeber: Lee Savino
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

“Did you think, for a minute, I might want to be awake for the proposal?” I ask, fluttering my fingers so the huge princess cut diamond on my hand catches the light.
His eyes go soft and warm. “I couldn’t risk you running again.
There’s a tracking device in there.”
“Tracking device?” I squeak, when I find my voice.
“Oh yes,” he murmurs. “You will not escape me again.”
***

Previously published as “Taken by the Mafia Prince” in the Darkly Ever After Boxset.
***
She’s gonna bake him a muffin he can’t refuse…
When a mafia prince sweeps into Leah's bakery and decides she belong to him, all's she can do is can hang on until the happily ever after.

Author's Note: Revenge is Sweet is a heart-warming spicy mafia romance. It has some sort-of-dark themes but not really. This is what happens when my brain wants to write both a dark romance and rom com. You're welcome.


Reviews:
"Luscious Like Eating A Freshly Baked Muffin"
"A bada$$ mafioso who believes in fate and destiny... willing to do anything to keep Leah safe and in his life forever...Pink cupcakes for the win!"
"A fairytale come true. Definitely 5 plus stars!"

Leseprobe

REVENGE IS SWEET

MAFIA BRIDES

BOOK 1

LEE SAVINO

CONTENTS

Revenge Is Sweet

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Epilogue

Also by Lee Savino

About the Author

REVENGE IS SWEET

Previously published as “Taken by the Mafia Prince” in the Darkly Ever After Boxset.

***

She’s gonna bake him a muffin he can’t refuse…

When a mafia prince sweeps into Leah's bakery and decides she belongs to him, all's she can do is hang on until the happily ever after.

DEDICATION

Dedicated to all the curvy girls who are great at baking and deserve love even when we burn the occasional dishcloth.

Also Nanette, who is a cookie and chocolate goddess. You deserve to have your own tall, dark, mafia man steal you away.

A big thank you to Ines Johnson for a fabulous beta and sensitivity read. You deserve all the chocolate!

And special thanks to the Goddess Group, who helped with the poll to choose a fun title. Here are all the titles that got a lot of votes but didn’t win:

Death & Cupcakes“Revenge is a dish best served with Chocolate Sprinkles”“Bullets, Blood & Blonde Brownies”“Bullets and Buttercream”“GUNS & SCONESES”“There's a Chocolate Horse Head in my Bed”“Say hello to my little… flan”Keep your Friends close and your Eclairs Closer”

Join Lee Savino’s Goddess Group on Facebook or follow me on Tiktok for more wacky fun.

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1

The sun’s just waking up as I trudge from the bus stop through piles of matted and dirty snow. On this gray February morning, there’s only one shop whose windows are lit up in the dark and rundown strip mall. Even with the scuffed and faded pale pink paint, the bakery is a cheery and welcoming sight.

The door sticks, but when I lean my weight into it, it stutters open and sets the overhead bell jingling merrily. My mouth begins watering a second before the caramel and cinnamon scents hit me in a blast of warmth.

Heaven is a bakery ten minutes before opening. Specifically, Panetteria Principessa, the best bakery in my hometown, Dumont, and possibly all of the world. It doesn’t matter that my cheap boots are soggy or that my cheeks are chapped with cold. It’s gonna be a good day.

“Good morning,” I trill, stomping my feet to shake off the crust of dirty ice. The shop is warm and smells like cinnamon buns. The scent gives me a sugar rush.

“Buongiorno, Leah!” Mr. Rossi shouts from the back, glee radiating through his tone. “Come see what I have done!”

“One sec.” I turn and yank on the door handle, making the bell dance and ring again and again. “The door is sticking.” Cold air leaks through the cracks.

“I will fix it later. You must come and see!”

“You’re gonna pay a ton in heating costs,” I warn, but I give up tugging and stroll further into the shop.

“I already do.” Mr. Rossi sounds cheerful, but I wince. Heating bills suck. It’s not like we can keep the front door closed. Every new customer will bring in an unwelcome blast of winter.

It’s a good day to bake, if only to keep the oven on.

The front cases are already filled with chocolate muffins and red velvet cupcakes topped with the most perfect pillowy frosting. A few steps past the counter is the doorway to the back. There’s no door, and when I step through, I’m embraced by the yeasty scent of cinnamon rolls and the bright citrus scent of lemon poppy seed muffins.

I’m so lucky to work in my favorite place in the world.

To the left are all the ovens, giving off delicious heat. I tug off my thin coat and unwind my cream-colored scarf. Underneath my winter things, I’m wearing a soft pink sweater that makes my brown skin glow. The knit fabric would be too hot to work in if I were back here all day, but as I’m alternating between the front and the back, it will be perfect.

In the corner, Mr. Rossi’s head sticks out from a row of huge shiny cylinders sitting on an ornate metal box—some sort of machine I’ve never seen before.

“Ahh, there she is!” His weathered face splits into a smile. “Descending like an angel from heaven.”

I chuckle and shed my matching cream mittens and hat. There's nothing flirtatious about my boss’s exuberance. He’s a sweetheart to everyone. Besides, he’s madly in love with his wife.

“You must come see!” he cries, waving his hands in joy. A thin fringe of dark curls bounces around his otherwise bald pate. Light reflects between both the pale patch of bare skin on the top of his head and the metal antique that dominates the corner of the room. “I have found the answer to all our troubles.”

The answer to all our troubles is a metallic monstrosity, sitting on a cart. It’s taller than I am, with three cylindrical turrets on the top of a brass box.

“What is it?”

“Una macchina per caffè espresso. Very vintage. Very rare. I have finally found it! The machine that will turn beans into gold!”

“This is the espresso machine?” When Mr. Rossi told me he was bidding on one at an auction, I was excited. But I was not expecting this. “How old is it?”

“Thirty, forty years… but it works fine.”

Oh God. This thing is older than I am.

Mr. Rossi must not see my expression, because he continues. “Cappuccino, latte, il caffe—it makes it all. Soon, we will be printing money!”

I hide my sigh. I’ve heard this before. I can only hope this time, it’s true. “What did Cedella say?”

“She has not seen it yet.” His face falls. “Only a picture. She can’t do stairs, not today.”

Mrs. Rossi—Cedella—has the swollen joints of advanced rheumatoid arthritis. Today must be one of her bad days. The cold makes her body ache so bad, she mostly stays in bed.

“I’ll make her favorite scones today,” I announce. “Maybe by then we’ll have this working and we can make her a latte—she can be the first to try a cup.”

“Yes.” He brightens. “Thank you, Leah. You are an angel. Soon, she will be better.” He grabs a rag and starts polishing the machine.

“Did you look into the infusion treatments?” I ask. “I hear the results are almost miraculous.”

“Yes, yes, just need a bit more money for that. But that is where this comes in…” He gives the machine another swipe. “A little beans, a little water, and we will be printing money!”

“Right.” I hate to be the voice of reason, but someone has to be. Mrs. Rossi is usually around to ground her husband after his flights of fancy, but she’s stuck upstairs, so it’ll have to be me. “Um… does it work?”

“Of course! Just needs a little bit of polish.” With a final swipe, Mr. Rossi tosses aside the rag and rubs his hands together. “Good as new. Help me move it, darling girl.”

Mr. and Mrs. Rossi took me under their wing and gave me a job when I was fifteen and in foster care. Now, I make enough to live on my own even though money is tight. For them, I would do anything.

It takes both of us to roll the machine out, and by the time we’ve lifted the heavy monstrosity off the cart and onto a clear section at the very end of the side counter, I’m sweating, and my sweater is smudged with the last bit of dust. I have to admit, the machine looks very fancy.

“Perfetto,” Mr. Rossi announces. “Now we will be printing money!”

“As soon as we learn to use it,” I remind him. “Is there an instruction manual?”

“Not that I know of.” Mr. Rossi rubs his head until his curls spring up in a childish halo.

“That's okay,” I say. The original manual was probably written in Chaucer's English. Or an obscure Italian dialect. “I'll figure it out.” I pat the machine, and something falls off the back with a clang. I snatch my hand back.

“We will be printing money!” Mr. Rossi dashes to the back and returns with a stack of the white paper cups we use for the drip coffee. He’s so excited, he drops a few cups on the floor, and they promptly roll under the counter.

Mr. Rossi scrambles around the counter and crouches in front of the chalkboard sign we use as a menu.

“Um, maybe we should wait until we’ve figured out how—” I start, but he’s already adding the word Lattes in a barely legible scrawl underneath the usual list of coffee, tea, and daily muffin flavor.

Guess we’re making lattes now.

“Do we have enough milk?” I ask, coming to stand next to him. “Because lattes require milk.”

“Oh. No.” Mr. Rossi scratches his head.

“All right.” I carefully erase what he's written and write out Espresso in my neat script. “Let’s start small.” I frown at the espresso maker. “Are you sure there’s no instruction manual? Maybe a Latin scroll, handwritten by monks?”

Mr. Rossi has already disappeared into the back. He comes back out carrying a box filled with several shiny pieces, and lengths of opaque plastic hosing. “I forgot to reattach these,” he says and ducks his head like a little boy with his hand caught in the biscotti jar.

The oven buzzer blares.

“Okay.” I take the box of missing and probably essential espresso machine parts. “I’ll deal with this. You deal with the oven—leave the muffins out, and I’ll fill the case once they’re cool. Then you can go check on Cedella.” I’ll try to figure the machine out while he’s upstairs and out of my hair.

“Perfetto.” Mr. Rossi salutes me and scurries off, leaving me grinning. Sometimes my boss just needs to be told what to do.

“Tell her I’ll be making the apricot and cream cheese scones! They’re her favorite,” I call after him.

“Sei un angelo!” You're an angel!

“Too bad I’m not an engineer,” I mutter to the box of missing parts in my hand before setting it aside. Maybe the bad weather will make the morning rush light, and I’ll have time to figure out the glossy monstrosity on the countertop.

* * *

With snow mixed with sleet spitting from the clouds outside, I expected fewer morning customers, but the popularity of my muffins proves me wrong.

The lemon poppy seed ones run out first, like they always do, followed by the cinnamon buns.

Mr. Rossi returns and helps at the counter while I whip up a big batch of Mrs. Rossi’s favorite scones, and do a quick check in case there’s an espresso machine instruction manual lying around that Mr. Rossi forgot about.

So far, the coffee shop gods have smiled on us and everyone ordered their usual—a drip coffee and a muffin. But in between customers, Mr. Rossi reminds me that “We are going to be on the map! We will be printing money!” so he’s probably not going to give up on the machine any time soon. That means I need to become a barista, stat.

In my search, I unearth an old Italian cookbook, and tuck it under my arm to take out front and read between customers. Mr. Rossi pretty much lets me bake whatever I want, and I’ve been wanting to try some new recipes. Why not biscotti to go with the espresso?

When the morning rush is over, I make a cup of mint tea and hand it to Mr. Rossi. “Why don't you bring that up to the missus?”

“Oh, she’ll love that. Thank you, Leah.” He beams and disappears, leaving me in an empty shop. I putter around and tidy up, savoring the quiet.

The bakery is my favorite place in the world, but I especially love it before opening, or in the break between the morning and lunch time rushes. That’s when I get a chance to bake.

Other than that, I wouldn’t change anything about the bakery—except maybe the tip jar with the handmade label taped to it. Last summer, Mr. Rossi scrawled Leah’s College Fund on it. Totally embarrassing when my fellow high school students were coming in for their morning coffee, especially my cheating ex and his new, beautiful, blonde and scrawny prom queen of a girlfriend. Now that it’s February and they’re back at their fancy Ivy league college, I can breathe a little easier.

I like my little life. I wouldn’t change anything—except the lack of funds in my or Mr. Rossi’s bank account. And getting better medicine for Mrs. Rossi.

I’m in the back, sifting confectioner’s sugar to make a quick almond-flavored glaze for the cooling scones, when the bell jingles.

“Coming,” I call. My grip on the sugar bag slips and a white cloud puffs in my face. I grab a wet cloth and pat my face before rushing out to help the customer.

A tall man in a long, black pea coat is standing in front of the counter, his dark glossy head bent towards me as he regards the chalkboard menu. My steps slow. I have the strangest sensation, like I’m about to step over a threshold to another world. I’m holding my breath.

He raises his head, and my heart trips over itself. Strong jaw, dark olive skin, patrician nose—his face is beautiful, regal, and unapproachable all at the same time.

I take a step forward and my elbow knocks over a stack of the paper to-go cups. I fumble to catch them, but only manage to kick them, sending them rolling across the floor. Now I'm bobbing and weaving up and down, trying to catch them all.

Is it too much to hope the handsome customer didn’t notice? I look up and he’s leaning over the counter, his dark eyes on me. His beautiful lips twitch. “Need help?”

Lordy, his voice is as beautiful as his face. Smooth and deep. Delicious.

“I'm all right,” I say. Reaching up, I try to set a stack of cups back on the counter, but miss it entirely and they all fall back down. One bonks me on the head.

“Never mind,” I say, rising and taking my place behind the register. I heroically ignore the fallen cups littering the floor at my feet. “What can I get you?” I dust my hands off briskly. Calm, professional. That's the ticket.

“Un espresso,” he says in a delicious bass that sends goosebumps flowing up my arms. My very floury arms. Crap, I’m covered in flour. And powdered sugar. And some cinnamon. I surreptitiously try to brush some off, but there are still little white and reddish brown flecks dusting my hands.

“An espresso?” I repeat. “We don’t⁠—”

The man’s gaze swings to my right, and I turn to follow it to the antique espresso maker sitting on the counter. The machine gleams, silently judging my lack of barista skills. “Oh, right.”

The bell rings again and three more guys walk in. They’re all wearing dark coats and have the same dark and gorgeous Mediterranean features as the first guy. Are Dolce and Gabbana doing a photoshoot outside?

The four guys look so similar, if they’re not brothers, they’ve got to be cousins. The first one at the counter staring at me is the most beautiful of them all. And he’s still got his whole attention on me, looking like he’s hungry and I’m a sugar-dusted donut.

My blush starts at my nipples and starts rolling slowly up my cleavage—which is on display. Thanks to the heat of the ovens, I peeled off my sweater and am only wearing a white camisole. And tomorrow’s laundry day, so I’m down to my last, most ridiculous lacy bra. Pink, of course. Luckily, the cami is thick enough to conceal everything, but the bright straps are showcased on my shoulders. The blast of cold air that tailed the customers makes my nipples spring to points.

“Right,” I say. “I'll just get you that, then…” I turn and knock another cup off the counter. This one I catch and clutch carefully as I walk over to my new nemesis. My expression, mirrored in the polished chrome, is full of dismay. I hope the customer can't see my reflection.