Chapter 2 Crumbs of the past

I don't even know what I saw.

Okay... that's a lie. I do know what I saw. I just can't get my brain to accept it yet. It's like trying to convince yourself the sky turned green or that your heart didn't skip a beat when it absolutely did.

But I saw him.

My dad.

In Dante Moretti's house.

In a photograph. Framed. Tucked away like it wasn't a big deal. Like it didn't shake the ground underneath me the second I laid eyes on it. It wasn't new-it looked old. Dusty around the edges. Probably from two decades ago, if I had to guess.

But his face... clear as day. Smiling. Like he hadn't disappeared from my life without a trace.

Like he hadn't ghosted me and Mom before I even knew how to form full sentences.

It's been years. Actual, full, stretch-of-forever years since I saw his face. Not even in photos. Not even by accident. He just... vanished. And Mom-she never talks about him. Ever. You bring him up, even by accident, and she shuts down. Goes stiff. Eyes somewhere else, voice changing like a switch flipped. I stopped asking after a while.

The only reason I know what he looks like at all is because I found an old shoebox buried in the back of her closet when I was eleven. I wasn't supposed to be snooping, but I needed answers. And he was in there. Frozen in time. Laughing. Arms around a younger version of her. It felt like I was looking at someone else's parents.

But seeing him here? In this house?

No. That wasn't part of the story I grew up with.

It didn't feel like a coincidence. It didn't feel random.

It felt like a warning.

And honestly, it made my skin crawl.

The whole ride back to the bakery was a blur. Like I was floating outside my body. I don't remember the streets or the turns. I don't remember what song was playing on the radio or whether the driver tried to make small talk. I was there, but not really. My mind was still stuck in that hallway, locked on that photo like it had burned itself into the back of my skull.

Why would Dante Moretti-of all people-have a picture of my father?

Was it business? Something darker? Was my dad even alive?

I didn't want to go down that spiral, but it was already happening.

So, like I always did when the world felt too heavy, I went home.

The bakery smelled like burnt crust and cinnamon and old sugar when I walked in. Same as always. The front counter was dusted in flour, and the overhead fan was making that annoying squeaky sound again.

Safe.

Familiar.

My mom was wiping her hands on that same faded blue towel she's had since I was five. She looked up the moment she heard the door.

"Elena?" Are you okay?

I nodded too fast. "Yeah. Just tired."

She didn't say anything right away. Just watched me for a moment, eyes narrowing in that way she does when she knows I'm hiding something. But she let it go. She passed me a tray of warm rolls to wrap. I took it without a word and got to work.

"How'd it go? The nanny job?" she asked, too casually. She tried to sound like it didn't matter, but I could tell she was holding her breath.

"He hired me," I said.

She blinked. "Just like that?"

"Yeah," I murmured, avoiding her eyes. "The kid's sweet."

She hummed but didn't press. That was her style. Let me talk when I was ready.

Sofie was already at the little table near the back, pretending to do homework. Feet up on the chair, earbuds in, scrolling through her phone while a math book sat untouched in front of her.

When she saw me, she rolled her eyes like she'd been waiting.

"Oh great. You're alive."

"Barely," I muttered, sliding into the seat beside her.

She smirked. "So, was the guy hot?"

"Sofie!" Mom called, exasperated.

"What? I'm just asking!"

I leaned in and whispered, "He's... scary."

Her eyes lit up. "Ooh. Mafia scary?"

I didn't answer. But I didn't need to.

That silence said more than a yes ever could.

Sofie leaned back, smug. "I knew it."

We didn't talk about it after that. At least, not directly. I helped wrap the rest of the bread while they talked about school and the new Biology teacher who apparently smelled like onions. I laughed at the right moments, but I wasn't really there.

That photo kept looping in my head. His face. His stupid smile. The way he stood beside someone I didn't recognize. And I wanted to ask. So badly.

"Mom," I wanted to say. "Did Dad ever know Dante Moretti?"

But I looked at her hands-cracked and raw from the oven. Her face, lined with years of quiet grief. Her smile didn't even reach her eyes anymore.

And I just... couldn't.

So I changed the subject. Asked about sales. Promised I'd help with the flour bill once I got paid.

She nodded. Said thank you. But I could tell she was somewhere else, too.

Meanwhile, back at the mansion...

Dante Moretti poured himself a drink with hands that didn't shake. Neat. No ice. No sweetness. Just bitter fire down his throat.

The fireplace crackled across the room, casting sharp shadows on the hardwood. Still, it didn't feel warm. It never did.

He liked it cold.

Liked silence.

Silence didn't lie. Didn't cheat. Didn't leave in the middle of the night with your son and two suitcases packed full of betrayal.

The door creaked open without a knock.

"Still brooding, I see," Leo said, his voice far too familiar.

Dante didn't even glance at him. "You ever consider knocking?"

"You ever consider therapy?"

Leo dropped into the nearest leather chair like he owned the place.

"This room's depressing," he muttered. "Turn on a damn light, will you?"

Dante ignored him. Took another slow sip.

Leo leaned back, drumming his fingers on the armrest. "So. About the nanny."

"She starts tomorrow."

Leo blinked. "Wait-you actually hired someone?"

"She showed up."

"Just like that?"

"She's desperate. And she's good with Luca."

Leo raised an eyebrow. "What's her name?"

"Elena Marquez."

The name dropped into the room like a stone into water. No splash. Just weight.

Leo's smile faltered.

"Marquez?"

Dante looked up, finally. "You know the name?"

Leo hesitated. Blinked once. Then said, too fast, "Nah. Just... sounds familiar."

But his brain was already spinning.

And his gut?

His gut knew the truth before his mind could catch up.

Because if that was the same Marquez he remembered...

Then Dante has just brought the enemy's daughter into his home.