Chapter 6 - The Empire of Sweet Tart
The sun was setting over Lake Michigan, painting the sky in violent shades of violet, orange, and blood-red.
Inside the private penthouse on the thirty-second floor, the heavy oak doors opened, and Vincent stepped inside, loosening his tie as he tossed his leather briefcase onto the entryway console.
"Mara?" he called out, his voice echoing through the quiet, pristine apartment.
"Out here!"
Vincent walked through the glass sliding doors out onto the sprawling balcony.
Mara was leaning against the chrome railing, wearing a simple silk house dress, holding a glass of deep red Cabernet Sauvignon. The city lights were just beginning to flicker on below them, turning Chicago into a glittering web of ambition and survival.
Vincent walked up behind her, sliding his arms around her waist, pulling her back against his chest. He rested his chin on her shoulder, breathing in the scent of vanilla, fresh flour, and rain.
"You look tired, Mrs. Bellini," he murmured, pressing a warm kiss against the curve of her neck.
"I baked six hundred croissants today," Mara leaned back into his embrace, letting out a long, contented sigh. "The morning rush was a disaster. The new oven blew a fuse, and Cal had to personally escort an electrician through the back alley at six a.m. with a crowbar."
"I'll have him fire the electrician," Vincent joked darkly.
"Don't you dare. He fixed it in twenty minutes."
Vincent chuckled, turning her slowly in his arms so she was facing him. His dark eyes softened, the hard edges of the ruthless syndicate boss melting away into the man who loved her with a quiet, terrifying intensity.
"The final audit for Whitaker & Sons cleared the federal registry today," Vincent said quietly. "Officially, legally, and permanently. Your name is the only one on the title."
Mara looked up at him. The last remnants of the frightened girl who had stood bleeding by the coat check at Bellini’s Crown were entirely gone, burned away by fire and replaced by something unbreakable.
"And my family?" she asked.
"Your mother and sister are living in a two-bedroom apartment in Cicero. Grant is in Wisconsin. Arthur is in Indiana," Vincent said, his thumb gently stroking her cheekbone where the bruise had once been. "They are history, Mara. They don't exist in our world anymore."
Mara raised her crystal glass, clinking it lightly against his.
May you like
"To history," she whispered.
"To the future," Vincent corrected, his lips descending to capture hers in a deep, possessive, and triumphant kiss as the lights of Chicago burned bright and eternal beneath their feet.
