The smell of yeast used to comfort me. Now, it reeked of shame.
"Elena! Wait!"
My mother's voice echoed off the stone walls of the compound's service entrance. She was breathless, clutching a basket wrapped in a checkered cloth.
"You forgot the delivery for the East Wing meeting," she huffed, shoving the warm wicker into my arms. "Fresh focaccia. Still hot. Go, before the Capos get hungry and angry."
I wanted to throw the basket into the trash.
I wanted to scrub my skin until it bled, anything to purge the "kitchen smell" from my pores.
But my father's bakery existed at the mercy of the Vitiello family. We paid protection in dough and silence.
"Okay," I whispered.
I hugged the basket to my chest, using it as a shield, and hurried down the marble corridor.
My head was down. I kept my eyes fixed on the floor tiles, counting them-one, two, three-to keep the anxiety from closing my throat.
I turned the corner sharply, trying to make up for lost time.
And collided with an unyielding barrier.
The impact knocked the wind out of me. The basket flew from my hands.
Oily, herb-crusted bread tumbled through the air.
Not on the floor.
On a bespoke, charcoal-gray Italian suit that cost more than my entire existence.
Time froze.
I watched, horrified, as a piece of focaccia slid down the lapel, leaving a dark, greasy trail on the fine wool before landing on a polished shoe.
I looked up, trembling.
Dante Vitiello stared down at the mess on his chest.
He didn't yell. He didn't curse.
He recoiled.
He took a step back, peeling the wet fabric away from his shirt with two fingers, his face twisting into a mask of absolute disgust. It was the same look he'd given me in the gym.
"I... I am so sorry," I stammered, reaching out instinctively to brush the crumbs off his shoulder.
Dante flinched back.
He swatted my hand away before I could make contact, as if my touch carried a plague.
"Don't," he snapped.
"Well, look at this tragedy."
The voice was high, sharp, and dripping with amusement.
Bianca Moretti sauntered out from the meeting room. The Capo's daughter. She was wearing white, pristine and untouched, holding a protein bar.
She looked at the scattered bread, then at me, her lip curling.
"Cleaning up after the help is exhausting, isn't it, Dante?" she drawled. She tossed the protein bar to him. "Here. Real food. Not that greasy peasant trash that stinks of yeast."
Dante caught the bar. He looked at Bianca, then at me.
I stood there, surrounded by the ruins of my mother's hard work.
I waited for him to say something. Anything. The irony burned in my chest; I had spent months researching his diet, ensuring the dough was fermented for forty-eight hours to be easily digestible for him.
"Get a cleaner," Dante said to the air, refusing to look at me. "And burn this suit."
He stepped over the bread and walked away with Bianca, leaving me alone in the hallway.
Giulia, one of the maids, poked her head out from a supply closet. She saw my face.
"Elena?" she whispered. "It's just a suit. It washes out."
"No," I said, my voice hollow. "Some stains don't."
