Chapter 2 - Sunday Dinner at the Snake Pit
The black armored SUV pulled up to the security gates of the Moretti estate in Lake Forest at precisely 5:45 PM.
Inside, Mara was actively trying not to strangle the Don with her handbag.
She wore a rich jewel-tone plum dress that hugged her lush curves, dark tights, and velvet flats. Beside her, Gabriel looked infuriatingly composed in a tailored charcoal suit—sans flour this time—his dark hair combed back, smelling of expensive cedarwood and rain.
"I am only here," Mara said, glaring out the tinted window as the massive iron gates swung open, "because your grandmother personally sent a hand-written note accompanied by three dozen white lilies, praising my sourdough crust."
"Nonna is a master strategist," Gabriel murmured smoothly, checking his cufflinks. "She knows your weakness is appreciation for your craft."
"My weakness is basic human manners, something you lack," Mara shot back, turning to face him fully. "Now, let’s review the rules. Rule number one: We are breaking up in three weeks due to 'irreconcilable career paths.' Rule number two: You do not touch me unless absolutely necessary for the performance. Rule number three: You buy my bakery two new commercial ovens."
Gabriel tilted his head, a shadow of a smile flickering across his sharp features. "Three ovens. And a new refrigeration unit."
Mara narrowed her eyes. "Are you bribing me, Don Moretti?"
"I am investing in my fake girlfriend," he replied, his dark hazel eyes gleaming with a dangerous, playful heat. "And for the record, Mara... touch is required for credibility."
Before she could protest, the driver opened the door.
The Moretti estate was a staggering display of old-money luxury and subtle lethality. As Gabriel escorted Mara up the marble grand staircase, his hand resting firmly at the small of her back—his touch sending an electric jolt straight through her silk dress—Mara noticed the discreetly armed security stationed in every shadow.
The dining room was dominated by a twenty-foot mahogany table. Seated at the head was Nonna Elena Moretti, looking regal in navy silk. But she wasn't alone.
Sitting across from her was Gabriel’s mother, Vittoria Moretti, a woman whose icy blue gaze could freeze a volcano, alongside a sleek, overly polished blonde woman in a beige designer gown—Lucia Castiglione, the daughter of a powerful syndicate ally and the woman Vittoria had spent two years trying to force Gabriel to marry.
"Gabriel, darling," Vittoria said, her tone dripping with passive-aggressive frost as her eyes swept over Mara's full frame, taking in her curves with obvious disdain. "You didn't mention you were bringing... company. We were told you were seeing someone, but we assumed it was a joke."
Lucia offered a polite, razor-sharp smile. "Yes, Gabriel. When your mother said you were dating a local baker, I thought she meant you hired a new pastry chef."
Mara felt her jaw tighten. She prepared to unleash the full force of her neighborhood-bred temper, but Gabriel’s arm slid smoothly around her waist, pulling her firmly against his side.
"Mara isn't the pastry chef," Gabriel declared, his voice dropping into a low, resonant growl that echoed through the vast dining room. "She is the owner of Hearth & Rye. She builds a successful business with her own hands every day—a concept some people in this room seem unfamiliar with."
Vittoria gasped softly. Lucia’s smile faltered.
Nonna Elena slammed her cane against the floor, a delighted grin breaking across her wrinkled face. "Bravo! Sit down, all of you. Mara, come sit next to me. Ignore my daughter-in-law; she hasn't eaten a carb since 1994 and it’s corrupted her personality."
Mara bit back a laugh and took her seat. Throughout the seven-course dinner, Gabriel proved to be an attentive, fiercely protective partner. He served her food, rested his hand over hers on the linen tablecloth, and answered his mother's subtle insults with sharp, defensive retorts that left Vittoria speechless.
When dessert arrived—a miserable, sugar-free fruit tart—Mara took one small bite, chewed carefully, and sighed.
"The pastry shell was rolled too many times," Mara said plainly, unable to filter her professional instinct. "It’s tough. And the fruit needs lemon zest to balance the bitterness."
Lucia sneered. "I suppose a high-end estate kitchen is a bit different from a flour-dusted storefront, Miss Vescovi."
Gabriel leaned back, his hand wrapping around Mara’s knee beneath the table, his thumb tracing slow, intoxicating circles against her dark tights. "Mara’s bakery makes forty thousand dollars a week in pure foot traffic, Lucia. Her tart crusts win national awards. She knows what she's talking about."
Nonna Elena chuckled, pushing her plate away. "She’s right! It tastes like cardboard. Mara, my dear, you must come back next Sunday and teach my cook how to make proper cannoli."
"Nonna," Vittoria snapped, "we have the syndicate gala in two weeks! Gabriel cannot be seen squandering his time with a—"
"With the woman I love?" Gabriel interrupted softly.
May you like
The room froze. Mara’s breath caught in her throat. She looked at Gabriel, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs. He was staring directly at her, his hazel eyes intense, dark, and terrifyingly sincere.
"Mara is coming to the gala as my guest," Gabriel said, his tone absolute. "And if anyone has an issue with that, they can take it up with me in my office."
