Sold to the Don: The Pawn Who Became Queen

Bella's POV

I do not mean to start my morning by threatening a seventy year old man with a spatula, but here we are.

"Sir, you cannot grab the muffins with your bare hands," I say as gently as possible while sliding the tray out of his reach. "Please use the tongs."

He glares at me like I have personally offended his entire family. "My hands are clean."

A woman behind him snorts. "Then why do they look like that?"

I choke on a laugh because if I laugh out loud my boss will write me up again. My boss says customers do not like when staff seem rude. Meanwhile the customer is currently poking the glass like he is inspecting a zoo animal. I swallow hard and smile.

"I will bring you a fresh batch," I say.

"I want this one," he snaps, pointing at a random muffin he already smudged. "And I want it for half off because you made me wait."

Of course he does. I keep smiling because that is what I do. I survive by staying small and quiet. I reach for the muffin with the tongs and hand it to him in a bag.

"That will be two ninety nine."

He mutters under his breath the whole time, something about kids today being soft. I am twenty two but people often assume I am younger. I blame my big eyes and the way my voice cracks when I get nervous.

Once he leaves, Maria, my coworker, leans close. "If he comes back tomorrow, I will personally throw him out. I swear."

"You cannot throw out regular customers," I whisper.

"Watch me."

I smile again, tired but trying to stay grateful. This bakery in Little Italy is noisy, warm, and small. The display cases hum. The espresso machine spits and hisses. The bell over the door rings nonstop. Outside, Chicago traffic rattles the windows. Inside, I smell coffee, warm sugar, and my own panic.

I check the time. I have an hour left in my shift before my second shift starts. I have been working doubles for three months. My feet hurt. My fingers cramp. I feel lightheaded sometimes, but the medical bills keep coming and I keep going.

My stepmother Elena needs daily medication. The chemo made her too weak to get out of bed. The bills stack on our kitchen counter until I want to cry. My dad says he will help. He never helps. He only drinks.

Maria nudges me. "Girl. Your phone is buzzing again."

I pull it out. Three missed calls from Clara. One message: Pick up, Bella. Now.

I text her back: I am at work.

She responds instantly: Then hurry up. Dad is in one of his moods.

Great.

Just great.

I put my phone back and breathe through the tightness in my chest.

Customers line up again, and I push through the rush. I spill only one coffee, which is impressive given how shaky my hands are.