Chapter 4 - A Visitor in the Dark
"Aunt Clara? Are you down there? I'm hungry!"
Lily's voice echoed down the narrow wooden stairs from the apartment above.
Panic flashed in Clara's eyes. She shoved the leather ledger behind her back, glaring at Roman as if he were an invading army.
"Go," she hissed, pointing a finger toward the back exit that led to the alley. "Get out before she sees you. If my niece finds out a mafia boss is standing in our kitchen digging up our floorboards, I will throw a whole bag of flour at your face—unopened."
Roman chuckled, a low, resonant sound that vibrated in the small room. He didn't rush. He slipped the pocketknife back into his pocket, adjusted his cuffs, and gave her a slow, infuriating nod.
"I'll see you tomorrow morning, Clara," he said quietly. "Keep the sourdough warm."
Before she could argue, he slipped out the back door into the alley, melting into the Boston fog like he had never been there at all.
Clara stood frozen for a full ten seconds, clutching the heavy ledger to her chest. Her heart was racing a marathon. Her cheeks burned. And yet, for the first time in five years, the heavy weight pressing down on her shoulders felt slightly lighter.
She hid the ledger inside the flour bin—the safest place in the world, because nobody would ever expect a mob secret to be buried in King Arthur unbleached flour—and hurried out to greet her niece.
"Coming, sweetie!" she called out, smoothing down her apron.
Life went on, or so Clara tried to convince herself. But the next morning, right at ten o'clock, the bell chimed.
Roman Valenti walked in.
He didn't ask about the floor. He didn't mention the ledger. He simply sat at the small corner table by the window, ordered a black coffee and a cinnamon roll, and opened a laptop to work. He stayed for an hour. When he left, he paid in cash, tipped twenty dollars, and gave Clara a subtle nod.
The day after that, he came back again.
May you like
And the day after that.
By the second week, the regulars in the North End started whispering. Not with fear, but with utter bewilderment. Roman Valenti—the ghost of Hanover Street, the man who made city officials sweat—was sitting in Evans Bakery every single morning, eating pastry and quietly watching Clara work behind the counter.
