Raw Bloody Power

Chapter 1

1

SINISTER SMILES

Ivory

Present day

“Behind you, Ivs. Hot tray coming through!” Dascha, my head baker, calls out as she squeezes past me to get to the other side of our workspace, her Nuyorican accent heavy.

It’s been a week of pure bliss at Sweet Cheeks since our grand opening, with a revolving door of customers throughout the day and cake orders coming out of our ears. Graduating from Harvard with my law degree was an accomplishment in and of itself; took a lot of dedication and hard work. This, though—my own bakery, in Soho no less? It’s a dream I thought I’d never see fully realized in the flesh.

I’m just finishing up with the first cake now: a three-tiered rustic design with fresh flowers cascading in a spiral. The inside is the best part, though. Vanilla sponge with alternating layers of white chocolate and raspberry fillings. My mouth waters just thinking about it.

“Anddd, done!” I place the final wine-red rose at the bottom and raise my hand like Salt Bae , wiggling my fingers and all.

Dascha cackles as she goes about removing multiple cake pans from the tray, separating them in size order. “That looks bomb, seriously. The bride is going to lose her shit when she sees it. They’re picking it up tomorrow, right?”

“Yup, in the morning. I need to get some pictures of it for the site before I leave. When you’re done there, can you help me set up the backdrop and props?”

“Duh, go. Just gotta throw these in the fridge real quick. I’m right behind you.”

Blowing her a kiss, I pick up the wooden stand with careful hands and pad to the front of the bakery. The lighting there is unmatched thanks to the large window, and with only a small family of four currently at the register, it’s the perfect time to grab some shots before the after school rush comes in.

Greeting the family with a smile and a tip of my head, I set the cake onto one of the tables and turn to my morning part-timer. “Need some help, Jenn?”

She’s a sophomore at the local community college and takes all her classes in the evenings.

Works out for me because I don’t have to be here at the ass crack to open up. I like sleep, okay? Sue me.

Shaking her blonde head, she waves me off playfully and closes the till. “I’ve got it. They’re just grabbing a few cupcakes and some cannolis. ”

My gaze immediately goes to the picture of my Nonna on the blush pink wall behind her. In another frame beside it sits the last piece of needlepoint she ever completed: a little cupcake with a cherry heart on top. Unbidden tears threaten to spill over at the thought of her. She’s the whole reason I love to bake. Some of my best memories growing up are of her and me in the kitchen, hands dirty, flour dusting our faces and hair after baking all her favorite treats from scratch. Summers and winter holidays in Italy will always hold a special place in my heart.

This bakery is an ode to her.

A fuck you to Rio, and a promise to myself that he’ll never run me off again.

“All right, cakes are cooling,” Dascha states as she emerges from the kitchen, arms filled with everything we need to be wannabe professionals. “Let’s do this photographer thing.”

It takes a few minutes, mostly to get the backdrop at the right angle, but it all comes together nicely. Less than half an hour later, I think we have the shot. Pulling my phone free from the tripod, I tap into the gallery and review them all, deleting the ones I know won’t make the cut.

“This one, I think,” I tell Dascha, tipping the screen toward her as she glances over my shoulder.

Her hum of approval says it all, kinky curly head nodding in concession. “One-hundyyy. A few tweaks in Lightroom, and you’re golden.”

I visibly cringe. My brain could explode at the mere thought of trying to navigate one of those programs. “I’ll have my sister-in-law take a look at it. She’s the one with graphic design skills. I know nothing about that shit.”

“I can help, too, if you need it,” Jenn throws out, coming out from the backroom with her bag in hand. “I’m literally in school for graphic design and marketing. Toss whatever you need my way when your sister-in-law can’t get to it.”

“You’re a saint; thank you. She’s about to give birth soon, so this is actually perfect. I doubt she’ll have much time on her hands with a newborn.”

“I gotchu, girl. Seriously, anyti?—”

Ding!

The bell above the door announces what can’t be mistaken for anything other than my little brother’s presence, drawing three sets of eyes his way. Well, him and a few of his rowdy friends, gym bags thrown over their shoulders.

“Ivyleagueee,” Alessandro quips, crushing me into his sweaty chest.

I’m pushing him off me in a nanosecond, nose wrinkling and all. “Jesus Christ, Sandro, you fucking stink!”

“Whattt? I was at practice, okay?” the little shit laughs, although he’s really not so little anymore.

He’s almost a foot taller than me these days with growing tree trunks for arms and the swag of a grown man despite the fact he’s only seventeen. At the rate he’s going, he’s gonna tower over Santo, our older brother, soon.

I hate it.

And don’t get me started on the slew of girls trying to get his attention. His Instagram is littered with them, especially his shirtless pics with his wild, dark curly mane let loose or any of his football content.

I really hate that.

But it comes with the territory and will likely only get worse once he makes it into the NFL—his dream since he was old enough to throw a football and understand the game.

“Yeah, well, you couldn’t have jumped in the shower before bringing your smelly ass in here?”

“No time, big sis. I’ll shower when I get to the crib. I have a crap ton of homework to do. Can you box up some goodies for me and the boys?” The bright, white smile he flashes at me is nothing less than exaggerated.

This kid.

“Do I look like a free treat dispenser to you?” I settle my hands on my hips, cocking my head aside.

“Yes?” His grin widens before plopping a wet, sloppy kiss on my cheek. “Pleaseee. We need motivation to get through this study session.”

Those big, brown puppy dog eyes and pleading lip have the desired effect, because much like when he was actually a little boy, I give in with a sigh and a roll of my eyes, packing him and his buddies a dozen cupcakes before I head out for the day myself.

Brothers…

Pains in the asses, am I right?

Xena, my eight-week-old Doberman, whimpers from her crate, stirring me out of what I’d hoped would be a deep sleep when my head first hit the pillow a couple of hours ago. I got her right before the grand opening, and while daytime potty training is going famously, she’s still having trouble holding it through the night.

Draco, one of the Belgians, alerts me with a boop of his nose against my hand—as if I can’t hear the disturbance—and Katana… well, she can’t be bothered, snoring peacefully at the other end of my bed. They’re spoiled-fucking-rotten, but don’t get it twisted—they’re also highly self-defense trained and will rip an arm off with no hesitation.

“All right, all right, I’m up,” I whine softly, tapping at my bedside lamp.

My eyes protest against the soft glow now illuminating my room, squeezing shut as I rub out the sleep with the heels of my palms.

Get a puppy, they said. It’ll be fun, they said.

Forcing myself onto my feet, I drag my ass over to Xena, who’s now losing her entire shit at the sight of me approaching, pawing like a psycho at the kennel door. I really should put on her collar and grab her leash, but I can't be bothered right now, scooping her out of her temporary sleeping quarters before padding downstairs to the backyard. Draco follows along beside me, for which I’m eternally grateful because he helps keep her in line whenever we go outside.

The late summer heat slaps me in the face the moment I open the back patio door. I’d kill for a little breeze right now, already feeling a sheen of sweat clinging to the nape of my neck. I don’t know how the fuck some people like summer so much. It’s a hot and sticky mess. Give me all the fall and winter vibes everyday—burnt colors, cozy sweaters, pumpkin spice everything, snow days. I’ll even tolerate spring and all the bugs that come with it before having to suffer through the scorching hell of New York summers.

A few minutes later—thankfully—Draco’s leading the way back upstairs with Xena on his tail, their nails clipping and clopping against the travertine tiles. I’m right behind them, counting down the minutes until I can pass the hell out. I have a long day ahead with several cake orders to get through, and running on fumes is not going to fare well for me.

“In you go…good girl,” I whisper, scratching her little head as she pads into the crate and curls up on her pink blanket. “Night night, Zeenie Weenie.”

Draco’s already infiltrating Katana’s personal space, sprawling out on the empty side of the bed, his big head on her stomach. She huffs in response but doesn’t move an inch as always. Poor thing has no clue Xena will likely use her as a pillow, too, once crate training is over.

I can all but feel the depths of sleep as I douse the room in darkness once more and slide into my spot, curling the cool sheets over my shoulder. “Finally,” I sigh contentedly into the welcoming silence, my eyes falling shut and?—

And nothing.

My phone suddenly starts blaring like a damn beacon on the nightstand, springing my eyes right back open .

What. The. Fuck?

Groaning, I reach for the offending device and note it’s an unknown number, accepting the call with a breathy, “Hello?”

“Yes, hello, may I please speak with Ivory Belucci?” a steady male voice questions.

“Yes? May I ask who’s calling at this ungodly hour of the night?”

“Yes, ma’am, this is Ivan Burrows with SafeGuard Security. We’ve been alerted of increased temperatures at your place of business, and the sprinklers have gone off as a result. You may want to head over there and check it out.”

My heart sinks , like out of my ass sinks, jolting me out of bed and onto my feet. And my pulse? Zero to one-hundred real quick. “The sprinklers turned on?” I squeak—because sprinklers plus increased temperatures equal fire, right?

“Yes, ma’am, about three minutes ago.”

Fuck!

“Okay, thank you! I’m on my way over. Do I need to call the fire department?”

“No, ma’am, they’ve already been dispatched.”

I hang up without another word and barrel out of the house with such speed, I forget to change out of my pajamas. Hell, I barely remember to put on shoes on my way out the door, fumbling with my keys as I skid to a stop in front of my CLE. I’m backing out of the driveway sheer seconds later, racing down my street at a speed that far exceeds the twenty-five miles per hour residential limit.

The normal forty-five minute drive takes me nothing but twenty, and it’s a good thing, too, because the scene I pull up to is absolutely horrific—devastatingly so.

A nightmare come to life.

It’s unlike anything I’ve seen before. The entire bakery is lit up in bright, sweltering flames, thick plumes of black smoke visible even against the darkened sky. I could puke and cry at the same time.

How the hell did this happen?

Throwing the Mercedes in park, I shoot out of my seat and rush over to police now blocking both sides of the road, red and blue lights strobing off the surrounding buildings. The fire department’s already hard at work, too, attempting to put the blaze out with three different hoses.

“I’m here, I’m here,” I announce, crossing my arms over my chest to keep my tits from sliding out of my tank top.

“Ivory Belucci?” one of the officers queries, and all I can do is nod, still in complete and utter shock at what I’m witnessing.

“Do you know what the cause is?” I ask.

He shakes his head, lips thinned sympathetically. “Unfortunately, we won’t know until we can get inside and assess the damage. Did you close up last night?”

“I didn’t, no. I left earlier in the afternoon, but the girls are all responsible if that’s what you’re getting at. There’s no way one of them forgot to shut the ovens off.” I can’t even hold back the tears at this point as they spill down my cheeks of their own accord.

Everything I worked so hard to build—gone. All of it gone in the span of minutes. There’s no way in hell anything is going to be salvageable. Maybe the steel work tables?

Heavy on the maybe, though.

Phone in hand, I do the only thing I can think of and call my dad. I hate to wake him, but he’s the only person who’s going to keep me calm right now and probably know what to do next.

No, scratch that.

Amadeo Belucci always knows what to do.

Tapping into my recent calls, I scroll down to his name and hit the call button. The line rings several times, but just as he answers, a sudden flicker of light has me snapping my head toward the source. What awaits me just on the other side of the barricades is not at all what I expected to see. I blink several times, fully convinced I’m so overtired and overwhelmed that now I’m imagining shit, too.

But no, I’m not…

It’s Rio.

Posted up against the side of a blacked-out Yukon.

Tattooed arms crossed over his chest as a sinister grin carves itself on his lips.

“Ivory?” my dad’s groggy baritone asks again, breaking through the shock. “Are you okay? Where are you?”

“I’m…” With difficulty, I focus on the call. “I’m at the bakery. It’s on fire.”

Rio flicks something in his hand then, sparking a little dancing flame from the source. All the air blasts out of my lungs as if he’d pummeled me to the asphalt and kicked me repeatedly. His presence serves as enough of an admission to the burning building not twenty feet away, yet it’s the small orange wisp still billowing about that rushes his words from that day in my dorm back to the forefront.

If I see so much as a glimpse of you walking the streets of New York, you’ll reap the consequences in one way or another.

He’s gone after that, sliding into the Yukon and disappearing into the night. I’m left staring at his ghost, the red glow of his taillights slipping further and further away as I ping-pong between astonishment, disbelief, and barely contained rage.