Chapter 1
Elisabet
Portland.
A fresh start.
My heart still aches for what I left behind. My father is still back in New York, and even though I miss him, I know I need to do this on my own. Our last fight was enough to have me walking out.
He promised not to follow me, not to send men to see what I’m doing, and even though I choose to believe him, I don’t. My father isn’t one to easily let go, and I don’t blame him because I’m his only child. But I pray he allows me to make my own mistakes.
When I stepped off the plane two weeks ago, I wasn’t sure if I was going to make this work. Scrap that, I knew it was going to happen for me because it was either a fresh start or living a life that wasn’t my choice.
My father loves me, but he was suffocating me. He wanted me to marry a man I didn’t love. Someone he knew all his life, but that wasn’t who I loved. Trying to tell my dad I wanted love only seemed to anger him.
Then, when I spoke to him about my career and mentioned I wanted to open my own bakery one day, he lost his mind. I wasn’t meant to be a peasant, in his words, I was a princess. I accepted it for a short time, but once I finished studying and got my business degree, I knew I could never sit back and be taken care of by my father for the rest of my life. Glancing at my phone, I notice the message waiting for me, and I know it’s him begging me to come home.
“I just can’t,” I say to no one in particular. The small bakery he finally allowed me to open in New York is still running, but I couldn’t live in the same city as my dad.
Which brings me here, to Portland. I ran. I left my life there and figured my best bet would be to try my luck here, where I knew at least one person who wasn’t in that world I grew up in—Mia. We studied together for a short time, and while I was allowed the freedom to go to culinary classes, I enjoyed her banter more and loved how much passion she had for food.
Mia and I connected in that short time before I was forced to go back to New York, where I had to play the dutiful daughter. Time hasn’t afforded me my dreams, to finally be free of my family obligations, but since I’m in Portland, I hope my father will finally realize I’m not cut out for the world he’s from.
The phone rings and I see Dad’s number pop up. I want nothing more than to answer it, to hear his voice, but I don’t. I let it go to voicemail and then listen.
“I miss you, Tesoro. I wish you would reconsider. Your home is here.” Then the line goes dead. I shut my eyes, blinking back the emotion, I breathe deeply, trying not to cry.
Once I’m calm, I slip my phone into my purse. I open my eyes again and start the engine of my car. I’ve been searching high and low for space to open my new bakery since I arrived. Rossi Desserts started as an idea. I put pen to paper, and now I’m ready to purchase property to make my dream come true.
When my mother passed away after my eighteenth birthday, I wanted nothing more to do with my father and his business. But after I followed him to New York from Italy, I knew I could make a life here. My focus was to cook, bake, and create beautiful treats.
Pulling up to the For Sale sign fifteen minutes later, I turn off the engine and exit the vehicle. I lift my shades and take in the beautiful architecture of the structure in question. The paint is peeling, there’s a lot of work to be done on the windows, but I can see myself turning this into a beautiful place for people to visit with friends or family.
The building in front of me is perfect. Every square inch of it would be mine if I could secure the sale and, instead of seeing the neglected place it currently is, I see potential. Soon enough, I’ll start again, and I’ll once more be known as the bitch of the kitchen. That’s fine with me. Most of my bakers have walked out because they say I’m too hard on them.
What’s the point in creating food you don’t love? That’s what my mother used to say.
I find myself smiling at the thought. Excitement tumbles in my stomach as I make my way around to the back of the building to take a look at the space. It’s all locked up, but I have a look around at the parking allocation. There are two other stores beside it, a pharmacy as well as a small vegetable grocer. Perfect.
Across the road is an apartment block that looks to be upmarket and quiet. I’m smiling by the time I get back into the car. The large sign on the door tells me the property agent is Rome Donovan. I’ve heard of the infamous Mr. Donovan. A man-whore who beds more women on a weekly basis than I serve meals to my patrons.
He’s never been seen without a woman on his arm at any event he attends. I hate men like that. Those who think they’re God’s gift to women, yet deep down, they’re just insecure little boys trying to be adults. The operative word is trying.
Sighing, I tap out his number and hit dial. If I have to deal with him for a couple of weeks to get this deal done and dusted, I will. This is purely business; I tell myself as I listen to the ringing on the line.
“Donovan International, how may I direct your call?” A sweet, sultry tone comes from the other end of the line, and I wonder if she’s fucking the boss. Shaking my head, I try to push the images of Rome with a woman out of my head.
“I’d like to set up an appointment with Mr. Donovan. It’s about the property on Chestnut Street,” I inform her, watching a couple walk their dog down toward the marina. My heart jolts for a moment as a memory comes unbidden to my mind, but as always, I push it back.
“Yes, he can see you tomorrow at ten. Would that work for you, Miss . . .?” She leaves the sentence open enough for me to give her my name.
“Elisabet Rossi.”
“Ms. Rossi, I have you penciled in at ten in the morning. Can I get your contact number in the event of a reschedule?” I tell her my cell phone number before hanging up. I’m excited to get the ball rolling. The sooner I can open a Rossi’s here, the better. I vowed never to go back to New York after what happened, and having a manager looking after my restaurant there is the perfect excuse not to return.
Tomorrow, all I have to do is persuade Mr. Donovan to sell me this building, and I’ll be back on my feet in no time. Starting the engine, I head out toward the hotel I’ve booked for the next two months. I’ve given myself enough time to figure out what I’m going to do, so I don’t have to return to New York anytime soon.
The streets are familiar to me as I make my way through the city. I spent time in Portland when I was still happy; when my life was heading in one direction, but now as I weave through the traffic, I realize I’m on a whole new path, something other than the darkness that’s consumed my mind.
The life I walked away from was something I never wanted or needed. I left everything back in a house that cost a small fortune. I didn’t need the things that sat glistening on tables and countertops bought with money that came from drugs, from weapons.
Sighing, I pull up to the valet of the hotel, and when I exit the car, a young man takes the keys, and I head into the lobby. A few people mill around, mostly tourists. It’s a plush, modern building with beautiful Italian tiles and wallpaper that remind me of the walls of the Vatican. Strangely, I feel at home. Not because of my heritage, but because I miss being in the safety of the cathedral. The candles glowing dimly in the vast space. A soft humming of hymns being sung.