Useless Mate

Flour and Shadows

The scent of burning sugar, freshly grated lemon zest, and yeast was a far cry from the ozone and cold stone of the Dellegdego estate. For Lazelle, it was the smell of safety.

Six months had passed since the night her life exploded. Six months of looking over her shoulder, of forcing her sharp Lycan senses into a tight, suffocating box, and of pretending that her hands were made for kneading brioche rather than breaking bones.

"More muscle, piccola! Like this, see?"

Maria Lacoste leaned over the massive wooden prep table, her face dusted with flour, her dark eyes sparkling with a warmth that Lazelle hadn’t felt since her own mother passed away. Maria was a tiny force of nature—a proud Italian matriarch whose hands were permanently calloused from decades of throwing dough and whose heart was seemingly big enough to house the entire neighborhood.

When Lazelle had wandered into this small, sun-drenched bakery in a quiet corner of Naples, exhausted, starving, and terrified, Maria hadn’t asked for a resume. She had looked at Lazelle’s hollow eyes, handed her a warm piece of focaccia, and told her she looked like she needed a job.

"I'm trying, Maria," Lazelle said, a genuine smile breaking across her face as she pushed her weight into the heavy dough. She intentionally dulled her true Lycan strength, letting herself mimic the natural, tiring rhythm of a human girl. If she used her real power, she’d flatten the table.

"You are too gentle with it," Maria chuckled, patting Lazelle’s cheek with a flour-coated hand, leaving a white smudge on her nose. "You are a quiet girl, Santia. Too quiet sometimes. A beautiful girl like you should be out dancing, not hiding in the back of an old woman's kitchen."

Santia. That was the name on the forged papers Thomas had given her. To the rest of Italy, she was just Santia, a quiet, hardworking immigrant with no family and a mysterious past she never spoke about.

"I like it here," Lazelle said softly, her eyes softening as she looked around the cozy kitchen. "It's peaceful."

And it was. For six months, she had found a strange, beautiful sanctuary in the routine. She washed the floors, served the morning regulars, and let the rhythmic thumping of the dough mixer drown out the memories of Evelyn’s cold laugh and Mena’s cruel promises.

But she was never entirely off guard.

Every morning when she unlocked the front doors at 5:00 AM, her eyes scanned the cobblestone streets. Every time a heavy-set man in a dark suit walked past the window, her pulse spiked. She knew Evelyn’s hunters were still searching for her. She knew the supernatural world was in chaos looking for the missing Dellegdego heir.

What she didn't know was that the danger wasn't just coming from her past—it was already patrolling the very streets she walked on.

Later that afternoon, Lazelle was wiping down the front counter when three young men walked into the bakery. They didn't look like the usual neighborhood grandfathers or busy mothers. They wore expensive, dark tailored suits despite the summer heat, and their postures radiated a casual, dangerous arrogance.

Lazelle’s inner wolf immediately stirred, pacing behind her ribs. Humans. Dangerous ones.

The lead man, a guy with a sharp jawline and a jagged scar trailing down his neck, leaned over the glass display case, looking at Lazelle with a slow, predatory grin.

"Well, well. Maria usually hires old crones to work the counter," the man purred, his eyes tracing the line of her throat. "Where did she find a pretty little thing like you?"

Lazelle kept her expression completely blank, her customer-service mask sliding into place. She didn't flinch, and she didn't show fear. "Good afternoon, gentlemen. Can I get you some pastries, or are you just browsing?"

The man chuckled, reaching out a hand to lazily tuck a stray strand of her hair behind her ear. "I think I’d rather—"

Before his fingers could even brush her skin, a massive, deafening CRASH echoed from the alleyway directly outside the bakery’s side window.

The men jumped, spinning around. A massive metal dumpster had somehow been forcefully slammed against the brick wall, knocking over a stack of heavy wooden crates with enough force to shake the glass panes.

"What the hell was that?" one of the underlings muttered, drawing his hand toward his jacket pocket.

Lazelle stared at the window, her sharp Lycan eyes catching the absolute briefest flutter of a dark cloak disappearing over the lip of the opposite rooftop. Her heart skipped a beat. The shadow guard. He was still here. He had followed her across an entire continent, completely unseen, protecting her from the dark.

"Probably just a stray dog," the scarred man grumbled, shaking his head and turning back to Lazelle, his playful mood completely ruined by the sudden noise. "Forget it. Just give us a dozen cannoli, girl. Tell Maria that the Lacoste family is checking in."

Lazelle froze, her fingers tightening around the pastry tongs. The Lacoste family. She had heard the whispers in the neighborhood. They didn't just own the local businesses; they owned the police, the politicians, and the very ground Naples was built on.

"Of course," Lazelle said smoothly, her voice a wall of absolute calm as she packed the box. "A dozen cannoli. Have a wonderful day."

As the men took the box and swaggered out into the sunshine, Maria walked out from the back kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She looked out the window at the departing men, a complicated, deeply heavy sigh escaping her lips.

"They didn't give you trouble, did they, piccola?" Maria asked, her usual cheerful voice dropping into something raw and tired.

"No," Lazelle replied, watching the men disappear down the street. "They just said they were checking in for the Lacoste family."

Maria winced slightly, a shadow crossing her kind face. She reached out, gently patting Lazelle’s arm. "They are... intense boys. But do not worry about them. They respect this bakery. They have to."

Lazelle looked at her curiously. "Why do they have to, Maria?"

Maria offered a sad, fragile smile, looking at a framed, dusty photograph tucked away on the shelf behind the register—a photo of a young, fierce-eyed boy standing next to a younger version of Maria.

"Because," Maria whispered softly, "the man who commands them... the head of the Lacoste family... he is my son."

Ooh, the setup! Lazelle realizes she’s been hiding right in the literal heart of the Italian Mafia this whole time, and Maria has no idea her sweet helper is a Lycan princess.