Bound to the syndicate boss

Chapter 1 POV - Lumiere Flour could be deceiving. From a distance, it looked like snow, soft, clean, almost harmless. But after a few hours in the bakery, it got everywhere, clinging to my skin and settling into the creases of my hands. I blew a loose strand of raven-black hair away from my eyes and shifted the twenty-kilo sack of Finnish rye against my hip. My left shoulder protested immediately. The old scar beneath my collarbone gave a dull ache, like it always did when the weather changed or I pushed myself too hard. I still couldn’t remember exactly how I’d gotten it. There was only a broken piece of a childhood memory that never seemed to come together. The bell above the heavy oak door of Lumiere Bakery chimed. Cold December air rushed inside, cutting through the warmth of the bakery. I shivered as the sharp bite of Helsinki winter followed it in. “Morning Lumiere,” Matti grunted as he stepped inside, stamping his heavy boots against the welcome mat to shake off the slush. He pulled off one of his thick leather gloves with his teeth and dropped a small bundle of envelopes onto the wooden counter. “Hard freeze coming in from the Gulf of Finland tonight. If you’re smart, you’ll close up early and stay by the radiator.” “Thanks, Matti. I’ve got two dozen cardamom buns going in the oven, so I’ll be here a while longer,” I replied, giving him a small smile. He looked at me for a moment, like he wanted to argue, but eventually sighed. “You work too hard, girl. You’ve got no family here, no one to look out for you. It’s a cold world when you’re all alone,” he muttered, tipping his woolen cap before heading back outside into the gray afternoon. All alone. The words stayed with me, bringing back that same hollow feeling I’d carried for as long as I could remember. I didn’t know where I came from. I had no photographs of my parents, no birth records from before a hazy hospital stay in Stockholm when I was fourteen, and no memories of my life before the bakery. Just fragments, the smell of burning cedar, thick smoke, and the terrifying sound of shattering glass that sometimes woke me in a cold sweat. I shook my head, pushing the memories away, and turned back to my kneading table. The steady slap of dough against the wood was the only thing keeping me grounded, a familiar rhythm in a life I still didn’t fully understand. Across the cobblestone square, partly hidden behind the smoked-glass front of a modern corporate building that towered over the old district, a pair of sharp, ice-grey eyes watched my every move on a digital monitor. Mikael Koskivirta didn't blink. He sat in the leather-backed chair in his penthouse office, with Helsinki stretching out behind him. On the two monitors in front of him, my face filled the screen, the flour on my cheek, the slight shake of my left hand, the stubborn lift of my chin as I pushed a tray into the hot brick oven. To most people in Finland, Mikael was a ghost with a fortune, a ruthless billionaire whose syndicate controlled much of the Nordic underground. To me, he was a ghost I didn't even know existed. But to Mikael, I was the one thing he had kept watch over for ten long years. He had bought the deed to this bakery ten years ago, quietly sending money into my accounts to make sure I always had a roof over my head, a warm stove, and a perimeter he could control. His fingers tapped slowly against the polished armrest. He watched as I pulled my sweater tighter around my shoulders, noticing the way I stopped every so often to rub my collarbone. Every instinct told him to stay away and leave the past buried. But the fragile peace was already starting to fall apart. On the second monitor in Mikael’s private study, a string of decrypted messages flashed across the screen. A rival faction from Milan had broken through the firewall. They had found the girl with raven-black hair and pale-blue eyes. They knew she was the last living heir of a fallen mafia family. Mikael rose from his chair, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the room. Pale winter light caught in his silver-blonde hair. The scars across his back tightened beneath his black wool coat as he reached for the leather gloves on his desk. His expression turned cold. “Not on my watch,” he said quietly. Back in the bakery, the oven timer buzzed, pulling me from my thoughts. I wiped my hands on my apron and reached for the oven mitts, but something felt wrong. The air seemed heavier than before. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I knew the feeling of being watched, but this was different. It didn't feel like a customer looking through the window. It felt like someone had been watching me for a long time and had finally decided to step out of the shadows. Before I could turn toward the front window, the heavy oak door swung open again. There was a brief silence. Then came the faint scent of expensive sandalwood, followed by a feeling I couldn't explain, like trouble had just walked through the door.