Chapter 4 - The 4:00 AM Shift
At three-thirty in the morning, the city was dead quiet under a fresh blanket of four-inch snow.
Inside the master suite of the Moretti mansion, Emma sat on the edge of the king-sized bed, tying the laces of her worn leather work boots. She wore a simple gray sweatshirt, dark denim jeans, and her blue canvas purse slung over her shoulder.
She stood up quietly, slipping her keys into her pocket, preparing to make her customary walk down the service staircase so as not to wake the household.
She opened the bedroom door and froze.
Lorenzo was standing in the hallway, wearing a heavy black wool sweater, dark work trousers, and heavy winter boots.
In his hand, he held two thermal travel mugs of hot coffee.
Emma took a step back, her breath catching in her throat. “Lorenzo… what are you doing awake?”
“I’m driving you to work,” he said simply.
Emma stared at him, bewildered. “You don't need to do that. I take the subway. I’ve taken the subway every morning for eight years.”
“Not anymore,” Lorenzo replied, stepping forward and handing her one of the travel mugs. “Drink your coffee. The car is warming up downstairs.”
Ten minutes later, the armored black SUV pulled away from the gates of the estate, its heavy snow tires crunching through the untouched drifts of the quiet residential avenue.
The drive into lower Manhattan was silent.
Emma looked through the passenger window at the dark brownstones slipping past, her hands wrapped tightly around the hot mug. Beside her, Lorenzo drove with one hand on the wheel, his face cast in deep shadows under the streetlights, his jaw set in stone.
At precisely 3:55 AM, the vehicle pulled up to the curb outside Harrington’s Bakery on 4th Street.
The small storefront was dark, save for the warm amber glow spilling from the basement prep kitchen beneath the sidewalk grating. The sweet, unmistakable scent of fermenting yeast and cinnamon drifted up into the freezing morning air.
Emma reached for the door handle. “Thank you for the ride, Lorenzo. You can go home. I’ll be back by eight.”
Lorenzo shut off the engine.
He opened his door, stepped out into the snow, and walked around to open her side of the vehicle before she could touch the handle.
“Lorenzo, what are you doing?” she asked, her eyes widening as he pulled his heavy work gloves from his pocket.
“I told you,” Lorenzo said, offering his hand to help her step over the slushy curb. “I’m here for the shift.”
“You are the head of the Moretti family!” Emma whispered, looking around the empty street in utter disbelief. “You run waterfront ports! You can't come into a bakery basement!”
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“The head of the Moretti family spent eight years sleeping while his wife carried sixty-pound bags of flour,” Lorenzo replied softly, his dark eyes holding hers with an intensity that took her breath away. “Today, I carry the bags.”
He walked past her, pushed open the weathered green service door, and headed down the narrow wooden stairs into the warm, flour-dusted basement kitchen.
