Alessandro “Sandro” Vescari | Wesbridge

The first notification came somewhere over Pennsylvania. Just a single vibration against the tray table, discreet enough that the flight attendant walking past didn’t notice. Alessandro’s gaze flicked down to his phone, already braced for some trivial business update. Instead, he read:

”Signora Vescari cannot be located. We are searching the estate grounds.”

His blood ran cold.

He sat there for a full two seconds, silent and perfectly still. Then his jaw tightened, and his knuckles went white around the phone. Every ounce of his composure, carefully honed through years of dealing with extortion, assassinations, and federal scrutiny, was focused on keeping himself from causing a scene thirty thousand feet in the air.

You let her out of your sight.

The words pulsed in his skull like a heartbeat. He typed fast, short, efficient: Find her. Every camera, every car. I don’t care who you wake up.

By the time the plane reached cruising altitude, Alessandro’s phone was lit up with desperate WhatsApp messages pinging through the cabin’s unstable Wi-Fi. He issued orders in clipped Italian and English, his threats sharp enough to make grown men sweat continents away. By the time the pilot announced their descent, at least six subordinates were privately convinced they were about to die.

Then—just as Alessandro stepped onto the ramp, coat over his arm, phone already dialing—a new notification flashed across the screen.

Incoming call: Unknown number.

He almost ignored it until the display updated and scrolled an odd name: Capri Bakehouse.

He frowned and answered, then froze.

“Sandro! Dio mio, you sound out of breath,” came his grandmother’s voice, sweet and steady as a hymn. “Can you pick me up from Capri’s on your way home? I walked here this morning for a little surprise, but now I think I’ll need a ride.”

He nearly dropped the phone. “Nonna—where are—how did you—”

There was a muffled sound and her voice briefly turned away from the receiver: “No, no, cara, you don’t need to wait. I’m fine, I promise.”

Alessandro blinked. “Who are you talking to?”

But before he could press further, she continued cheerfully, “Ah, I can’t monopolize the bakery’s phone. Hurry, figlio mio! They have the good muffins today.” Then the line went dead.

For a full moment, Alessandro stood frozen, blinking at the phone like a man surfacing from a nightmare. Then, he finally exhaled, dragging a hand over his face and muttering something in Italian that cleared a wide berth among nearby passengers.

The chauffeur waiting outside the terminal looked pale as death when Alessandro emerged. “S-sir—”

“Give me the keys,” Alessandro said flatly.

“But—”

“Figure out another ride.”

The man didn’t argue.

Alessandro took the black Maserati and tore through Wesbridge with grim focus, his pulse still hammering. By the time he screeched to a stop in front of Capri Bakehouse, his coat lay draped over the passenger seat, his tie hung half-loosened, and every nerve in his body felt wound tight.

He threw open the bakery door. The warm smell of sugar and espresso hit him first—then the sight of her.

Nonna Vescari sat at a small corner table, utterly content, sipping orange juice and eating a muffin as though she hadn’t just upended half the East Coast.

“Alessandro!” she beamed. “You made good time.”

He stalked toward her, equal parts furious and relieved. “Do you have any idea what you just put me through?”

Her eyes twinkled. “I see you missed me.”

“Nonna,” he hissed, running a hand through his hair. “You could have been—”

“—Kidnapped? Run over? Struck by lightning?” she teased, patting his arm. “Nonsense. I wanted to surprise you.”

“By giving me a heart attack?”

She laughed, soft and musical. “Oh, tesoro, don’t scold. It’s unbecoming.”

He sighed, defeated. The tension in his shoulders finally eased as he sank into the chair across from her, still glaring, though his tone softened. “You scared me.”

“I’m sorry,” she said gently. “I wanted to bring you something from here. But halfway there, I started feeling lightheaded. The doctor warned me, you know—blood sugar.” She paused, her expression warming. “But a sweet girl helped me.”

Alessandro froze mid-motion. “A girl?”

“Oh, yes. Such a kind thing. Saw me sitting on the bench, got me a snack and water, even walked me here to make sure I arrived safely. We talked, too. Such manners! You don’t see that often anymore.”

He blinked, studying her face. Nonna was generous with everyone, but not like this. Not glowing like this.

“She sounds like an angel,” he murmured dryly.

“She was,” Nonna said, her smile turning mischievous. “A girl like that would be perfect for you—no, perhaps even too good for you.”

He gave her a look, equal parts skeptical and intrigued. “Too good for me?”

Her laughter bubbled through her words. “You heard me.” Then, as he reached for his coffee, she slid something across the table—folded paper, neatly tucked under his saucer. “She gave me her number. In case I needed help again.”

Alessandro stared down at it.

For a man who commanded empires, it was a strange thing to feel his pulse quicken over ten digits scrawled on a napkin.

Nonna watched him carefully, the way only a grandmother could—seeing past the hardened exterior, past the sharp suits and sharper reputation, straight through to the boy she'd raised.

"You know," she said softly, her voice carrying that particular tone of gentle mischief, "I haven't seen you look at something like that since you were seventeen and found your acceptance letter to Columbia."

Alessandro's eyes snapped up. "I'm not—"

"Mmm." She sipped her orange juice, utterly unbothered by his protest. "Not what? Not interested? Not curious?" Her smile deepened. "Not human?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. The napkin sat between his fingers like contraband.

"You work too much," she continued, dabbing at her lips with a napkin. "You forget what it's like to be surprised by someone. To wonder about them." She tilted her head, studying him with those sharp, knowing eyes.

Alessandro said nothing. His thumb traced the edge of the paper.

Nonna reached across the table and patted his hand. "Call her. Or don't. But have a muffin first, they're very good today and your cheeks are looking too thin."