She knew certain things about Alonzo, things she was afraid he’d be very upset that she’d learned. He appeared to be Italian. He spoke Italian with a perfect accent, but more and more she was certain he was Russian, not Italian. She still privately thought of him as her Russian Iceman. She also believed Timur was related to him in some way, most likely his brother. Possibly Gorya as well, although he had a different build.

“Hey! You! Little sexpot,” Patrizio yelled. “Come on over here and bring the coffee.”

“I’ll be right with you,” she said softly, trying not to wince. She’d never been called sexpot before. She supposed, if she tried very hard, she could think of it as a compliment—not that it sounded that way. He made it sound dirty.

Patrizio Amodeo was in his fifties and clearly thought he was entitled to say or do whatever he wanted. She didn’t know if most people were intimidated by him because of what he was, or whether it was simply his arrogance and no one challenged him. He’d been rude when he’d come in, staring at her breasts and licking his lips. He’d said something to his companions who had stared at her as well. She was certain whatever he’d said about her wasn’t good.

“Now, not later. You can’t rely on displaying the goods, honey, if you want your little bakery to be successful. You actually have to give it up.” He threw back his head and laughed, winking at Elijah.

Instantly all conversation at the table ceased. The atmosphere in the bakery went from tense to downright frightening. She glanced at Alonzo as she picked up the coffeepot. His face was a mask that could have been carved from a block of ice. His eyes were twin glaciers. Pure blue ice. Not good. He might not want her, but he was protective of her. She had the feeling that he would reach across the table any moment and kill Amodeo.

Emilio Bassini frowned and looked around the table as if he didn’t quite know what to do with the situation. Both Joshua and Elijah appeared as if they were locked in place, unable to move for fear of shattering. She couldn’t tell if that was bad for her or good for her, but she didn’t want bloodshed in her shop. More, she didn’t want Alonzo vulnerable, not for her, and that alarmed her more than the bloodshed. That told her she still wasn’t quite over her crush and she needed to be.

“Evangeline isn’t a waitress, Patrizio.” Elijah’s voice was very soft. “She owns this establishment. When you want a refill you go up to the counter.”