Chapter 10 - The Grand Reopening
The bell above the door of Sweet Halloway let out a sharp, joyful clang that sounded like a church chime on a Sunday morning.
It was Tuesday morning—exactly one week since the day Juny Alvarez had drenched a stranger with eight pounds of ice water. The sidewalk was dry today, the sun breaking through the Chicago fog with a brilliant, golden warmth that turned the gray brick of Holloway Street into something that looked almost like a postcard from a better decade.
The bakery was crowded. Dozens of people from the neighborhood—old families who had returned out of curiosity, city workers from the new municipal district, and even a few corporate tenants from the high-rises—stood in a long, winding line that stretched down the block, their faces bright with anticipation.
The display case was packed with three trays of fresh custard tarts, four loaves of dark rye bread, and a massive, towering pyramid of pale, gold-rimmed rosemary shortbread biscuits that smelled of fresh herbs and coarse sea salt.
Juny stood behind the counter, her hair tied back in a neat knot, her white apron pulled tight across her hips. She moved with the quick, certain grace of a woman who had finally reclaimed her kingdom, her hands flying across the paper bags with a speed that made the cash register chime continuously.
"Here you go, Mrs. Higgins," Juny smiled, handing a brown bag across the glass. "Two loaves of rye, still warm from the oven. Tell your husband the new seal makes the crust twice as thick."
"Thank you, Juny," the old woman beamed, tapping the glass with her knuckles. "The street looks beautiful today. It’s so quiet without those Vanguard trucks rattling the windows."
At the small corner table, beneath the framed photograph of Holloway Street in 1950, sat Damian Vale.
He wasn't wearing his suit jacket today; he wore a simple black linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his tattooed forearms resting comfortably on the clean wood. He had a paper bag of shortbread in front of him, and he was drinking a cup of her black coffee—which was still exceptionally bitter, but he didn't seem to care.
Marcus and Lev stood outside on the sidewalk, wearing normal, everyday casual clothes instead of their tactical vests. They weren't checking the perimeter with radios; they were currently arguing over who got the last blueberry muffin from the window display, their laughter sounding loud and easy in the morning air.
When the last customer finally left the shop at noon, Juny walked over to the front door and flipped the sign to Closed. She walked back to the counter, took off her apron, and walked over to Damian’s table, sitting down in the unmatched wooden chair opposite him.
"You've been sitting here for six hours, Mr. Vale," she said, leaning her chin on her hands as she looked at him with a mischievous, bright light in her hazel eyes. "You're ruining my table turnover rate. Normal people buy their pastries and leave within twenty minutes."
"I have already told you, Juny," Damian said, reaching across the wood to take her hand, his fingers locking around hers with a warm, permanent pressure. "I am not a normal person. And I do not intend to leave this table until the sun goes down."
He pulled a small, silver biscuit from his bag, broke it cleanly in half without tearing the center, and handed the larger piece to her.
May you like
"To the proprietor," Damian said, lifting his coffee cup in a quiet toast.
"To the investment," Juny smiled, her lips finding the sweet, herbal butter of the shortbread as the Detroit compressor hummed its perfect, invisible song in the background, a song of a house that was no longer failing, a fortress that had truly become a home.
