Chapter 6 - Kneading the Pieces
The street was silent again by five in the afternoon. The bulldozer had been towed away, the police cruisers were gone, and the red condemned sign had been ripped off the brick by Damian's bare hands, leaving only four small silver staples embedded in the old wood.
Inside Sweet Halloway, the kitchen was dark. Juny sat at the prep table, her hands buried deep in a huge wooden bowl of bread dough. She wasn't using the electric mixer; she was kneading the dough by hand, slamming her full weight into the flour mixture, her shoulders moving with a rhythmic, furious energy that was the only thing keeping her from screaming.
Slam. Fold. Push.
Slam. Fold. Push.
The kitchen door creaked open, and Damian walked in. He had removed his tie, and his white shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, the sleeves rolled up past his tattooed forearms. He didn't say a word. He walked over to the opposite side of the table, reached into the bowl, and pulled off a piece of the dough, beginning to knead it alongside her.
His movements were clumsy compared to hers—he didn't know the exact twist of the wrist required to stretch the gluten without tearing it—but he worked with a steady, unyielding pressure that matched her pace.
"You're doing it wrong," Juny said, her voice rough from the flour dust. "You're tearing the center. You have to use the heel of your palm, not your fingers."
"Show me," Damian said softly.
Juny stopped, her breath rattling in her chest. She reached out, her dough-covered hands covering his large, scarred fingers, guiding his palm down into the center of the mixture. She pressed his hand forward, showing him the long, sweeping stroke that brought the dough back into a smooth, perfect ball.
"Like that," she whispered.
Damian didn't pull his hand back. He turned his wrist beneath hers, his fingers locking around her wrist, pulling her forward until her chest was pressed against the edge of the wooden table.
"The audit is complete, Juny," he said, his eyes darker than the shadows in the corner of the room. "We found the pipeline. Arthur Vance wasn't just taking money from Marcone to clear this block. He was using Vanguard’s front accounts to launder the proceeds from the illegal freight shipments moving through the south side docks. The federal marshals are executing twenty-four warrants across the city as we speak."
Juny looked down at their joined hands, the white flour dust covering their skin like a thin layer of frost. "So it's over? The bakery is safe?"
"The bakery is safe," Damian confirmed. "Vanguard Holdings filed for emergency bankruptcy an hour ago to avoid the asset seizure. I bought the entire commercial block from the federal receiver for twelve cents on the dollar. You don't have twenty-six days left on your lease anymore, Juny."
She looked up, her heart stopping. "What do you mean?"
"I mean the lease is gone," Damian said, a small, genuine smile finally breaking across his rugged face. "I transferred the deed of this building to your name before I drove down here. You own the brick, Juny. You own the leaning wall. You own the sidewalk. No one can ever evict you from this space again."
Juny stared at him, her eyes filling with tears that finally rolled down her cheeks, leaving clean trails through the flour on her face. "Why would you do that? That block cost millions, even at a discount."
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"Because you told me you wanted your old, broken life back," Damian whispered, leaning over the table to kiss the tears from her skin. "I couldn't give you the broken compressor back—the Detroit parts are already installed—but I could give you the certainty that this space belongs to you. You are the proprietor, J. Alvarez. I am simply the man who buys the shortbread."
Juny let out a startled, wet laugh, throwing her floury arms around his neck and pulling him down into the wooden dough bowl, her heart full of a strange, beautiful peace that had nothing to do with butter or sugar, and everything to do with the man holding her tight against the dark.
