Chapter 9 - The Forged Confession
The interior of the black SUV was completely silent as they drove back to the south side. The city noise faded behind them, replaced by the familiar, industrial rhythm of Holloway Street.
Juny sat next to Damian on the leather seat, her hand still locked in his. She looked down at her fingers, then at the small golden key Damian had slipped into her pocket before they left the plaza—the key to the front door of Sweet Halloway, which now officially belonged to her in perpetuity.
"You knew she had the recording," Juny said, looking over at Evelyn Cross, who was typing furiously on her laptop in the front seat.
"We knew Marcus had logged the audio," Damian said, his arm wrapping around Juny's shoulders, pulling her close against his chest. "But we didn't know you had downloaded it to your inventory recorder, Juny. That was a variable I had not calculated."
"I told you," Juny said, a soft, tired smile breaking through her exhaustion. "I don't apologize for the space I occupy. And I don't let people tell me what my bread is worth."
The SUV stopped in front of the bakery. The new ballistic glass windows shone beautifully in the late afternoon sun, reflecting the gray brick buildings and the potted rosemary on her fire escape.
Inspector Vance was sitting on the curb outside, his hard hat on the asphalt beside his boots, his hands cuffed behind his back. Two federal marshals stood over him, their radios buzzing with the news of the city hall arrests.
As Damian stepped out of the car, Vance looked up, his rat-like eyes full of a desperate, pleading fear. "Vale... please... I didn't know about the Marcone connection... my brother told me it was just a standard real estate play... I was just signing the pink sheets..."
"You signed an emergency order to demolish a building with a woman inside it, Vance," Damian said, his voice flat and completely devoid of human empathy. "That isn't municipal fraud. That is attempted murder."
He looked at the lead marshal. "Take him to the federal lockup in Loop. Tell the warden I want him placed in the basement cells near the boiler room. I hear the insulation down there throws off excessive heat."
The marshal nodded, lifting Vance by his collar and sliding him into the back of the transport van.
Juny stood on the sidewalk, her boots stepping over the silver staples that still remained in the wood of her door frame. She looked up at the painted sign, her name shining clearly through the citrus cleaner she had used that morning.
"What happens now?" she asked, turning to look at Damian as his men began to clear the perimeter, the black SUVs driving away until only his personal car remained beneath the broken streetlamp.
"Now," Damian said, walking up to her and wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her back against his broad, warm chest. "You unlock the front door. You turn on that quiet, perfectly humming Detroit compressor. And you teach me how to make the rosemary shortbread without tearing the center of the dough."
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Juny laughed, a deep, beautiful sound that echoed through the clean south side air. "The recipe is a secret, Mr. Vale. It costs more than twelve cents on the dollar."
"I am a wealthy man, Miss Alvarez," he whispered, his lips finding the soft skin behind her ear. "I can afford the price."
