Chapter 2 - The Shadow at the Window
The paper slipped from Lena’s fingers, landing flat on the steel table.
She hadn't invented the recipe from scratch seven years ago. She had bought this secondhand mahogany box at an estate sale after Teresa Moretti’s old townhome in the Gold Coast was liquidated following the family's internal war in the early 2000s. She had found a faded card with faint proportions, thought it was a lost culinary exercise, and perfected it over years of trial and error.
She wasn't just holding a recipe. She was holding a final, desperate message from the matriarch of the Moretti crime syndicate.
Before Lena could process the revelation, the bell above the bakery’s front door chimed.
"We're closed for the afternoon, sir!" Rosa called out from the front counter.
A low, raspy voice answered, cold enough to make the hair on Lena's arms stand up. "I am not here for pastry, girl. Tell Miss Hart that Dominic Moretti would like a word."
Lena immediately slid the yellowed parchment into her apron pocket and stepped out into the front shop.
Standing near the counter was an elderly man dressed in a charcoal-grey wool coat, holding a silver-topped walking cane. He had razor-sharp cheekbones, snow-white hair combed strictly back, and eyes that looked like ice floating in dark water. Standing behind him were four men who looked markedly different from Adrien’s bodyguards. These men didn't wear tailored suits; they wore dark leather jackets, their hands tucked deep into their pockets, their faces scarred and cold.
Dominic Moretti—Adrien’s uncle, and the man rumored to run the syndicate's old-guard enforcement network.
"Miss Hart," Dominic said, bowing his head slightly with a cold, performative gallantry. "You are a difficult woman to reach. My nephew has been frequenting your establishment, I hear."
Lena stood her ground behind the counter, resting her hands flat against the glass display case. "Mr. Moretti. Your nephew is a paying customer. Are you here to buy cake, or are you trespassing?"
Dominic let out a dry, rattling laugh that sounded like dead leaves scraping across concrete. "Spirited. Just like the woman who used to make that cake." He took a slow step forward, his cane clicking against the tiled floor. "Adrien thinks with his heart when it comes to his grandmother. He is a romantic beneath that expensive Italian wool. But I am a practical man."
"What do you want?" Lena asked, keeping her voice deadpan.
"My sister-in-law, Teresa, took something with her when she died," Dominic said, his eyes narrowing into narrow slits. "Not just a cake recipe, Miss Hart. A ledger. A list of offshore accounts and property deeds that belonged to the Moretti family before my brother was buried. She hid it inside her personal kitchen journals."
Dominic stepped right up to the glass case, leaning over. "Word reached me this morning that Adrien tasted Teresa’s cake in this shop. That means you have her box. And if you have her box, you have her papers."
"I don't have any ledgers," Lena said firmly, her hand subconsciously pressing against the apron pocket where the parchment sat. "I bought a box at an estate sale years ago. That's all."
Dominic’s cold smile vanished. He raised his silver cane and tapped it sharply against the glass counter.
CRACK.
May you like
A spiderweb of hairline fractures spread across the display case glass. Rosa let out a small scream, backing away toward the kitchen door.
"You have twenty-four hours to produce Teresa's journals, Miss Hart," Dominic whispered softly. "If you do not, this quaint little bakery will cease to exist. And so will anyone inside it."
