Chapter 5 - The Cinnamon and the Crown
The kitchen of the bakery was small, but by three in the afternoon, it had become the center of a silent, tense standoff.
Poppy had returned from her sleepover, her small pink backpack bouncing against her shoulders as she ran into the shop, stopped dead in her tracks by the sight of the tall, scarred man sitting at one of the small wooden tables near the window. He was drinking a cup of the cheap black coffee, his massive frame looking entirely out of place against the delicate porcelain mug.
“Mommy?” Poppy asked, creeping toward the counter, her green eyes fixed on Cassian with a mixture of curiosity and childhood caution. “Is that the man from the news? The one Miss Marlo said we should be careful around?”
Rosalind came out from the kitchen, a tray of fresh cinnamon cookies in her hands. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she watched the little girl approach the table. She looked at Cassian, warning him with her eyes not to say a word that would shatter the child’s world before they were ready.
Cassian set his mug down with a soft click. He looked at the little girl, his hard, scarred face softening by a fraction of an inch into an expression that was almost tentative. He didn't reach out. He knew what his hands looked like.
“I’m not a monster, Poppy,” Cassian said softly, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling register that didn't carry any of the violence from the night before. “I’m just an old friend of your mother’s. I used to live on this hill a long time ago.”
Poppy tilted her head, her brown curls shifting over her shoulder. She walked over to the table, took a cookie from the tray Rosalind set down, and held it out to him. “Mommy says people who live on the hill always need a cookie when they come home. The wind is very cold today.”
Cassian reached out, his scarred fingers carefully taking the pastry from her small hand. His knuckles brushed against hers, and for a second, he closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling in a deep, shuddering breath as he realized the sheer miracle of her survival. This was Julian’s daughter. His own blood. The child he had thought was lost to the dark waters of the Atlantic.
“Thank you, Poppy,” he said, his voice thick with an emotion he couldn't entirely conceal. “It’s the best cookie I’ve had in sixteen years.”
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Rosalind watched them from behind the counter, her fingers tightening around the edge of her apron. She had spent five years protecting Poppy from the world, believing she was an orphan with no name and no history. Now, she realized the history was sitting right at her table, wearing a dead man’s crown and a dark blue shirt that couldn't hide the scars of a lifetime of war.
Clara had left an hour ago, her face white after Cassian had quietly detailed the exact terms of her husband’s impending financial ruin if she didn't return every dollar of the Vittorio Belmonte money to the Fairchild Bakery account by Friday noon. But Rosalind didn't care about the money. She cared about the man who was currently watching her daughter eat a cinnamon roll with the reverence of a saint looking at an angel.
