Chapter 6
Alina
The mixer finally goes silent, leaving me alone with the ache in my shoulders and the flour dust dancing in the afternoon light.
I wipe my forehead with the back of my wrist, feeling the day’s sweat and exhaustion like a second skin. Thirteen hours on my feet, and my body screams in protest with every movement. But the bakery doesn’t clean itself.
I haven’t seen Sabrina since she showed up to shoot content for her social media this morning. That’s also when she conveniently told our two employees to leave at noon. So, there’s no one else to do it but me.
My hands move automatically through the closing routine, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought fails. I spray down the stainless steel counters with sanitizer, the sharp chemical scent cutting through the lingering sweetness of today’s pastries.
The cloth squeaks against the metal as I wipe in wide, circular motions, removing every trace of sugar, every smudge of butter, every speck of flour.
“You always clean in circles,” Mom used to say. “Most people go back and forth, but you’re so methodical.” I can almost hear her voice, feel her presence beside me in the quiet bakery.
I swallow hard against the sudden tightness in my throat. The grief sits heavy in my chest, a constant companion I’m learning to work around rather than through.
The industrial dishwasher hums in the background as I move to the display cases, now empty of the day’s offerings. We sold out of almost everything—the cinnamon rolls were gone by nine, the sourdough by eleven.
Even the experimental cardamom buns I tried for the first time disappeared quickly, though I’m not sure if that’s because they were good or because the regulars were being kind.
The thought of food should make me hungry, but all I feel is my stomach churning. When was the last time I ate? This morning? No, I don’t think so. Maybe it was yesterday morning, or the night before.
I grab the mop, dunking it into the bucket of warm, soapy water that smells faintly of pine.
My arms protest as I drag it across the black-and-white checkered floor, erasing footprints and spills from the day’s traffic.
Each stroke feels like sandpaper against my already tender muscles, but I keep going.
The rhythm is soothing in its predictability—dip, squeeze, sweep, repeat.
Even though the ovens have been cooling for an hour now, I still feel their residual warmth as I pass by to check that they’re properly shut down.
I run my hands over the dials, confirming each is in the off position. The large, industrial machines tick softly as they contract, metal cooling and settling after hours of steady heat.
As the temperature gradually drops, the scent changes too. The warm, yeasty perfume that fills the bakery all day slowly fades, replaced by the clean, slightly antiseptic smell of the freshly scrubbed surfaces. It’s like watching the tide go out, leaving behind smooth, wet sand.
I make my way to the front counter where the antique register sits.
It was Mom’s pride and joy—a restored brass beauty that chimes melodiously with each transaction.
Beside it, the modern card reader looks out of place, a necessary concession to the twenty-first century that Mom had resisted until just two years ago.
Pressing the button to open the cash drawer, I begin counting the day’s take. The familiar ritual of sorting bills, stacking coins, and reconciling the electronic sales report gives my tired mind something concrete to focus on.
The numbers are good, better than good, actually. We made almost twice what we usually do on a Saturday.
My fingers pause on a fifty-dollar bill. The customer who gave it to me—an older woman with kind eyes—pressed it into my hand and said, “Your mom’s pastries got me through my own mom’s funeral twenty years ago. I never forgot that kindness.”
I didn’t know what to say then. I still don’t. So I just carefully add the bill to its stack and continue counting.
When I’m done, I slip the day’s earnings into the zippered bank bag and lock it in the back office.
I’ll deposit it tomorrow. Mom would have taken it to the night drop, but after those men outside the bakery last night, I’m not eager to venture out alone in the dark with a bag full of cash. No, thank you.
I should probably be more worried about those men. About what they wanted, why they were looking in our windows. But my brain is too tired to hold on to fear alongside everything else.
After a final check of the kitchen—pilot lights off, refrigerators humming at the right temperature, ingredients properly stored—I move through the bakery, turning off lights as I go.
The space transforms around me, shadows stretching across the floor, familiar shapes becoming indistinct in the gathering darkness. Only the small light above the door remains on, casting a pale glow over the empty chairs and tables.
For a moment, I stand in the center of it all, letting the silence wrap around me.
This place has been a constant in my life—its sights, sounds, and smells as familiar to me as my own heartbeat.
Now it’s mine to protect, to preserve. The responsibility settles on my shoulders along with the fatigue.
I take a deep breath, smelling the lingering traces of cinnamon and yeast, before turning toward the side door that leads to the stairwell. The apartment waits above, along with a hot shower, Onyx, and the blessed relief of lying down.
Maybe even sleep if I’m lucky.
The key sticks in the lock, like it always does. I jiggle it twice, then turn it firmly to the right until I hear the solid thunk of the deadbolt sliding home. Safe. Secure.
The side stairwell is narrow and poorly lit, the ancient steps creaking under my weight as I drag myself upward. My thighs and every other part of my body burn with the effort after so many hours on my feet.
At the top, something feels wrong.
The door to the apartment stands slightly ajar, a thin slice of darkness visible through the gap. A chill runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the February cold seeping through the thin walls of the stairwell.
“Sabrina?” I call out, my voice sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet space.
No answer comes back. Just silence—heavy and waiting.
I push the door open wider, met by stale air and darkness deeper than it should be. Something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong.
“Sabrina?” I call again, stepping cautiously over the threshold. “Are you home?”
The silence that greets me is my only answer.
The living room is shrouded in shadow; my fingertips sliding along the wall until they find the light switch. Nothing happens when I flick it up. The bulb must have burned out—or Sabrina forgot to pay the electric bill again.
I fumble for my phone, activating its flashlight to illuminate the strange emptiness before me.
The coffee table is bare, the decorative pillows missing from the couch.
Something’s not right. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as I move deeper into the apartment, the beam of light revealing more absences than presences.
“Sabrina?” I call for the third time, my voice thin and shaky. “Are you playing some kind of prank?”
Only silence answers me. The kitchen looks untouched, but when I swing my light toward the hallway leading to our bedrooms, my heartbeat quickens. Dread pools in my stomach with each step I take toward Sabrina’s room.
Her door stands open, which is unusual in itself. Sabrina guards her privacy fiercely, always keeping her door firmly shut and locked. My phone’s light cuts through the darkness, revealing a space I barely recognize.
She even stripped her bed down to the bare mattress. The dresser drawers hang open, emptied of their contents. The closet door gapes wide, showing nothing but vacant hangers swinging gently in the draft from the hallway.
I step inside, disbelief making my movements sluggish.
My light beam travels across bare walls where fashion photos and social media printouts once created a collage of Sabrina’s carefully curated life.
Even the pink curtains she insisted on hanging last summer are gone, leaving naked windows staring out into the February night.
“She’s gone,” I whisper to the almost-empty room, my fingers trailing over the bare wall. The realization hits me with physical force, making my knees weaken. “She left.”
The day after our mom’s funeral, Sabrina packed up and disappeared without a word. Without even a note. A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat but gets stuck there, turning into something closer to a sob. Of course, she left.
I turn to leave, my mind racing with questions about where she might have gone, when a large figure blocks the doorway. My heart stops, then restarts at triple speed.
The scream that tears from my throat is primal and raw. I stumble backward until my calves hit the bed frame, my phone clattering to the floor. The light spins wildly before settling, casting bizarre shadows that make the intruder seem even larger, more monstrous.
“Careful,” says a deep, masculine voice I recognize from somewhere. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
The man steps forward, bending to retrieve my phone, but I get to it first. He chuckles darkly as though me having it doesn’t change anything as far as he’s concerned.
When he straightens, I shine the light, so it illuminates his face from below, creating harsh shadows that accentuate the sharp angle of his jaw and the straight line of his nose. Recognition slams into me like a physical blow.
Raffaele Russo.
The Debt Collector, as he’s called in hushed whispers here in Little Italy. The man who breaks kneecaps and ruins lives for the Russo family. His reputation definitely precedes him, and I know his presence here isn’t a good thing.
And… damn. Having the phone isn’t going to help. Not when I’m up against one of the four men who rule Cleveland so completely that even the police answer to them.