Chapter 50 – Jade
JADE
I sigh, straightening from behind the bakery counter and finally—finally—letting myself stop and rest for a second.
It’s not impossible for me to run the shop all on my lonesome, even with the deluge of new customers Syd’s boy toys have magically summoned out of thin air for us. Hell, it’s not even all that difficult.
But it’s lonely. I miss my Syd when she’s not here. I miss our little furball, attacking my feet.
What’s the point of making the best damn pastries in the city if my best friend isn’t around to scarf them down with me at the end of a long workday? If she isn’t here to gossip with me over some fresh shortbread?
Whatever. Just means more stale cookies for me to eat for breakfast tomorrow, I suppose. I shouldn’t complain. It’s about damn time that girl got out and did something fun for a change.
Fuck, I could kill Chase for what he did to her. Not just the obvious things, the cheating, the systematic abuse, the stalking, but the little things too. He made her feel so small, so insignificant for so long, that she started to believe that was who she really was.
Now, finally, the Sydney I knew for so long before that dickhead showed up is coming back. And if it takes four different boyfriends to make that happen, who am I to judge?
Maybe together the five of us can convince her to make a habit of this.
She could start taking a night off every week, have some time for herself, go on real dates with them.
It wouldn’t be so bad to run the shop on my own for a few hours every week, not if it meant Sydney got to enjoy her life a little more.
Satisfied with that idea, and thinking I might just text Doc about it, I gather up the very last of the leftover pastries and start to box them up. I’m just slotting the last croissant into place when the bell above our shop entrance chimes, and the door opens.
Frowning, I turn. I’d locked the door when I’d closed earlier… Hadn’t I?
I don’t recognize the man who walks inside, which makes me think he’s never been a customer here before. A man like that stands out. Draws attention.
“Sorry, but we’re closed,” I say loudly, narrowing my eyes at him.
He’s older, maybe in his fifties. With a silver and wood cane in one hand, he steps slowly into the café, leaning heavily on the cane for support. His hair is slicked back, a golden blond just turning silver at the temples. He’s built like an athlete just past his prime.
He looks like trouble.
“A pity,” the man says with a tsk. He smiles at me, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve been meaning to stop by sooner. I’m looking for Sydney, actually. I went by her apartment, but she doesn’t seem to be home.”
“Sydney’s not here right now,” I tell him, taking a cautious step out from behind the counter, closer to him.
“More’s the pity.” He lets out a long, tired breath. “Do you know where she is, dear?”
My hackles raise at anyone, let alone this stranger, calling me dear. I don’t try to hide my reaction as I shake my head. “No. I don’t,” I say firmly. “And I don’t want to be rude, but you need to leave. We’re closed. That door should be locked, and—”
Still smiling that empty, blank smile, he opens his hand, holding it out to show me a set of keys nestled in his palm.
“Perks of ownership,” he tells me, as I stare down at them.
“Wait… You’re the new owner?” I ask, confused. He certainly looks rich enough. But does that mean it wasn’t one of Syd’s boys who purchased our building?
“I have that pleasure, yes.” He chuckles, and the sound of it sets my nerves on edge and makes the hair on the back of my neck rise.
Something’s wrong, something doesn’t feel right about any of this.
Moving the keys to his other hand—the one holding his cane—he stretches his hand out to me, inviting me to shake it.
“You can call me Dante, dear,” he says.
It’s rude to leave him standing there, with his arm outstretched, leaning heavily on his cane, but I can’t bring myself to reach out and touch him. I’m frozen, something that feels an awful lot like fear creeping up my spine.
But then he shifts a little, and his leg shakes. He winces, as though in pain, doubling over and dropping his keys to the ground in the process. “Ah!” he cries out, hunched over himself. The cane shakes under his weight.
Fuck. I’m an asshole.
“Here,” I offer, stepping forward and bending down to pick up his keys from where they’ve landed. “Let me get those, I—”
At least I block the first hit.
The moment I bend over, Dante raises his cane and brings it down hard, aiming for my head. I manage to get my arm up just in time, screaming as the blow connects with bone.
The pain is unbearable. I crumple to my knees, cradling my arm against my chest and sobbing. Frantically, I try to get up, to scramble to my feet.
I can’t move fast enough to block the next blow. It takes me hard on the side of the head, and everything goes fuzzy as I hit the ground.
It takes a while for me to lose consciousness. And before I do, I recognize the smell of gasoline.
And smoke.