Chapter 4 - The Bakery Counter at 4:00 AM and the Trap That Almost Sprang Too Soon
The heavy metal security gate of Aunt Millie’s Bakery rolled upward with a loud, grinding screech that made Nora’s hangover throb in time with the gears.
It was 4:15 on Sunday morning.
Outside, the South Boston streets were dark, slick with a fresh layer of freezing mist, and completely deserted except for a nondescript black sedan parked three doors down near the corner newsstand.
Sam was sitting in the driver’s seat, pretending to read a newspaper held upside down, while Vincent stood just inside the bakery doorway, his tall frame dwarfing the glass display case filled with yesterday’s leftover cinnamon rolls.
"This is a terrible idea," Nora muttered, tying her flour-dusted apron around her waist and reaching for the giant fifty-pound bag of unbleached flour near the industrial mixer. "If Gordon Pike sees you standing in my bakery, he’s going to call the board of health, the Pope, and the FBI."
"Gordon Pike is currently tied to a radiator in the basement of a chop shop in Charlestown rethinking his life choices," Vincent observed casually, leaning against the counter and watching her hands move with practiced, efficient grace.
Nora stopped, a scoop of flour hovering over the mixing bowl.
"You didn't."
"He was an informant for the O'Leary crew, Nora," Vincent said, his tone entirely unapologetic. "He’s the one who gave them your schedule, your home address, and told them which shift you’d be working alone tonight."
A cold wave of betrayal washed over Nora.
Gordon.
The greasy manager who had denied her birthday request three years in a row, who had docked her pay for being two minutes late, who had smiled at her while selling her out to a bunch of thugs for pocket change.
"I hated him," Nora whispered, dumping the flour into the basin with a soft poof of white dust. "I really, really hated him. But I didn't think he was evil. Just pathetic."
"Most evil in this city wears a cheap polyester tie and smells like stale coffee," Vincent replied, walking around the counter to stand right beside her.
His nearness was intoxicating.
Despite the flour dust coating the air and the smell of raw dough, Nora could still smell that faint, expensive trace of rain and cedarwood on his skin. She looked up, realizing he was standing entirely too close—close enough that she could see the tiny flecks of gold mixed into the dark brown of his irises.
"Why are you helping me, Vincent?" she asked again, her voice dropping to a low, breathless murmur as the silence between them stretched into something charged and electric. "Really helping me. You didn't have to bring me here. You didn't have to check on my apartment."
"I told you," he murmured, his gaze dropping slowly to her lips before returning to her eyes. "Your grandfather left a debt unpaid. And I’m a man who collects what’s owed."
"Is that all I am? A debt?"
Vincent’s hand reached out, his thumb gently tracing the line of her cheekbone, wiping away a smear of white flour with infinite care.
"No, Nora," he said, his voice husky and deep. "You stopped being a debt about five minutes after you poked me in the chest and told me my entourage looked like a boy band."
Nora’s breath caught in her throat.
Before she could formulate a witty comeback—or lean into the warmth of his hand—the front door bell of the bakery chimed with a sharp, cheerful ring.
Vincent moved away from her in a fraction of a second, his body shifting into tactical awareness as his hand slid smoothly beneath his coat toward his shoulder holster.
A man walked in through the glass door.
He wasn't wearing a gray jacket. He was wearing a heavy black winter parka with the hood pulled low over his forehead, carrying a white cardboard bakery box under one arm.
"Morning," the man said, his voice raspy and muffled. "I need two dozen plain bagels and a black coffee to go. Early shift down at the dry docks."
Nora froze behind the counter.
She recognized that voice.
It was the man from the alley behind the Velvet Room.
The runner who had tipped her tray and spilled the Pappy Van Winkle across Vincent’s suit.
Mason.
"We’re not open yet," Nora said, her hands shaking as she gripped the edge of the stainless-steel counter. "Come back in an hour."
Mason took two steps forward, the white cardboard box slipping slightly under his arm.
"Oh, come on, sweetheart," Mason sneered, his right hand dipping deep into the pocket of his heavy parka. "It’s your birthday. Let’s celebrate."
Vincent stepped out from the shadows near the walk-in cooler.
"Mason," Vincent said, his voice cutting through the bakery like a razor blade. "You’ve got terrible timing."
Mason didn't look surprised.
In fact, a ugly, desperate grin spread across his face as he pulled a snub-nosed revolver out of his pocket and leveled it straight at Vincent’s chest.
"Should've stayed in Beacon Hill, Hale," Mason snarled. "The boss wants the girl, and he wants the key. And if I have to put two slugs in you to get them, well... that’s just a bonus."
The gun was pointed at Vincent.
Not at her.
At Vincent.
May you like
Nora’s heart stopped.
Before Mason could pull the trigger, Nora grabbed the heavy ceramic container filled with wooden rolling pins off the counter and hurled it straight at his head.
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