Cologne thick as solvent.
The kind of man who tries to smell expensive but ends up smelling like he’s hiding something rotting underneath.
I straighten slowly.
He’s already at the counter.
Not looking at the pastries.
Not looking at Noah.
Looking at me.
“Vitka.” He says it with a smile like a blade.
My stomach drops.
“No customers call me that,” I say quietly.
He taps a manicured finger on the glass, ignoring the warning in my voice.
“Boss says you’ve been… distant.”
Noah goes perfectly still behind me.
The man slips something from his coat.
Not openly, just a ghost of movement, and tucks it under the register like we’re sharing a secret.
A thick envelope.
Cream paper.
Sealed in red.
My pulse spikes.
“I don’t,” I start.
He cuts me off with a slight tilt of his head. “She says you’ll know where to put it.”
A threat, wrapped in courtesy.
I swallow.
His smile widens, too many teeth. “And Vitka? She misses your punctuality.”
Then he turns.
No purchase.
No goodbye.
Just strolls out the door like he’s dropping off a birthday card and not a warning.
The bell jingles again.
The sound hits me like cold water.
