“Tomorrow—”
“We’ll be happy to open for you tonight if you need anything,” Sabrina says, interrupting me. “We wouldn’t want to stand in the way of any cravings you might have.”
My head snaps toward my sister. What in the world? There’s no way I’m opening the bakery tonight.
Sabrina snaps her fingers like an idea just hit her. “Didn’t you bake something with cinnamon yesterday?” she asks me. When I nod, she continues, “You probably shouldn’t eat all the cakes yourself. So you could pack some up for Raven.”
Oh God, this is mortifying. If I were a believer, I’d pray for the floor to open and swallow me whole right now.
Raven’s eyes widen in surprise while her mouth sets in a firm slant. “Did you just call me fat?” she asks, looking pointedly at Sabrina. “Because I’ll have you know that preggo or not, I’ll eat all the cakes I want to.”
I swallow down a giggle as Sabrina’s face grows red and she sputters, “W-what? No, of course I’m not.” Said mirth dies whenmy sister gestures at me. “I was talking about Alina. I mean, look at her.”
Rather than relaxing, Raven looks thunderous. Her gaze darts to me, but I discreetly shake my head. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Alina,” she says, her tone kind despite the look of murder in her eyes. With a final pointed non-acknowledgment of Sabrina, she returns to Matteo’s side.
“Rude,” Sabrina hisses. “I wasn’t callingherfat.”
I clamp my jaw, resisting the urge to tell my sister to dial it back. That’s not her style, and me telling her will just make matters worse. If Mom were still alive, she’d tell me silence is golden, and that it’s not worth antagonizing my sister.
“Miss Brewer.” Remus Russo’s deep voice pulls me from my thoughts. He stands before us, inclining his head slightly. “Both Miss Brewers. Please accept my condolences. Your mom was an asset to this neighborhood.”
“Thank you, Mr. Russo,” I reply.
“You plan on keeping the bakery running?” he asks, though it doesn’t sound like a question. Not really.
“Yes, sir. We’re opening tomorrow, regular hours,” I confirm.
He nods, approval in the gesture. “Good. Stability matters in difficult times.” His gaze flicks between me and Sabrina. “Your mom understood community. The way she extended credit to those who needed it, the day-old bread that somehow always found its way to the shelter.” A pause. “Such generosity is remembered.”
The weight of his words settles over me. In Russo-speak, this is both acknowledgment and protection. Mom had always said the bakery survived hard times because she understood the unwritten rules of Little Italy.
“She’d be pleased you came,” I say.
“Respect is given where it’s earned,” Remus replies simply.
“Are you joining us for the burial?” Sabrina asks, her tone sugary as she finally joins the conversation.
Straightening, Remus declines before rejoining his family.
My sister lets out a breath when he’s out of earshot. “God, they’re intense.” She sounds half-frightened, half-thrilled.
I don’t answer. I’m too busy noticing how my grief feels momentarily steadied by the certainty that some things—like the bakery’s place in this community—will remain undisturbed.
“Right, let’s get to the burial,” my sister says. “I hope you’ve taken care of everything the way Mom would have wanted it.”
I bite the inside of my cheek as I just nod.
Mom’s casket will be placed next to Dad’s, just like she wanted. It’s fitting that they share their last resting place since both their deaths share a cause. The biggest difference is that Dad’s was a suicide. But... I shake my head. Today isn’t about cause and effect. It’s about saying goodbye.
The funeral reception is a blur of black clothes and lowered voices. I move through the funeral home’s gathering space like a ghost, touching glasses to make sure they’re full, collecting forgotten napkins, nodding at appropriate moments when someone catches my eye.
No one really sees me, though. They’re all focused on Sabrina, who’s positioned herself perfectly in the center of the room, a black-clad beacon drawing every sympathetic gaze. I tell myself it doesn’t matter. What matters is making sure Mom’s sendoff is perfect. What matters is the work.
The gathering space is tasteful but impersonal—muted beige walls, inoffensive artwork, chairs arranged in conversationalgroupings. The catering staff I hired keeps trying to make eye contact, silently asking for directions. I nod toward the depleting tray of finger sandwiches, then gesture to the coffee station where the cream pitcher sits empty. They understand. At least someone does.
My stomach growls, reminding me I’ve had nothing since the dry toast I forced down at five this morning. The hunger is distant, though, easier to ignore than the pinching of my too-tight dress or the ache spreading up from my feet. I’ve been standing for hours, moving constantly, making sure everyone else is comfortable while I slowly dissolve into background noise.
Mrs. Craster from two streets over catches my arm as I pass. “Such a lovely service,” she says, but her eyes are already drifting past me to where Sabrina stands, dabbing carefully at her eyes with a handkerchief.
