Of course.
I shove the door open and spot it on the edge of the sink, screen lit up like a beacon.Unknown number.
My stomach drops.
Unknown numbers are usually from burners from my crew, someone’s dead.
I swipe to answer. “Hello?”
“Ayla Smith?”
The voice is deep, accented.Russian.
My blood goes cold.
“Who is this?”
“Ivan. Smash and Sugar.”
I blink, trying to force my brain to catch up. The big guy. The manager who turned me down flat.
“Oh, hi.”
“We have an opening,” he says. “Can you starttoday?”
I freeze, phone pressed to my ear, staring at my reflection in the mirror. Dark circles under my eyes. Hair a mess. Dried blood under my fingernails that I definitely need to scrub out.
Yesterday I patched up the Pakhan of the Bratva.
Now his bakery wants to hire me.
This is a trap.Has to be.
“Today?” My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
“Eight AM. Training shift. You come, you work, we see if you fit.”
I glance at my phone. 5:47 AM.
“Okay, thank—”
The line goes dead.
***
The drive takes twelve minutes. My car miraculously still works. I park across the street—same spot as yesterday, which feels like tempting fate, and kill the engine.
My hands are shaking.
I grip the steering wheel harder, force myself to breathe.
This is what Gabriel wanted. What he threatened my crew over. What he’ll kill Santi for if I don’t deliver. I get out.
The bakery lights glow warm through the windows. Safe. Inviting. A lie.
Inside, the smell hits me—butter, sugar, yeast. Something baking. My stomach twists with hunger I’ve been ignoring for days.
Behind the counter stands a blonde girl, all smiles and curves and far too awake for dawn.
