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I’ll gut him myself before I let that happen.

I keep an eye on things as the week progresses.

On Monday, both deliveries arrive. Bay Mill at seven, Corrado’s at ten past nine. Delilah stands in the alley in her apron with a clipboard and counts every pallet before she signs.

By noon, the case is full and the ovens are running. Delilah is happy, and I’m almost ready to start breathing easy again.

That fragile peace lasts until Tuesday morning.

The health inspector comes in without warning. This is a new hire, one nobody in the building has ever seen before. Certainly not one I’ve bribed in the past.

From what Niko can gather via frantic calls to everyone we own inside the NYC Health Department, an anonymous caller reported mice in the dry storage area, spoiled dairy in the walk-in, and sewage beneath the sinks.

Those allegations are bullshit. But it only takes one foul-tempered inspector to turn them into a suspension of Delilah’s license to operate while they investigate further.

I’m at the corner in the car when he goes in. I sit there for two hours with my hands on my knees doing nothing.

In the end, she passes.

But only because she’s that fucking good at what she does.

Yuri, seated inside, is texting me live reports as the inspection unfolds. From what he tells me, Lilah handed the man a three-ring binder with twelve months of sanitation logs initialed daily, a printout of the walk-in and freezer temperature records off the digital logger, and the pest control contract with the last six service reports stapled behind it.

That doesn’t mean he goes easy on her. He swabs. He checks behind the mixer and climbs on a stool to peer at the top of the hood. He finds one mistake, a cracked gasket on the reach-in, and gives her ten days to fix it.

But the damage is minimal. She lives to fight another day.

She comes out to the sidewalk after he leaves. It’s not that cold out as February fades, but she’s shaking so hard she has to hold her own elbows.

“Anonymous complaint,” she spits. “What a load of crap. You know what he told me? He said they get maybe two of those a year on a place like mine. Two a year!”

“You passed, though.”

“Yeah, because I’m a psycho who initials a log sheet every night at close.” She laughs and shakes her head in disgust. “Kane, if he’d come in on a Saturday in December, when there’s nine hundred cookies on every surface in this building and Cameron’s crying in the alley⁠—”

“He didn’t, though. You’re fine. Everything is going to be fine from now on.”

But I’m wrong about that.

The emails start that afternoon.

Somebody set up an address one character off from hers—an rn where the m goes, the oldest trick there is—and sent cancellations to two dozen booked customers.

We regret to inform you that, due to circumstances, we are unable to fulfill your order. Your deposit will be refunded.

Jolene only catches it because a woman calls in crying about her mother’s ruined ninetieth birthday.

Delilah pulls the order book. The physical one, not the software. Then she sits at the front counter with a landline handset against her ear for four straight hours and calls every single one of those customers, one at a time, and begs for their forgiveness.

“This is Delilah Dorsey, the owner. That email did not come from us. Your order is live. Read me your date and your name off your receipt and I’ll confirm it out loud.”

Most of them keep the order. Two are already angry at something else in their lives and want their money back. Delilah absorbs their rage, refunds them in full without arguing, and thanks them for their business.

Then she goes into the office and closes the door.

I let her have a few minutes to compose herself before I go in.

She’s sitting on the new steel cot with her hands over her face. “Somebody is doing this,” she says through her fingers. “Suppliers don’t quit the same week inspectors show up and emails start coming from a fake address. This is deliberate.”