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I grew up fluent in the language of men like him. I know what the scars on his knuckles mean. I know what the military-grade locks on his door and the empty walls in his apartment add up to. I know, and I went home with him anyway, and the worst part is I would do every single second of it again.
Get a grip, Neve," I say it out loud because no one else is here to do it for me. "One night. You gave yourself one night. It's done. Time to move on.”
I pull the dough into rounds, press each one into a tart pan, and spoon the apple filling into the shells. Sliced Granny Smiths tossed with cinnamon, nutmeg, brown sugar, and a generous splash of vanilla. My father's recipe. The only inheritance I ever wanted from him.
The second tray goes into the oven. I set the timer and pour myself coffee from the pot I brewed an hour ago. Strong enough to dissolve a spoon, which is exactly what four a.m. requires.
Dad died fourteen months ago. Heart attack, the official report said. I have my doubts about the official report, but I keep those doubts in a locked box in the back of my brain along with everything else I know about his world and refuse to engage with. The lawyers came three days after the funeral with leather briefcases and a number attached to a bank account that made my vision blur.
He left everything to me. His only blood daughter. The sole heir to a criminal empire I wanted nothing to do with when he was alive and less now that he is gone.
I signed over what I could. Declined the rest. Moved into the apartment above this bakery and started hauling fifty-pound bags of flour up a narrow staircase at three in the morning because the only thing that quieted the grief was the smell of cinnamon and the discipline of a four a.m. alarm. You can’t think when you’re weighed down in work. At least that is what I’ve learned.
Some daughters carry their father's legacy in boardrooms and corner offices. I carry mine in apple tarts and the muscle memory of his kitchen, flour on my face and clothes the way blood used to stain his.
He thought he hid his world from me, but I saw. I saw everything. Even the coldheartedness of the woman he married when Mom passed from illness.
I force my thoughts to the back of my mind and focus on work.
By six, the display case is full. Apple tarts, cinnamon rolls with cream cheese frosting, brown butter blondies, and the cranberry-orange scones I've been experimenting with this month. I flip the sign on the front door from closed to open and throw the deadbolt.
Frank is first. He's always first.
"Morning, sweetheart." The retired widowed firefighter slides onto his usual stool at the counter with his newspaper tucked under his arm and reading glasses perched on the end of a ruddy nose. He smells like Old Spice and cold morning air and he has claimed the stool at the end of the counter every single day since I opened.
"Morning, Frank. Apple tart and a black coffee?"
He winks. "You spoil me, Neve."
"Someone has to." I pour his coffee and slide the tart onto a small white plate, setting both in front of him. He unfolds his paper and settles in with a contented sigh. We don't need to fill the silence. That's the beauty of regulars. They show up, they sit, they eat. No performance required from either side.
Teresa and her sister Camille come in at six-fifteen. They split a cinnamon roll and two lattes and gossip in rapid bursts about their neighbor's new boyfriend, their mother's church drama, and something about a parking ticket that apparently constitutes an act of war. I listen from behind the counter while I wipe down surfaces and restock napkins, offering the occasional laugh at the right moment.
Teresa catches me smiling and points a manicured nail in my direction. "You need to get out more, honey. A gorgeous girl like you shouldn't spend every waking moment in this kitchen."
If she only knew.
"I get out plenty, Teresa." I answer with a smooth lie with a side of eye contact. "Besides, the kitchen doesn't steal the covers or leave the toilet seat up. I’m all good."
Camille snorts into her latte. "Neither does my husband. At least the kitchen is useful."
The three of us crack up and the warmth of it hums through me. This is what I built. Regular people with regular problems who come for coffee and pastries and easy conversations that doesn't carry the weight of bloodlines, criminal empires or who gets to keep the billion-dollar inheritance.
By eight, the morning rush rolls through. College students with earbuds and open laptops camp out at the counter. A construction crew in reflective vests grabs pastries and large coffees to go, dropping cash in the tip jar with calloused hands. Mrs. Delgado from the dry cleaning shop next door stops in for her usual scone and tells me in rapid Spanish that her grandson made the dean's list.
"Felicidades, Mrs. D. Tell that boy I said he better keep it up if he wants a free scone every morning."
She beams, squeezes my flour-dusted hand across the counter, and heads back to work with her scone wrapped in a paper napkin along with a free one for her grandson.
My phone rings at nine-thirty. The rush has thinned. Frank is gone. Teresa and Camille are gone. A young couple lingers in the corner booth sharing a blondie and looking at each other like the rest of the world is optional. Good for them. I remember that look and how it made me feel like I was worth more than gold.
I look at my phone and the name on my screen tightens my stomach into a fist.
Vivienne.
I wipe my hands on my apron and press the phone to my ear. "Good morning, Vivienne."
"Neve, darling. I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time." Her voice is silk pulled taut over a razor’s deadly edge. Sweet, warm, polished to a shine. Every syllable placed with care from years spent performing faux affection so flawlessly that most people never catch onto the cold undertones.
