Behind him, the bakery comes apart.
The display case explodes inward when one of the gang members drives a chair through it. Glass bursts across the floor in a glittering wave. Lemon tarts, almond twists, and cinnamon rolls collapse beneath shards. Someone screams. The refrigeration unit gives a dying electrical pop. Another man kicks the mural wall, leaving a muddy boot print across my grandmother’s painted Halo.
That breaks something in me.
“Hey!” I shove past Ron and grab the man’s jacket before he can kick the mural again. “Do not touch that wall.”
He turns, sneering, and shoves me backward. I hit the counter edge hard enough to send pain flashing through my ribs. Darlene snarls and tries to get around the register, but another gang member blocks her.
Ron raises his voice. “Easy, boys. We’re educating, not renovating.”
“They’re destroying my shop!”
“Yeah,” he says, still smiling. “That’s the lesson.”
The young couple bolts when the door clears. Mrs. Pell follows, sobbing into one hand. Mr. Eddison hesitates, furious and terrified, and I point at the door.
“Go,” I tell him.
“I’m not leaving you.”
“Go!”
He looks ashamed as he obeys, and I hate Ron for making him feel that way.
When the customers are gone, the gang’s energy shifts from performance to satisfaction. They have made their point. Theyhave scared the room empty. They have shown me what my no costs.
Ron steps close again, boots crunching on glass. “Here’s what happens next. Tomorrow, one of my people comes by. You give him the first payment. If you don’t, we come back when there are more people inside. Maybe someone gets hurt worse than furniture.”
I say nothing because I do not trust my voice.
He lowers his head slightly. “And if you send your Vakutan after me, I send ten boys to every person who eats here. Old man with the cane. Grocery lady. The little girl who hides behind her mom when your monster walks in. You understand?”
Fear slides cold beneath my anger. He sees it and smiles.
“There she is,” he murmurs. “Smart girl underneath all that sunshine.”
I spit in his face.
The room freezes.
Darlene whispers, “Oh, sweetheart.”
Ron closes his eyes slowly. Spit tracks down his cheek, cutting through the perfect polish of him. For a second, I think he is going to hit me. I lift my chin because if he does, I want him to see me refusing to bow.
He wipes his cheek with two fingers and looks at them.
Then he laughs.
Not loudly. Not kindly.
“You are something else,” he says. “No wonder he likes you.”
“He has better taste than you.”
Ron steps back, still laughing under his breath. “Tomorrow.”
He turns toward the door. His men follow, leaving muddy footprints, broken glass, overturned furniture, and terror behind them. One of them grabs a cinnamon roll from the ruined display case on the way out and takes a bite.
