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He drops his hand from the map in surprise. “You decided that? Like, for sure?”

“I decided it before she agreed to the holidays.”

“And you neglected to mention it?”

“I told her she can keep the bakery if she fulfills the agreement.”

“Well, that’s an interesting turn of events.” Niko pulls out a chair and sits back down. “Care to explain your reasoning there?”

I grimace. I’m sick of this conversation, but I’ll never hear the end of it if I don’t give him at least one satisfying morsel to chew on.

“If I tell her now, she will hear another threat. I engineered Connor’s loan because I wanted her property. I knew he would default. I intended to enforce against her. She hears that while I still own the debt, and she will hear pressure in every word.”

“She won’t be wrong, either.”

“But after Easter,” I continue, “once the hold over her is gone, I’ll tell her the truth, and it’ll all just seem like a bad dream.”

He rubs his hands over his face like I’m exasperating him. “Then why go to all this trouble, Kane? All these holidays and whatever else you’re planning? Why not just rip up the papers now, call it a day, and move on with your life?”

Because I’ve tasted the sweetness on her lips, I think to myself.

And I can’t let her go until I’ve had more.

28

DELILAH

Ah, the joys of 4:00 A.M.

You never fully get used to it, I’ve learned. No matter how many years I’ve spent getting up at the witching hour to shovel grumpy piles of dough into my oven, I almost always still long for the sweet embrace of my bed.

Not today, though.

Today, I sprang up like I’d been electrocuted. Eyes pinged open. Every nerve ending was up and at ‘em.

Because today is Bratva Christmas.

That’s what I’m calling it, at least. I doubt Kane would appreciate the title.

It’s kinda accurate, though. Technically, it’s Russian Orthodox Christmas, but since I’ll be celebrating it with the kingpin of the Brooklyn Bratva and (presumably) all his many friends and followers, I think my name works well.

Why am I up at 4:00 A.M. for a party that starts in, let’s see… sixteen hours from now?

“Anxiety” is the first answer.

“A metric fuck-ton of food” is the second.

I’d never, ever, not in a million years show up empty-handed to a dinner.

But I’m especially not gonna show up empty-handed to a dinner attended by a bunch of people who break kneecaps for a living.

Therefore, I’ve prepared a feast that will likely inflict diabetes or at least severe carb-induced sleepiness on every person within a ten-block radius.

We’ve got:

A twelve-layer honey cake tall enough that the local architectural and zoning committees would probably require that I file for a permit

Four sheet pans of poppy seed and orange rolls