Page 176

This is a literal, actual, feral bear growl. Like, the carnivorous version.

It’s so strange and shocking that it actually gets through to the Instagram Live Idiot standing in the middle of my bakery. He glances back, sees Yuri…

… and then makes a very poor choice.

“What’re you?” he taunts. “Her security?”

Yuri’s gaze stays on the man, even when he speaks out of the side of his mouth to me. “Ms. Dorsey? May I?”

A request.

Mine to grant or refuse.

The old Delilah would try to make this smaller. She’d laugh so everyone else could relax, then offer the man a cookie on his way out. Maybe she’d even apologize for upsetting him.

Do-It-All Delilah, now providing complimentary emotional support to people who call her livestock.

New Delilah says, Fuck that.

“Please remove him, Yuri.”

Yuri smiles.

It is definitely not a friendly little smile.

He moves before Livestream Larry can react.

One second, the phone is six inches from my nose. The next, Yuri has the guy’s wrist folded neatly behind his back and his cheek pressed against the glass case. The raspberry thumbprints tremble on their doilies.

“Hey!” the man yelps. “Get off me!”

“You were asked nicely,” Yuri sighs.

The phone clatters onto the counter. Igor catches it before it can hit the floor. With one thumb, he ends the livestream, then leaves it beside the tip jar.

Yuri marches the man toward the door. “I know my rights!” he shrieks, sneakers skidding uselessly over the tile.

“So does Ms. Dorsey.”

At the threshold, the man grabs the doorframe.

Yuri peels his fingers off one at a time until the man is forced to relinquish his grip.

There is a brief, ugly thunk when Moncler meets metal frame as Yuri drags him through the doorway. Then Yuri and his new friend disappear from the bakery and around the corner.

I’m sure they’re just gonna have a nice little chat. Man-to-man.

It takes a second for normal life to resume, but eventually, it does. Priya restarts the espresso machine. Cameron lowers his arm from his face. I straighten the raspberry thumbprints.

“Next customer,” I call. “And just so you know, there’s a new rule: Recording incurs a twenty-percent asshole surcharge.”

The line starts moving again.

No one dares to give me a hard time.

At twenty to five, when the case is down to one sad cheese danish, Priya and Jolene have both gone home, and Cameron is mopping, the bell over the door rings and Kane walks in.

He’s in his usual uniform: black coat, black gloves, snow on his shoulders. He goes to the end of the counter, sets his gloves down, and says, “Tell me about this morning.”