Page 177 of Sweet Ruin

“Something tells me you already know about this morning,” I reply.

“I know what Yuri told me. Now, I want it from you.”

In broad strokes, I give him the rundown. I gloss over the details—like the various animals I was compared to—because I get the feeling that if I spend too much time elaborating on them, there might be a dead body wrapped in a Moncler jacket found buried in the marshes sometime soon.

When I finish, Kane’s response is immediate: “I’m putting a man on your door.”

“You already have men on my door,” I tell him. “They come in and buy cookies.”

“That’s different. I want one outside. Not a customer. Someone standing on the sidewalk between eight and close, and one on the back door in the mornings while you’re in here alone.”

I open my mouth to argue.

Then I think about Cameron’s arm over his face. Cameron is twenty-two. He puts half his paycheck toward a car he hasn’t bought yet and he takes the bus in from Woodhaven to get to work.

He deserves to feel safe.

“Okay,” I say.

Kane’s eyebrows go up a fraction of an inch. “That was easier than usual.”

“Don’t get used to it.” I go back to wiping the counter. “One rule, though: Your guys aren’t allowed to hassle my customers. And for God’s sake, they need to smile. He can’t sulk around looking like he’s guarding a funeral. It’s a bakery. People bring their kids.”

“That’s two rules,” Kane says.

“Don’t sass me. I’ve had a day.”

Kane’s mouth twitches. He picks his gloves back up. “Fine. One smiling Bratva guard at your front door.”

Which is when I remember the other thing I’ve been meaning to bring up for two weeks.

I fold the rag and set it down. “Since you’re here. I want to talk to you about your people.”

“What about them?”

“They’re in here every single day.”

“Is that an issue?”

“Every day, Kane. Yuri buys cookies. Igor buys jam pastries. There’s a man with a neck tattoo who orders four cinnamon rolls and eats them standing at the window like he’s guarding them. Yesterday, somebody bought two whole poppy seed cakes at seven in the morning and paid with a hundred and wouldn’t take change.”

“That would be Mikhail. He has grandchildren.”

“That’s not the point.” I lean my hip on the case. “The point is I know what this is. You told them to come. You’ve got fifty guys buying pastries to prop up my numbers so I feel good about myself, and I’m not—” I stop and swallow. “I don’t want to be a charity.”

Kane’s eyes cloud over. “You think I ordered my men to buy your food?”

“It sounds like something you would do, doesn’t it?”

“I did not order anyone to do anything,” he says. “After Christmas, they asked me where the food came from. All I did was give them the address. They did the rest themselves, and they’d have done it even if I’d never met you.”

I stare at him, a little bit at a loss for words.

“They come back,” he continues, “because it’s good. Because you’re good. Not to make me happy or because of some chain of fucking command.”

The espresso machine hisses in the quiet.

“Oh,” I say.