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He gives me a soft smile. “I apologize for the hour.”

“We’re closed.”

“Yes.” He nods, agreeing with me. “I know. On Sundays, you close at three, and on holidays you don’t open at all, but you are always here anyway. That is a hard habit, I think. My wife had it. They say no one dies wishing they had worked more while they were alive, but she was the exception that proves the rule.”

Behind him, past the glass, there’s a black car double-parked with its hazards on and a man leaning against the front fender, not looking at anything in particular.

I stay where I am, behind the counter. My sense of alarm is prickling at the back of my neck. “How did you get in?”

“The door was unlocked.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Then perhaps I am mistaken.” He gives me another polite nod. “May I sit? My hip does not enjoy the cold.”

“Who are you?”

“My name, Ms. Dorsey, is Osip Vetrov. I believe you may have heard of me.”

I’ve heard that name from the other side of an office door on New Year’s Day when Niko was talking too loud in a hallway. I didn’t know what it meant then, but I know a little more now.

Alisa Vetrova’s father. Owner of the chop shop in Brighton Beach. Puppet-master behind the rented truck that took out my curb. And the health inspector, the two dozen cancellation emails, the men in suits with the folder offering to buy my bakery for an insulting price.

Something else that Mr. Vetrov here must have been responsible for suddenly occurs to me.

“You gave it to my sister,” I say. “All that stuff. The information.”

He pulls out one of the little café chairs, sets his hat on the table, and lowers himself down with a small grunt. “Yes. I did that.”

“Get out of my shop.”

“In a moment.”

“No, not ‘in a moment.’ Now.”

“Ms. Dorsey.” He folds his hands on the table. His knuckles are enormous and knotted. “You are angry at me. That is correct. You should be. I broke your curb and frightened your customers and many other unfriendly things besides. I did all of that because I wanted this building, and I could not have it, and I was impatient.”

My jaw drops. “You’re admitting all that?”

“There is no point in denying facts to a woman as bright as yourself.”

I refuse to let him charm me. I lock my hands around the edge of the counter and squeeze.

“Say what you came to say, please, so we can fast-forward to the part where you leave.”

“Thank you.” He reaches into his coat, takes out a slim envelope, and sets it on the table, then leaves it there. He doesn’t push it toward me. “First, an accounting, so that you know I am not going to lie to you. I have wanted this waterfront for a long time now. I was in no particular hurry, so I moved slowly. It was foolish on my part, certainly. Because a mystery man began to buy my parcels out from under me. It was like a ghost moving your things around in a haunted house. All these shell companies… Harrow Nine, Bright Anchor, the list goes on. I was bamboozled, and all my research couldn’t quite prove what was happening. It took a very frightened man to put the pieces together for me. I believe you know him. Your husband.”

“Ex-husband,” I correct without thinking.

“Ex-husband. My apologies.” He touches his chest sympathetically. “If that all sounds like a preamble to a threat, I assure you it is not. I’m coming to you with a mutually beneficial solution.”

I snort. “I’ve heard that before. I won’t fall for the same garbage twice.”

“Hear me out before you render judgment, please.” He taps the envelope he pulled out with one thick finger. “You have been the victim of a crime, Ms. Dorsey. Your name is on a guaranty you did not sign. I’ve seen it myself. It is a good forgery, but it will not survive an expert. If you could afford one, you’d already be clear of all this nastiness.”

I squint at him. “You’ve been in my business.”

Vetrov turns his water-colored eyes up at me. “Please, please, let’s not be hasty. I promise you will like where this all leads.”