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Oh, how I enjoy saying that.

“I’ve got all the paperwork right in front of me,” I go on. “Formalized as of Wednesday. The lien is released, the guaranty is voided, and I’m holding proof of intent to forge. The title is all mine, free and clear.”

I hear him move. A creak, and then a small grunt like the one he made lowering himself into my café chair.

“He gave it away,” Osip says.

“He gave it back,” I correct. “It was mine to begin with.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. Hm. Ms. Dorsey… Do you understand what he has done?”

“He blew up his own thing. Yeah. I told him it was a waste and he agreed with me. But I’m not exactly gonna stop him.”

“No.” His voice takes a dark turn that sends chills skittering through me. “Ms. Dorsey, listen to an old man for thirty seconds. After that, you may hang up on me and I will not call you again. Kane Makov spent twenty years and many, many millions on that corridor. It is worth ten times assembled what it is worth in pieces. Without your lot, it is essentially worthless.”

“I’m aware.”

“You are not aware,” he snaps. “People in our world will learn of this. And do you think that will be the end of things? Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. You sweet, naive little fool. He didn’t save you; he damned you.”

I feel cold and shaky. “What are you talking about?”

“He has told every man in Brighton Beach exactly what you are worth to him, and it is a number so large it embarrasses me.”

I hold my breath. “Are you threatening me, Mr. Vetrov?”

“No, my dear. I am valuing you properly for the very first time.” He laughs in a way I don’t like one bit. “We’ll be speaking again soon, I’m sure. Take care.”

49

DELILAH

The line clicks and he’s gone.

I stand there with the phone against my ear for longer than I need to, listening to nothing. I’m scared, and I think of being alone in the shop at two in the morning, when the ice machine drops a load and you think somebody’s come in the back door to murder you in a way that will make some future Netflix subscribers very happy.

I am valuing you properly for the very first time.

I put the phone down on the café table.

Then I pick up his envelope and the card inside it with the neat blue numbers. I fold both in half, then again, and put them in the trash under the coffee filters and the balled-up newspaper I used on the case.

Old men love to hear themselves talk. My father could turn a burnt-out taillight into a lecture about the decline of American manufacturing. Osip Vetrov came into my shop, got told no, and had to leave with something in his hand, even if all he had left was a scary sentence.

That’s when I decide something, standing at the trash can with the lid still swinging.

I’m not going to spend Easter Sunday scared in my own building.

So I go into the walk-in, get four lemons and a block of butter, and I make lemon bars, which is what I make when I need to remember who I am. The shortbread base and the curd on top, powdered sugar over the whole tray after it cools. I eat two of them standing up at the steel table and then I take the rest home in a box.

There, in the comfort of my own living room, I open the bottle of prosecco I’ve had in the fridge since New Year’s and drink two glasses in front of the television with my feet up.

It’s not the celebration I pictured. But it’s mine. That’s good enough.

On April eighth, Skye calls me at the shop to tell me the divorce is final, filed, and entered.

“You’re unmarried,” she says. “Congratulations. Your life is yours again.”

The house in Sheepshead Bay is mine, too. Sole title, no claim on it. The bakery is mine, free and clear, and the title report that says so is in the safe where only I can reach it. Connor is at his father’s place in Bay Ridge and has no right to my equipment or my recipes or my last name, which he never had anyway. My mother has left four voicemails since Palm Sunday. I’ve listened to two of them, both times while doing dishes, but I haven’t bothered to call back.