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“Talk about what?” Harry probed, as Gio tried unsuccessfully to nudge Harry toward his apartment again.
“They think we are hiding someone here. That we are all conspiring to do so. I don’t know the details, just that it is not true. We are not the ones who hide people.”
“But someone does?” Harry clamped a hand down on Gio’s should and easily spun him around. “They are looking for someone? Someone being hidden?”
“We must leave this alone,” Gio said with the shake of his head. “I’ve got to go.” He dropped his shoulder low to break free of Harry’s grip and took three large steps back. As Harry advanced toward the bakery where the man on the motorcycle just entered, Gio gasped.
“Where are you going?”
“I suddenly have a deep desire for a loaf of bread.”
CHAPTER 3
The bell above the bakery door jingled mockingly as Harry stepped inside, the cozy warmth of the ovens battling against the cold tension that filled the room. The look of fresh dough and sweet pastries was undercut by a sharper picture—the fear gripping the room tightly.
The baker, a stout man with flour dusting his apron and terror in his eyes, was pinned against the wall. The muscles in his neck strained against the iron grip of a man whose presence screamed danger. This supposed investigator, the American Gio had warned him about, was a stark contrast to the homely ambiance of the bakery. Dressed in a leather jacket that did little to conceal the bulk of his muscled frame, he glared at the baker with eyes as hard as the cobblestones outside.
"You're going to tell me what I want to know," the American growled, his voice a low rumble of barely contained violence. “Her phone pinged in this area. Somewhere around here. I want to know where she is.”
“Who?” the baker choked out. “I don’t know what you want.”
Harry's entrance had yet to draw their attention, the scene before him perfectly painting the picture Gio had been tryingto express. He cleared his throat, injecting a note of nonchalant curiosity into his voice.
"I heard the bread here was worth dying for, but this is a bit extreme for fresh ciabatta, don't you think?" He smiled what his friends would call a shit-eating grin, and waited for the man to turn around.
The investigator's head snapped toward Harry, releasing the baker who gasped and slumped to the floor, clutching at his throat. Harry kept his expression neutral, the faintest flash of fire in his eyes.
"Who the hell are you?" the man spat, squaring his shoulders as he assessed Harry as a new threat. “You’re American? What are you doing here?”
"Name's Mr. Bellini,” Harry said, extending his hand as if they were at a cocktail party, not in the midst of an intimidation tactic gone awry. "I'm a writer looking for local flavor, but it seems I've stumbled upon something a bit more... zesty."
The investigator eyed Harry's hand but didn't take it, his suspicion evident. "No one comes here. This is not a spot for visitors. The journey is not worth it.”
“You’re here,” Harry said, gesturing to the man. “And that accent is more Texan than Tuscan,” Harry quipped, withdrawing his unshaken hand.
“Don’t worry why I am here. Just be on your way. I have business with this man. He is hiding a girl. A woman. She might be in danger.”
"Is she behind the panna cotta? Because if not, this place is pretty small. I don’t think there is anyone hiding anywhere.”
“It’s not your business. It’s mine. I’m hired to find her. These people, they know something.”
“Judging by the looks of it, they know a lot about cannoli. But what do I know? I'm just passing through, documenting the small joys of Italian life. Now, if you wouldn't mind"—hegestured towards the baker—"I'd like to purchase a loaf of bread, assuming there are any left unscathed by the... interrogation."
The investigator’s gaze flickered to the baker, who cowered behind the counter, and then back to Harry. "This doesn't concern you," he warned again, but there was a slight shift in his stance, an unspoken acknowledgment that Harry's interruption had changed the dynamic.
"I don’t know about that. It’s pretty concerning for a man your size to be choking an innocent baker with these bullshit interrogation tactics. If you think they’re hiding a woman here, call the authorities. I’m sure if you’re right, they’ll handle it. Otherwise, you’re just some macho asshole getting your rocks off by shoving around innocent people.”
The standoff hung between them, a delicate balance that could tip with a word or a wrong move. Harry kept his posture relaxed, the image of a curious tourist firmly in place, but beneath the surface, his muscles were tensed, ready to react.
After a moment that stretched taut with tension, the investigator huffed a laugh that held no humor. "Enjoy your stay, Mr. Bellini," he said, his tone suggesting anything but. With a final warning glare at the baker, he shouldered past Harry and out of the bakery, leaving a trail of unease in his wake.
The baker, regaining some semblance of composure, stood up shakily, his eyes wide with gratitude as he met Harry's gaze. "Grazie," he murmured. "Grazie mille."
Harry nodded, moving to the counter and selecting a loaf. "Keep the change," he said, laying down a note that far exceeded the price. "And maybe invest in a lock for that door."
As he left the bakery, the loaf of bread under his arm, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that someone was still watching him. There were forces at work here, a dangerous undercurrent that threatened to sweep them all away. He had to find out what—or who—was at the center of it all.
But first, he had a report to make to Kenan. And a loaf of victorious bread to eat.
