Chapter 9 of 12
MY SON GAVE OUR WEDDING DANCE TO HIS MOTHER-IN-LAW, THEN THE MAFIA BOSS CROSSED THE BALLROOM AND HELD OUT HIS HAND
THE LAST THURSDAY HELEN CORSY WALKED INTO MY BAKERY
The little girl at table three was still eating her cookie.
That was the detail that kept me calm.
She looked about six.
Purple coat.
Two braids.
Her father sat across from her drinking coffee and staring at his phone.
Neither had seen Helen's gun.
My employees were behind the kitchen doors.
Maria was probably shaping croissants.
Danny was probably complaining about the mixer.
Normal morning.
Normal people.
One woman with a gun could change all of it.
Gino sat at his usual table.
“Beth.”
“Yes?”
“Close the kitchen.”
Helen's weapon shifted toward him.
“Don't give orders.”
“He's right,” I said.
Her gaze snapped to me.
“If this is between us, my employees leave.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you pressed the alarm.”
My heart stopped.
She smiled.
“You think I don't know this counter?”
She had watched the bakery.
Of course.
“The police will come,” I said.
“Eventually.”
Gino looked at the street.
Then the child.
I understood his concern.
Violence here meant innocent people.
He leaned back.
“What do you want, Helen?”
“The original list.”
“You heard Beth.”
“I heard Beth lie.”
“I don't have it,” I said.
Helen turned the gun toward me.
Gino's voice became ice.
“Point that at me.”
She smiled.
“There he is.”
“Helen.”
“All these years, Gino.”
She looked at him.
“Do you know what I hated most about Matteo?”
“I assume his ability to tolerate you.”
“He believed you could change.”
Gino said nothing.
“He believed organized crime could become legitimate if enough old men died.”
“Several did.”
“Including your uncle.”
“Cancer.”
“Disappointingly natural.”
I stared at her.
“You paid Salvatore.”
“Yes.”
“To kill Aaron.”
“To stop Aaron.”
“You enjoy correcting the wording.”
“Words matter.”
“So do widows.”
Something flickered in her face.
Good.
I continued.
“You ordered the truck into his lane.”
“I ordered Salvatore to stop him.”
“And Matteo?”
“Matteo had become sentimental.”
Gino's expression changed.
Helen saw it.
“There.”
“What?”
“The little brother.”
Gino's voice lowered.
“You should not say his name.”
“Why? Afraid I'll make you emotional?”
I almost laughed.
Even now.
Gino's eyes became frighteningly calm.
“No.”
“Then what?”
“You'll remind me how much I want to become the man I used to be.”
Helen's smile faded.
“And I have worked very hard not to disappoint a woman who makes excellent lemon cake.”
I stared.
“Really?”
He glanced at me.
“I needed to lighten the mood.”
“This is your idea of lighter?”
The little girl's father finally noticed something was wrong.
He looked toward Helen's hand.
His face went white.
Gino saw.
“Take your daughter and walk to the restroom.”
Helen pointed the gun at him.
“Sit.”
The father froze.
I spoke.
“Sir.”
He looked at me.
“Take her.”
The little girl whispered, “Daddy?”
He stood slowly.
Helen looked ready to react.
I moved.
Not toward her.
I dropped a glass jar from the counter.
It shattered.
Everybody flinched.
The father grabbed his daughter and ran toward the back hallway.
Gino moved at the same second.
Helen fired.
The sound inside the bakery was enormous.
I screamed.
Gino hit the floor behind the table.
Helen fired again.
Glass exploded from the pastry case.
My beautiful lemon tarts died heroically.
Then the front windows shattered inward.
Gino's security.
Police.
Chaos.
Helen grabbed me.
Her arm locked around my neck.
The gun pressed against my ribs.
“No one moves!”
Everyone stopped.
Gino rose slowly.
Blood marked his shoulder.
I stared.
“You're hit.”
“Scratch.”
“That's more blood than a scratch.”
“Beth.”
“Sorry.”
Helen tightened her hold.
“You two are unbelievable.”
Gino's eyes stayed on mine.
Not the gun.
Me.
“Can you breathe?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Helen dragged me toward the back.
“Move.”
Police shouted.
She fired toward the ceiling.
Everyone stopped again.
We entered the kitchen.
Maria screamed.
“Out!”
Helen shoved me toward the rear exit.
My employees ran.
Outside, an SUV waited in the alley.
Driver inside.
Of course she had help.
“Get in.”
“No.”
The gun pressed harder.
“Beth.”
I looked at the SUV.
Then at the flour bags stacked beside the door.
Bakery instincts.
Ordinary things.
I kicked one.
The bag burst.
White flour exploded through the air.
Helen coughed.
The driver couldn't see.
I dropped.
Gunshot.
Then another.
Gino came through the kitchen door like a man who had forgotten he was bleeding.
He hit Helen.
The weapon skidded across the alley.
Police tackled the driver.
Helen clawed toward the gun.
I got there first.
My hand wrapped around it.
For one terrible second, I pointed it at her.
Everything stopped.
Helen looked at me.
Gino froze.
“Beth.”
She killed Aaron.
She arranged my husband's death and went home afterward.
Maybe ate dinner.
Maybe helped Chloe with homework.
Maybe slept.
She watched me become a widow.
Watched Noah become fatherless.
Then she used my son.
Took my dance.
Selected Aaron's song.
I could pull the trigger.
The thought arrived.
Clear.
Simple.
Terrifying.
Helen smiled.
“Do it.”
Gino's voice came quietly.
“Beth.”
“She deserves it.”
“Maybe.”
I looked at him.
He did not lie to me.
“But you don't.”
My hand shook.
Helen's smile faded.
Gino continued.
“You don't deserve to carry her after today.”
My eyes filled.
Aaron's tape returned.
You don't owe the dead anything.
I lowered the gun.
A police officer took it carefully.
Helen screamed.
Not fear.
Rage.
“You think this makes you better than me?”
I looked at her.
“No.”
She was handcuffed.
“It makes me free of you.”
They took her away.
I turned toward Gino.
Then remembered the blood.
“Oh my God.”
“I told you.”
“You were shot.”
“Grazed.”
He looked at the destroyed pastry case.
“Your lemon tarts suffered worse.”
I hit his uninjured arm.
He smiled.
Then swayed.
“Gino.”
“I may sit.”
He collapsed into a chair.
I screamed for paramedics.
The bullet had not been a graze.
It had entered high in his shoulder and lodged near the scapula.
He had walked through the kitchen anyway.
Of course he had.
At the hospital, doctors removed it.
I sat beside Noah in the waiting room.
Chloe arrived an hour later.
She hugged me.
Then Noah.
This time, he held her.
But something remained broken between them.
Not destroyed.
Broken.
There is a difference.
Gino woke after surgery.
I entered alone.
He looked terrible.
“You're here.”
“Yes.”
“Bakery?”
“Crime scene.”
“Cake?”
“Dead.”
He closed his eyes.
“Tragic.”
I sat beside him.
“Why did you come this morning?”
“Thursday.”
“No.”
He opened his eyes.
“I always come Thursday.”
“You knew Helen was missing.”
“Yes.”
“You knew she watched the bakery.”
“Yes.”
“You came because you thought she might come.”
“Yes.”
Anger rose.
“You used yourself as bait?”
“Yes.”
“You could have told me.”
“You would have stayed.”
“Correct.”
“That was the problem.”
I stood.
His face tightened.
“Beth.”
“No.”
I pointed at him.
“You do not get to protect me by removing my choices.”
Silence.
He knew.
The same lesson.
Again and again.
“I’m sorry.”
“You should be.”
“I thought—”
“I know what you thought.”
My voice cracked.
“You thought losing you would be acceptable if I survived.”
His face changed.
That was exactly what he thought.
“I have already buried one man who decided he would take danger alone because he loved me.”
Tears filled my eyes.
“I am not doing that again.”
Gino looked shattered.
“I’m not Aaron.”
“No.”
I swallowed.
“You're not.”
Something passed between us.
Something terrifying.
I had known for weeks.
Maybe since the ballroom.
Maybe since Thursday mornings.
I loved him.
Not like Aaron.
Nothing would ever be like Aaron.
That was the point.
Love after loss did not replace.
It added.
But I was furious.
So I said none of that.
Gino looked at my hand.
“Are we all right?”
“No.”
“Will we be?”
“I don't know.”
He nodded.
Fair.
At the door, I stopped.
“Gino.”
“Yes?”
“Don't die.”
A faint smile appeared.
“Is that an order?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you disliked orders.”
“Mine are excellent.”
His eyes warmed.
“Yes, Beth.”
Helen's arrest destroyed the remaining Corsy network.
But the investigation produced one final shock.
When federal agents searched her home, they found a locked drawer filled with photographs of Noah.
Age seventeen.
Eighteen.
College graduation.
First job.
His first date with Chloe.
His engagement.
My son had not stumbled into Helen's plan.
She had been shaping his path for eleven years.
And Noah was about to learn that reclaiming his life meant giving up the future he had spent years chasing.