the baker's debt

Chapter Three: A Man of Strategy

“How heartless are you,” Abby flared, no longer aware of her surroundings, no longer feeling the chair beneath her or the cold barrel of the gun somewhere in her periphery, “to beat up a man old enough to be your father simply because he owes you?”

Her eyes were locked on the phone screen—on Miguel’s broken, trembling image. Blood. Bruises. The man who had once carried her on his shoulders now looked small, defeated, barely holding himself upright.

A low chuckle drifted through the phone, smooth and unhurried.

“Fierce,” the voice said. “And fearless. I like that. But a point of correction, Abby—I didn’t lay my hands on your father.”

Her breath hitched.

“The gang did,” the voice continued calmly.

Her hands clenched into fists. “You gave the order,” she snapped. “That makes it just as bad.”

A pause. Then, softly amused, “Your father was trying to flee. Leave you wallowing in his debt. Did you know that?”

The words struck like a slap.

Abby’s eyes squeezed shut, her head shaking instinctively. “You’re lying,” she whispered. “You’re lying.”

The voice didn’t rise. Didn’t rush. It didn’t need to.

“I know he came to you earlier today,” it said, unbothered, “telling you all he had was three thousand dollars. I know he asked for help. What he didn’t tell you was this—”

The screen shifted.

Abby sucked in a sharp breath as the image changed from her father’s battered face to a close-up of a printed ticket.

A train ticket.

Already booked.

Miguel Vasquez. Destination: San Francisco, PA. Departure: Tonight.

Her vision blurred instantly.

“No…” Abby breathed, tears spilling freely now. “No—this isn’t—” Her voice broke. “Tell me it’s not true. Tell me he’s lying.”

The screen shifted back.

Miguel lifted his head with visible effort, his good eye glassy, his voice hoarse and worn.

“Mija…” he whispered. “I—”

That was all it took.

“That’s right,” the voice said smoothly, sliding in before Miguel could finish. “He was going to leave you. And your brother. Let you drown in his mess while he started fresh somewhere else.”

Something inside Abby cracked.

“Leave my brother out of this,” she snarled, lifting her chin, her grief hardening into something sharp and dangerous. “Mateo has nothing to do with your money.”

A chuckle—genuine this time—rolled through the line.

“Woah. Calm down, tigress.”

The word burned.

“We all want the same thing here,” the voice continued. “You out of debt. Me getting my money.”

Abby dragged the back of her hand across her cheeks, forcing herself to breathe, to think. Fear wouldn’t save Mateo. Panic wouldn’t protect anyone.

“You will get your money, Mr. Moretti,” she said, her voice steadier now despite the tears still clinging to her lashes. “I just need time. Three hundred thousand dollars is a huge amount.”

A beat.

Then—quiet, lethal certainty.

“Time,” Damien Moretti said, “is what I do not have, Abby.”

Her heart stuttered.

“But,” he added smoothly, “I do have a proposal.”

The word echoed in her skull.

“A proposal?” she repeated, dread pooling low in her stomach. “What kind of proposal?”

A soft exhale came through the line, almost thoughtful.

“I’m a man of strategy,” he said. “You should’ve noticed by now. And I don’t strategize over the phone.”

The gunman beside her shifted slightly. Abby didn’t look away from the screen.

“Let’s meet in person.”

For a long moment, Abby didn’t move.

Her father’s image lingered in her mind—his silence louder than any confession. The ticket. The betrayal. The truth she hadn’t wanted to see. Miguel hadn’t come to her to save them.

He had come to save himself.

Her chest tightened painfully, grief and anger twisting together until she could barely tell them apart. Part of her wanted to scream. Part of her wanted to collapse. Another part—quiet, unfamiliar, terrifyingly clear—was already calculating.

What kind of proposal clears a debt like this?

She didn’t want to know.

But then Mateo’s face surfaced in her mind—his easy smile, his trust in her, the way he still believed the world could be fair if you worked hard enough.

Her jaw set.

“Where?” Abby asked hoarsely.

For the first time since the call began, there was a pause—measured, deliberate, as if Damien Moretti enjoyed making people wait.

“My guards will drop the location before leaving you,” his voice said at last, smooth as polished steel. “Have a good day, Abby. I hope we have a fruitful discussion tomorrow. Six p.m.”

The line went dead.

The silence that followed was deafening.

One of the men at the table pocketed the phone with practiced ease. The other lowered the gun, the threat never fully leaving his posture.

“Blackview,” the unarmed man said, already turning away. “Moretti bar.”

They didn’t wait for a response.

The front door opened, then closed again, the bell chiming softly—as if this were any other ordinary day. Their footsteps faded, leaving behind nothing but the echo of fear and the scent of expensive cologne cutting through the familiar warmth of bread and sugar.

Abby stayed seated long after they were gone.

Her hands were still clenched on the edge of the table, knuckles white, pulse roaring in her ears. The bakery felt foreign now—too quiet, too exposed, like the walls themselves had overheard everything and were judging her for it.

Tomorrow. Six p.m.

A mafia-owned bar.

A proposal.

She forced herself to stand, legs shaky, and locked the door again. Then she locked it a second time, just to be sure. Only after that did she slide down against the counter, pressing a hand to her mouth as her breath finally broke free in uneven gasps.

She didn’t cry.

She couldn’t afford to.

Twenty minutes later, a sharp knock echoed through the bakery door.

“Abby?”

Mateo’s voice cut through the haze like a blade.

She flinched hard, scrambling to her feet and crossing the room before unlocking the door. Mateo rushed in the moment it opened, soccer bag slung over one shoulder, brows already furrowed. His gaze swept the bakery—the flipped sign, the empty shelves—before landing on her face.

“Why’s the shop closed?” he asked. “It’s barely afternoon. And—” He stopped short, eyes narrowing. “What’s wrong?”

Abby straightened immediately, forcing her shoulders back, schooling her expression into something lighter, less brittle.

“Nothing,” she said too quickly. Then she softened it. “I just… don’t feel well.”

Mateo frowned. “You look pale.”

“I think I’m coming down with something,” she lied smoothly. “I decided to close early and rest.”

He studied her for a long second, the same way their mother used to—like he was searching for cracks. Abby held his gaze, willing herself not to blink.

Finally, he sighed. “You work yourself too hard,” he said, stepping closer. “You always do this. No days off. No breaks.”

“I’m fine,” she insisted, reaching for her apron. “Really.”

“Still,” Mateo said gently, already grabbing a broom, “you shouldn’t be closing alone. Let me help.”

She didn’t argue.

They cleaned in silence—Mateo sweeping while Abby wiped down counters, her movements automatic, her mind anything but. He talked as he worked, rambling about training, about a teammate who’d pulled a muscle, about how she needed to stop carrying everything by herself like the world would fall apart if she didn’t.

She smiled in the right places. Nodded. Let him believe it was just exhaustion.

When they finally locked up and stepped into the cool evening air together, Mateo bumped her shoulder lightly.

“Promise me you’ll rest,” he said. “At least tonight.”

“I promise,” Abby replied.

And as they walked home side by side, her brother’s presence warm and familiar beside her, Abby made a second, silent promise—one Mateo would never hear...

The next day at the bakery ran like a haze in Abby’s eyes.

She moved through her routine as if on instinct alone—measuring flour, ringing up orders, offering polite nods where smiles should have been. The warmth of the ovens didn’t reach her today. Neither did the familiar comfort of yeast and sugar. Everything felt muted, dulled by the weight pressing behind her ribs.

She was moody. Short-tempered. Restless.

Rosa noticed almost immediately.

“You’re awfully quiet today,” Rosa said gently as Abby slid a loaf into a bag with more force than necessary. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” Abby replied, too quickly, not looking up.

Rosa lingered, unconvinced. “You keep saying that.”

Abby exhaled through her nose, fingers tightening around the counter. “I just didn’t sleep well.”

That was as much as she was willing to give.

The hours crawled. Customers came and went, unaware of the storm gathering beneath Abby’s calm exterior. Every glance at the clock tightened something in her chest. Every tick pulled her closer to six.

Finally, near closing, Abby turned to Rosa.

“I have somewhere I need to be this evening,” she said. “Around six.”

Rosa frowned. “You want me to wait?”

“No.” Abby shook her head immediately. “Lock up when you’re done. Don’t wait for me.”

Rosa hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Abby forced a small smile. “Mateo will stop by later. If anything comes up, rely on him. I’ll meet him at home.”

Rosa searched her face again, clearly wanting to push—but something in Abby’s tone stopped her.

“Alright,” she said softly. “Just… don’t disappear on us, okay?”

Abby nodded. “I won’t.”

By the time the clock crept toward six, Abby’s chest felt tight, breath shallow.

Reality waited.

She untied her apron and lifted it over her head, folding it carefully before setting it aside. For a moment, she stood there—hands braced on the counter, eyes lowered—then turned and walked toward the changing room.

She changed quickly.

Brown joggers.

A black hoodie pulled over her head.

She used a thin cake ribbon to tie her hair back into a tight ponytail, the familiar motion grounding her just enough. She slipped into her sandals, her hands steady even if her heart wasn’t.

When she stepped out through the back door, she kept her head down, avoiding the street, avoiding faces, avoiding questions. She didn’t want recognition. Didn’t want anyone knowing where she was headed—or why.

Each step away from the bakery felt heavier than the last.

As she walked, Damien Moretti’s words echoed in her mind.

Your father was trying to flee.

Leave you wallowing in his debt.

She clenched her jaw, breath catching. She didn’t know what to believe. Couldn’t bear to unpack it yet—not the betrayal, not the doubt, not the way it cut deeper than fear ever could.

Not now.

She pushed the thought aside, locking it away where it couldn’t undo her before she even arrived.

She would face the truth soon enough.

At six p.m.

At Blackview

With Damien Moretti.

And whatever waited for her there, Abby knew one thing with terrifying clarity—

There would be no turning back

The bar was already awake when Abby arrived.

Blackscrew didn’t announce itself with neon lights or loud music. It sat low and unassuming on the corner, brick-dark and deliberate, like it had nothing to prove. The kind of place people didn’t stumble into by accident.

Abby paused at the door for half a heartbeat—long enough to steady her breathing—before knocking.

It swung open immediately.

A tall, broad-shouldered man filled the doorway, dressed in black from collar to boots, his expression unreadable. He didn’t ask her name. Didn’t ask why she was there. He simply stepped aside and gestured her in with a subtle tilt of his head.

The door closed behind her with a soft, final click.

Inside, the bar was dim, washed in low amber light. The air smelled faintly of oak, leather, and something expensive she couldn’t place. Music played low—slow, almost intimate—nothing like the chaos she’d imagined.

The man led her across the room and stopped beside a table set apart from the rest.

It was… romantic.

Too romantic.

A small round table draped in deep burgundy linen. A single candle burning at its center, flame steady, casting soft shadows. Two crystal glasses already poured. A bottle of wine resting in a silver cradle. Even a single dark-red rose lay across the tablecloth, deliberate and unsettling in its intent.

Abby’s stomach twisted.

The guard pulled out a chair for her, then stepped back, pointing toward the table. “Mr. Moretti will be with you shortly.”

Abby nodded, unsure what else to do. Her pulse thundered in her ears as she took the seat, her gaze sweeping the room—other patrons scattered in quiet clusters, conversations hushed, eyes deliberately not on her.

This wasn’t a meeting.

It was a performance.

“You’re welcome.”

The voice came from behind her.

Abby startled sharply, breath catching as she stood sharply, heart slamming against her ribs.

He stood close enough that she could smell him—clean, subtle, expensive. Not overpowering. Controlled.

Damien Moretti was not what she expected.

She’d imagined older. Heavier. Weathered by years of violence and power. A man with grey at his temples and cruelty carved into his face.

Instead, she was met with someone in his early thirties—maybe mid—tall and composed, dressed in a dark tailored suit that fit him like it had been designed with intention rather than trend. His hair was dark, neatly styled, his features sharp in a way that felt effortless. Not pretty. Striking. The kind of handsome that didn’t try to charm but somehow did anyway.

Damien didn’t sit immediately.

Instead, he reached for a neatly folded hand towel resting on a side rail, calmly wiping his hands as if he’d just finished something mundane rather than orchestrating fear across a city. The gesture was unhurried. Precise. Every movement controlled.

“Abby,” he said, his voice smooth and even. “Please—sit.”

She hesitated only a second before lowering herself into the chair opposite him. The candle flickered between them, casting shadows that sharpened his features and softened nothing about his presence. Damien took the other seat—but only after pacing once, slow and deliberate, like a predator deciding the best angle.

Abby clasped her hands together on her lap, forcing herself to speak before fear swallowed her whole.

“I know we’re owing you,” she said quietly. “And I promise—we will pay you back. I just… I need time.”

He studied her.

Not her clothes. Not her posture.

Her.

The silence stretched long enough to make her pulse stutter.

Finally, Damien leaned back slightly. “I can’t trust your father anymore,” he said calmly. “For obvious reasons. He tried to flee. Leave you holding the debt.” His gaze sharpened. “But you, Abby Vasquez… you seem different. Reliable. Consistent.”

Relief fluttered weakly in her chest.

“Thank you, sir,” she replied, bowing her head slightly as she leaned forward across the table, desperation bleeding through her restraint.

That was when he smiled.

Not wide. Not cruel.

Interested.

His green eyes—dangerously vivid in the low light—sparkled as he spoke.

“I’m ready to wave all that money away.”

Abby’s head snapped up so fast it made her dizzy. “You’re joking.”

Damien chuckled softly, the sound low and intimate. “I’m not.”

Her breath caught. Hope—wild and reckless—flared in her chest before she could stop it.

“I just need you to do something in return for me.”

Her hands tightened together. “Anything sir” she said quickly. “As long as it’s not… illegal. I can do anything.”

He straightened then, correcting her gently. “Call me Damien.”

She blinked. “I—I’ll do anything, Mr—Dam—”

“I said Damien,” he cut in lightly, amused. “You make me sound old.” His gaze swept over her slowly, deliberately. “I’m thirty-five. How old are you, Abby?”

The way he said her name made her skin prickle.

“Twenty-four,” she answered.

“Good,” he murmured, as if confirming a calculation.

Then he leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, voice dropping into something dangerously calm.

“I need you to be my wife,” he said. “For one year.”

The words hit her like a slap.

Abby’s jaw dropped. Her breath vanished from her lungs. “What?” she exclaimed, half-rising from her seat before freezing again.

Damien didn’t flinch.

Didn’t rush.

Didn’t explain.

He simply watched her—calm, terrifying, utterly certain—like a man who had just placed a piece on a chessboard and already knew how the game would end.