Bound By Debts

Scarlet I stared down the alley like I could summon the bread truck by sheer willpower. Of all days for a late delivery, it had to be today—the day we had one of the biggest catering orders we’d seen in months. The alley stretched empty before me, and I kept glancing at the side street, hoping the truck would make the turn any second. The Valle bakery wasn’t just a shop; it was my parents’ dream. They’d built it into a neighborhood staple, even with chain stores popping up all around. We still did okay, but a mistake with this catering order could mean a hit we couldn’t afford. “They’ll show, Scarlet. Relax.” Joey’s voice broke through my thoughts as he patted my shoulder. Joey had been with us for five years, stepping in after Mom got too sick to help out. I turned to him, my frustration barely contained. “They’re an hour late, Joey. The shop’s open, and this order’s due in thirty minutes.” My voice was sharper than I meant it to be, but I couldn’t help it. “Where’s your brother?” he asked, wiping his hands on his apron. He was mid-slice, working the fancy meat slicer I’d bought last year to replace the relic Dad had used until it finally gave up. Since Dad passed eighteen months ago, upgrading the bakery piece by piece had been my way of keeping things afloat. I rolled my eyes. “No idea where Oliver is.” Just saying his name made my blood pressure rise. He was supposed to help, but these days, I was lucky if I saw him once a month. “I thought he said he’d come today,” Joey said, motioning for me to come inside. “It’s drizzling out here. You’ll get soaked.” Reluctantly, I wiped the light rain off my forehead and stepped back into the kitchen. “Oliver shows up when he feels like it,” I muttered. Dad’s voice echoed in my head, as it often did: Family takes care of family, Scarlet. It seemed I was the only one still following that rule or even remembers it. “I’m calling the bakery again,” I announced, heading for the office. The frustration gnawed at me as I picked up the phone. If we could bake our own bread, this wouldn’t be a problem. I was so close to saving enough to buy ovens, but until then, I was stuck relying on late deliveries. Kedzie, who ran the bakery, picked up immediately. “Kedzie, swear to me that bread’s on its way,” I said, skipping any pleasantries. “Jonny’s like a block away!” she promised, sounding as stressed as I felt. “Any chance of a discount for this headache?” I asked, smirking despite myself. Kedzie and I grew up together, both inheriting our fathers’ dreams—and their problems. “Ten percent,” she said quickly. “I’ll take it,” I replied. Just then, a truck horn blared from the alley, and I ran outside to meet it. “Sorry, Scarlet,” Jonny called out, hopping down from the truck. “Just get it inside,” I said, grabbing the first tray of buns. Relief coursed through me as I hustled back into the kitchen. “Told you they’d get here,” Joey said with a grin as I rushed past him. We got to work, assembling sandwiches like a well-oiled machine. I’d just started to feel like we might actually pull this off when the back door swung open, and there he was—Oliver. He looked like a mess, with dark circles under his eyes and a scruffy beard that hadn’t seen a razor in days. “Hey, Scarlet!” He greeted me like nothing was wrong. “Oliver,” Joey said with a nod, as if his appearance were an everyday occurrence. “Told you he’d show.” I glared at my brother. “Wash your hands if you’re helping. We’ve got a big order to finish.” Oliver ignored me, popping a slice of bell pepper into his mouth. “Can’t stay long,” he said. “But I need to talk to you.” “Not now, Oliver,” I snapped. The mountain of sandwiches in front of me wasn’t going to make itself. “It’s important,” he insisted, grabbing my arm and tugging me toward the office. Joey waved me off. “Go. I’ve got this.” Reluctantly, I followed Oliver into the office. He shut the door behind us, his expression making my stomach sink. “No,” I groaned. “Tell me you didn’t.” “It’s not that bad,” he said, avoiding my eyes. “How much?” I demanded, already bracing myself. “Two hundred,” he admitted quietly. The number didn’t make sense. Why was Oliver so panicked over two hundred bucks? Then he spoke again, and the world tilted beneath me. “Grand, Scarlet. Two hundred grand.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he forced out the words. The bile rose in my throat, and for a second, I thought my light breakfast—just a donut and some coffee—might make an encore appearance. “Two hundred thousand dollars?” I repeated, my voice a hoarse whisper. “Where the hell am I supposed to get two hundred thousand dollars, Oliver?” He winced, avoiding my eyes. “I know. I know. Look, maybe just enough to keep them off my back for now? Something to buy me time?” “Them?” My voice sharpened, and a chill ran through me. The pieces clicked together before he even answered. “Who’s them, Oliver?” He hesitated. Then, in a voice that barely carried across the office, he said, “The Romanovs.” I sank into the old chair behind the desk, its squeaky wheels giving a groan under my weight. My gaze dropped to the scuffed linoleum floor. “You borrowed money from the Russian mob?” My words cracked like brittle glass. “It was a good business investment, Scarlet. I swear,” he started, his voice desperate. I held up a hand to cut him off. I couldn’t listen to another one of his stupid justifications, not now. There’d been too many over the years, and none of them ever ended well. “How much will keep them happy?” I asked, my brain already cycling through options I didn’t have. “Ten thousand,” he said, as if he were asking for pocket change. “I think I can get more time with that.” “Five percent? You think five percent is going to satisfy them?” I hissed, my glare boring into him. Oliver had always been an optimist, but this? This wasn’t optimism—it was lunacy. “It’ll buy time,” he repeated, running a hand through his messy hair. “For how long, Oliver?” I shot back. “A day? A week? You think the Romanovs are known for their patience?” He fidgeted like a guilty kid caught stealing cookies. “I don’t know. Maybe. They’re coming tomorrow to collect.” I froze. “Tomorrow?” The word came out in a harsh whisper. “Yeah.” He hesitated, then added sheepishly, “I told them to meet me here. At the Valle. You know, safer that way. Public and all.” I was on my feet before I knew it. “Here? You brought the Romanovs here? Are you out of your damn mind?” My voice echoed off the cramped walls of the office. “It’s a public place,” he said with a shrug, like it was the most logical thing in the world. Public place. As if that mattered to the Romanovs. Their influence ran deep—so deep even the NYPD tiptoed around them. If they wanted to make an example of someone, they wouldn’t hesitate just because there were witnesses. My fists clenched at my sides, and I had to focus on my breathing to keep the anger from boiling over. “Fine. I’ll get the money,” I said, my voice tight and controlled. Relief flooded his face. “I knew you’d come through,” he said, grabbing my shoulders in gratitude. “They’re coming at two. I’ll be here at one to—” “Stop,” I cut him off, pointing a finger at his chest. “This is it, Oliver. No more. You find a way to pay them back. And they never come here again.” He nodded eagerly. “Right, absolutely. Thanks, Scarlet. I mean it. I’ll see you tomorrow.” And then, just like that, he was gone, leaving me alone with a storm brewing in my chest. Not five minutes later, Joey poked his head into the office. “Hey, just a heads-up. The catering order called. Turns out they don’t need the food until two. Something about messing up the timing on their end.” A tiny sliver of relief trickled in. At least there was one piece of good news. “Thanks, Joey,” I said, forcing a smile. “You okay?” he asked, his concern evident. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I replied. “How’s the order coming?” “About halfway done. If you need a little time, I can finish up,” he offered. I shook my head. “Give me a minute, and I’ll be out to help.” Joey nodded and left, and as soon as the door closed, I sank back into the chair. My mind raced as I opened my laptop and checked the bank’s lobby hours. I doubted the Romanovs would accept a personal check. No, they’d want cash. So much for the new ovens.