sweet lies

The funeral flowers had wilted three days ago, but I kept forgetting to throw them out. At twenty-six years old, I had already attended more funerals than weddings, but this one felt different. This one hollowed me out in ways I could not name. I stood behind the counter of Rossi's Bakery, my hands moving through motions I had known since childhood. Flour dusted my forearms like snow that would not melt. The morning sun filtered through the front windows, catching particles of wheat and sugar suspended in the air. Everything looked exactly as it was when Nonna Rosa was alive, yet nothing felt the same. The bell above the door rings. Mrs. Chen entered with her usual Tuesday morning smile, the one that crinkled the corners of her eyes and made her look younger than her sixty-something years. “Emma, dear,” she said, her voice soft with sympathy. “How are you holding up?” I forced my lips into something that resembled a smile. “I'm managing,” I say . “Is it usual for you today?” She nodded. yes was my response and I gathered two cinnamon rolls and a loaf of sourdough. My fingers knew where everything was without looking. This bakery had raised me as much as my grandmother had. While I was packing her orders, Mrs. Chen deep her hand in her purse and paid in exact change of what she bought, she looked at me with a faint smile, her hand lingering on mine. “Your grandmother would be so proud of you, keeping this place running.” After she left, the bakery fell quiet again. I wiped down the counter, moved from one end to the other, making sure everything was in place. The truth was that I had no idea what I was doing. Nonna had handled the business side of things all this while before she died. All I do is just bake and smile at customers. My phone buzzed. A text from Sarah. Sarah: “Coffee later? Marcus and I are worried about you.” I typed back a quick yes. Sarah was thirty-one, a paralegal downtown, and had been my closest friend since college. Another text came through from James. “Trivia night Thursday? The team has not been the same without you.” James was twenty-eight, worked at the hardware store three blocks down. Our trivia team also included his sister Rachel, a nurse, and her boyfriend Devon, a teacher. I had missed the last two weeks. I texted back maybe and turned my phone face down, thinking if I should go or not. Not long, a young couple entered, tourists ordering cappuccinos and cannoli. After they left, I could not avoid it any longer, the office door at the back seemed to pull at me. The office was exactly as Nonna had left it. Her reading glasses sat folded on the desk. A coffee mug rested beside invoices, the air smelled faintly of her lavender hand cream. She had been seventy-two when she died, too young, too sudden. I sat in her chair and opened the top drawer, looking for the checkbook. But when I pulled it open, my hand froze. Cash, stacks of it, held together with rubber bands. More money than we would ever keep on hand. My heart hammered against my ribs. Beneath the cash, lies envelopes. Each one marked with initials I did not recognize. T.M. A.R. D.S. The handwriting was Nonna's. My hands shook as I reached for the ledger, inside of the ledger I found. Entries dated back years, amounts that seemed far too large, notes in the margins written in Italian. I could read some of it, with words like “consegna” and “pagamento” and “interesse.” Delivery, payment, interest. The front bell rings. I slammed the ledger shut and shoved everything back. “Hello?”/ a voice called. Male, unfamiliar. A man stood at the counter. Tall, maybe thirty years old, with dark hair and a black jacket, with a faint scar on his left cheek. His eyes moved over the bakery with practiced assessment. “We're open,” I said. “What can I get you?” “Emma Rossi?” My stomach dropped. “Yes. Who's asking?” “Luca Marino.” He slid a card across the counter blank except for a phone number, “I'm here to check on operations.” “Operations? I don't understand.” “Your grandmother and I had an arrangement. I'm here to make sure it continues.” “What kind of arrangement?” “Maybe we should talk in private.” I led him to the office. He closed the door, and I sat while he took the seat across from me. “Your grandmother needed money twenty years ago,” he began. “Banks wouldn't help her, so she went to Tony Morello.” The name meant nothing to me. “Tony runs operations in this part of the state, Your grandmother borrowed money from him, the bakery's been part of his network for two decades now. Money moves through the books.” “Laundering.” “Yes.” I stood abruptly. “My grandmother wouldn't, she went to church every Sunday, she volunteered at the community center.” “Good people make hard choices when they're desperate.” He pulled out a folded paper. A contract, with my grandmother's signature at the bottom. “She tried to pay it back, but the interest kept growing, until the bakery became too valuable.” I sank back down. “Why are you telling me this?” “Because now you're responsible. This is how we work. On Thursdays, someone makes a delivery. You put it in the safe in the basement, on Saturdays, someone picks it up. Make sure you never open the packages.” “And if I don't?” “Tony doesn't accept refusal well. He'll do what he has to do.” “You mean he'll hurt me.” He stood. “Someone will be here by Thursday around midnight, leave the back door unlocked.” “What if I go to the police?” Something like pity crossed his face. “Then you'll find out how deep this goes, don't make this harder than it has to be.” He left. I stared at the contract, at my grandmother's signature, at proof that everything I thought I knew was a lie. My phone buzzed, Sarah again. Sarah: “Running late. Meet you at Common Grounds in an hour?” I thought about telling her everything, But Luca's words echoed in my head. I typed back: Me: “Sorry, something came up.” Sarah: “Rain check?” Me: No, I just won't be coming again tonight. I returned to the drawer and counted the cash. Fifteen thousand dollars. I picked up one of the envelopes, The initials T.M. stared back at me. Tony Morello, The man who owned my grandmother's legacy, who now owned mine. The front bell rings. A customer, I shoved everything back and stood. My reflection caught in the small mirror on the wall, I looked the same. Brown hair escaping from its bun, flour on my shirt, eyes that had not slept well in days. But I felt different. That night, I lay in bed in the apartment above the bakery, staring at the ceiling. Sleep would not come, every time I closed my eyes. I saw Nonna's signature, I saw envelopes marked with initials, I saw Luca's dark eyes watching me. My phone sat on the nightstand, I could still call Sarah. But who could I trust? And what would I say? That my dead grandmother was a criminal? That I had inherited not just a bakery but a crime? Thursday was two days away. Someone would come, and they would expect me to cooperate. Maybe I was afraid enough to do it. But beneath the fear, something else stirred. Anger, hot and bright and growing stronger with each passing hour. Nonna had made her choice. She had done what she thought she had to do, but I did not have to do the same one. I just had no idea yet what my choice would be.