Chapter 2 - THE RECIPE CARD
“What’s that?”
Lily pointed through the glass.
I followed her finger to the last tray of honey knots—soft braided pastries brushed with warm honey, orange peel, and crushed almonds.
“That,” I said, “is the reason I have to be here at four every morning.”
Her mouth twitched.
“What’s it called?”
“A honey knot.”
Lily stopped smiling.
Roman noticed before I did.
His attention shifted from me to her with the speed of a man who missed very little.
“What?” he asked quietly.
Lily shoved both hands into the pocket of her oversized sweatshirt.
“Nothing.”
I had spent enough years behind a bakery counter to know when a teenager meant the exact opposite.
I opened the case.
“Want one?”
She shrugged.
That meant yes.
I put the pastry on a plate and slid it across the counter.
Lily stared at it.
Then she whispered, “My mom used to make these.”
Roman went completely still.
I looked at him.
“Your sister?”
“Elena.”
It was the first time he had said her name around me.
There was no hardness in it.
Only grief.
Lily tore off a small piece but didn’t eat it.
“She called them Sunday knots.”
My hand froze around the coffee pot.
“What did you say?”
“Sunday knots.”
I set the pot down.
My father had called them that.
Not on the bakery menu.
Not with customers.
Only at home.
When I was little, Sunday knots were what he baked after my mother died because Sunday mornings were the quietest part of the week and he hated silence.
I had renamed them honey knots when I took over the bakery.
Roman saw my face change.
“What is it?”
“My father called them Sunday knots.”
Lily finally looked at me.
For the first time since she entered, the practiced emptiness disappeared from her face.
“My mom said a man taught her.”
The bakery suddenly felt too small.
I glanced toward Sophia.
Her smile was gone.
Roman’s two guards near the door had noticed that too.
One straightened.
The other looked away, which somehow told me more.
I leaned against the counter.
“What man?”
Lily reached into her sweatshirt.
Roman spoke immediately.
“Lily.”
She ignored him.
From the front pocket, she pulled a folded piece of paper so worn at the edges that it looked like it had been opened a hundred times.
She placed it beside the plate.
My father’s handwriting hit me before I touched it.
I knew the sharp T.
The uneven B.
The way he crossed his sevens.
I opened the paper.
Flour.
Honey.
Butter.
Orange zest.
Almonds.
It was the recipe.
My recipe.
No.
His recipe.
At the bottom were two initials.
T.B.
Thomas Bennett.
My father.
I looked at Lily.
“Where did you get this?”
“Mom’s coat.”
Roman’s jaw tightened.
“What coat?”
“The blue one.”
Something passed between Roman and Sophia.
I caught it.
“What blue coat?”
Sophia answered this time.
“Elena had a navy wool coat she kept for years. Even after it stopped fitting properly.”
Lily rubbed her thumb against a tear in the recipe card.
“I found this inside the lining.”
Roman stared at her.
“You cut open your mother’s coat?”
“It was already loose.”
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
His expression hardened.
Not with anger.
Fear.
“You should have told me.”
“Why?”
“Because anything your mother hid matters.”
Lily finally looked directly at him.
“That’s exactly why I didn’t.”
Roman flinched.
A sixteen-year-old girl had somehow managed what armed men apparently could not.
She had hurt him with six words.
I understood then that the famous Roman Duca could command a room full of men but had no idea what to do with one grieving teenager who didn’t trust him.
Lily picked up the pastry.
“She wrote on the back.”
I turned the card over.
There were two different handwritings.
My father’s on the front.
A woman’s on the back.
The first line read:
If Lily ever needs somewhere that belongs to no family but its own, take her to Honey & Rye.
I swallowed.
Below it was an address.
My address.
Roman stepped closer.
His shoulder almost touched mine.
There was another line underneath.
Clare Bennett will understand the blue tin.
“I don’t,” I said.
Roman looked at me.
“What blue tin?”
“I have no idea.”
That was true.
Then my eyes drifted toward the narrow office behind the kitchen.
Something stirred in my memory.
My father had kept an old blue cookie tin above the office cabinet.
After he died, I used it for birthday candles, spare keys, and things I didn’t know where else to put.
I hadn’t opened it in years.
Roman followed my gaze.
“Clare?”
I walked into the back office.
He came after me.
“So much for personal boundaries.”
“I stopped expecting those after you assaulted me with flour.”
“You survived.”
“Barely.”
Normally, I might have enjoyed the hint of humor in his voice.
Not now.
I dragged a small step stool toward the cabinet.
Roman took it from me.
“I can reach.”
“I am capable of climbing twelve inches.”
“I’ve seen your balance when angry.”
I glared at him.
He reached above the cabinet and pulled down the blue tin.
Dust covered the lid.
A faded honeybee was painted across the top.
My stomach dropped.
Roman noticed.
“That mean something?”
“That was my father’s old bakery logo.”
“You said this bakery was his.”
“It was. But he stopped using the bee years before I took over.”
I carried the tin to the prep table.
Sophia and Lily had followed us.
Roman’s guards stayed outside the kitchen without being told.
Hierarchy.
Invisible lines.
Everybody seemed to know where he wanted them without him saying a word.
I opened the tin.
Birthday candles.
A dead pen.
Two old keys.
A photograph.
And a pocket watch.
I recognized the watch immediately.
My father used to wear it every Sunday.
“He told me he lost this.”
My voice sounded strangely small.
I lifted it.
The silver case was scratched.
Inside, someone had engraved a time.
4:17.
And beneath it:
PIER 16.
Roman took one step back.
Sophia gripped the edge of the table.
“What?” I demanded.
Neither answered.
I held up the watch.
“What happened at Pier 16?”
Roman’s eyes were on the photograph beneath it.
I pulled the picture free.
My father stood beside a much younger Sophia near a row of warehouses.
A woman with dark hair stood between them.
Elena.
I knew because Lily had her eyes.
On the far edge of the photograph stood another man.
Young.
Broad-shouldered.
Smiling at the camera.
Roman took the photograph from me.
His face lost all expression.
“Who is that?” I asked.
Sophia closed her eyes.
Roman answered.
“Anthony Duca.”
“And who is Anthony Duca?”
“My cousin.”
His voice hardened.
“My underboss.”
Lily came closer.
She tapped the back of the recipe card.
“There’s more.”
I looked down.
One final sentence had been written beneath the bakery address.
Roman read it over my shoulder.
This time, even he couldn’t hide the reaction.
His entire body went rigid.
If Anthony ever speaks about Pier 16 again, do not let Roman trust him.
The kitchen went silent.
Then Lily whispered, “Uncle Roman?”
He looked at her.
She swallowed.
“I heard Anthony say Pier 16 last week.”
Roman’s eyes sharpened.
“Where?”
“At Mom’s grave.”
Nobody moved.
Lily’s voice dropped.
“He didn’t know I was there.”
“What did he say?”
She looked at me first.
Then at Roman.
“He said the Bennett problem should’ve stayed buried.”
May you like
And for the first time since I had met Roman Duca, I saw something more dangerous than anger cross his face.
Doubt.
