The silence after Miguel’s confession pressed down on Abby’s chest until breathing felt like work.
They stood at the back entrance of the bakery, the faint warmth from the ovens behind them doing nothing to ease the cold spreading through her bones. Her father sat slumped on the worn sofa, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His lips trembled, opening and closing like he wanted to say something and didn’t know how.
Abby stared at him for a long moment, anger and fear tangling so tightly she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
Finally, she spoke.
“You need to go.”
Miguel looked up sharply.
“Abby—”
“No,” she said, her voice low but unyielding. “You need to leave. Now.” She swallowed hard, blinking back the burn behind her eyes. “I don’t want you dragging Mum’s bakery—her legacy—into this mess. Or Mateo.” Her voice cracked despite her effort. “Do you even care about us anymore?”
Miguel’s shoulders sagged. He dragged a hand down his face, eyes glassy. “I had nowhere else to go,” he whispered. “I swear it, mija. I didn’t know who else could help me.”
Abby turned away, pressing her palms to the cool metal shelf, grounding herself before she said something she couldn’t take back. When she faced him again, her expression was tight, resolved.
“You still have to leave,” she said. “Moretti’s men can’t find you here.”
Miguel nodded miserably, lips trembling. “I know.”
“I’ll close the shop early,” Abby continued, forcing herself to think practically, to do something. “I’ll go through the accounts. See what I can send you.” She shook her head slightly. “I doubt it’ll make a difference, but—”
“It will,” Miguel said quickly, pushing himself up from the sofa. Hope flared too fast in his eyes. “Of course it will. Thank you, Abby. Thank you so much.”
She didn’t answer. She only nodded once, stiffly.
Miguel grabbed his worn-out hat, fingers fumbling as he settled it on his head. He hesitated as he passed her, then squeezed her shoulders gently, like he used to when she was small and scraped her knees.
“Thank you,” he murmured again.
Then he was gone.
The back door creaked shut behind him, and the faint smell of whiskey lingered in the air long after his footsteps faded.
Abby stood there, unmoving, heart pounding, knowing—deep down—that letting him walk out hadn’t ended anything at all.
It had only given whatever was coming a head start.
Abby stayed where she was long after the back door closed, the smell of whiskey clinging to the air like a bruise.
Then the front bell rang.
The sound jolted her back into motion.
She squared her shoulders, wiped her hands on her apron, and walked to the front of the bakery, past the racks of cooling bread and the half-empty shelves. By the time she stepped behind the counter, her face was calm again—carefully arranged, like everything else in her life.
“Good morning,” she said automatically.
The words came out right. Everything else didn’t.
She rang up Mrs. Martha's order and handed her a bag with two rolls instead of three. The woman blinked down at it, confused.
“Abby… I always get three,” she said gently.
Abby frowned, glanced inside the bag, then stiffened. “I—sorry. I don’t know how—” She corrected it quickly, forcing a smile. “There you go.”
The next customer asked for rye. Abby reached for sourdough.
“No, the darker one,” he said, amused. “You usually don’t miss.”
Her fingers hesitated.
“Oh. Right,” she murmured, switching loaves, heat crawling up her neck.
A regular asked for his usual coffee—two sugars, no milk. Abby poured it black and slid it across the counter before realizing her mistake.
She apologized. Again.
By the third time, the surprise on her customers’ faces had shifted into something closer to concern.
Abby moved slower, her thoughts a tangled mess of numbers, names, and fear. Three hundred thousand dollars. Tonight. Damien Moretti. The words replayed in her head no matter how hard she tried to drown them out with routine.
Her hands shook as she counted change.
“Abby.”
She looked up to find Rosa watching her, brow creased.
“You okay?” Rosa asked quietly. “You’ve mixed up four orders in ten minutes.”
“I’m fine,” Abby said too quickly. “Just tired.”
Rosa crossed her arms. “You don’t get tired like this.”
Abby sighed, rubbing her temple. “Rosa—”
“Take a break,” Rosa interrupted gently. “Five minutes. I’ve got the counter.”
“I can’t,” Abby said. “I—”
“You will,” Rosa said, firmer now. “Before you burn yourself or sell someone the wrong bread and start a riot.”
Abby huffed out a weak breath, the closest thing to a laugh she could manage. “Fine. Five minutes.”
She stepped back, leaning against the wall near the prep area, arms folded tight around herself. The bakery noise felt distant now, like she was underwater.
After a moment, she straightened.
“Actually,” Abby said, pushing herself upright, “I want to close early today.”
Rosa paused mid-transaction and glanced over her shoulder. “Close early?”
“Yes,” Abby said, nodding as if she’d already decided it hours ago. “Just for today.”
Rosa studied her carefully. “Is something wrong?”
Abby met her gaze and forced the answer out smoothly. “No. Nothing’s wrong.”
Rosa didn’t look convinced—but she nodded anyway.
“Okay,” she said softly. “I’ll tell the customers.”
Abby turned away before her face could betray her.
Because something was wrong.
Something had already set its teeth into her life.
And she could feel it tightening—slowly, inevitably—while the bakery carried on like nothing at all had changed.
By three p.m., Abby had stopped pretending the day could be salvaged.
She flipped the sign on the door from OPEN to CLOSED, the soft clack of the metal sounding far too loud in the emptied bakery. Outside, a couple of would-be customers slowed, frowned at the sign, then kept walking.
“Go home,” Abby said, already shrugging out of her apron. “All of you.”
Rosa hesitated. “Abby—”
“I’ll close up myself,” she said gently but firmly. “You’ve done enough today.”
The two older women who worked the afternoon shift exchanged looks, then gathered their bags. Rosa lingered the longest, searching Abby’s face one last time.
“You’re sure?” she asked.
Abby nodded. “I’m sure.”
When the door finally shut behind them, the bakery fell into a heavy, unnatural quiet.
Abby locked the door, then the back one too. She stood still for a moment, listening—traffic outside, the faint hum of the refrigerators, her own heartbeat loud in her ears.
Then she went to the register.
She counted slowly. Carefully. Once. Then again.
Bills stacked neatly under her fingers. Coins sorted by habit, not thought. She wrote numbers down on a scrap of paper, crossed them out, recalculated. Opened the safe beneath the counter. Added the cash from the week’s deposits, the envelope she’d been saving for rent, the small emergency fund she pretended not to touch.
The numbers refused to change.
When she was done, Abby sat back on the stool, staring at the final sum like it might apologize.
Ten thousand dollars.
That was it.
Ten thousand dollars against three hundred thousand.
Her throat tightened. She closed her eyes briefly, pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose, the weight of the truth settling heavy and final in her chest.
It wouldn’t make a difference.
Abby stared at the number on the paper again, like it might soften if she looked long enough.
Ten thousand.
Her chest tightened painfully. It wasn’t even close—not even a quarter of what her father owed. Not enough to buy time. Not enough to buy mercy. Not enough for men like Damien Moretti.
With trembling fingers, she picked up her phone and dialed Miguel’s number.
It rang once.
Then twice.
Then went straight to voicemail.
“Papa…” she whispered, staring at the screen as if it had betrayed her. She tried again. The same result. Voicemail. Her thumb hovered over the keypad, frustration and fear clawing up her throat.
Of course. Of course his phone was off.
She let the phone fall to the counter, pressing her palms flat against the surface as she bowed her head. The bakery felt too quiet now, every sound magnified—the ticking clock, the hum of the refrigerator, her own uneven breathing.
Then—
The front door creaked open.
Abby stiffened.
“We’re closed,” she called from behind the counter without looking up, her voice sharper than she felt. “Come back tomorrow.”
Footsteps answered instead.
Slow. Deliberate.
“We’re looking for Abigail… Vasquez.”
The voice was rough, unmistakably male, and it carried something cold beneath it. Abby’s heart slammed against her ribs as she lifted her head.
Two men stood just inside the doorway.
They were dressed in black on black—tailored coats, polished shoes, corporate clean in a way that screamed money and violence wrapped together. Their faces were hard, unreadable, eyes scanning the bakery like they were cataloging exits and weaknesses. Beneath each of their left eyes sat the same small tattoo—dark, deliberate.
Abby didn’t need an introduction.
Moretti.
Her throat went dry, but she forced herself to straighten. “I’m Abigail,” she said, keeping her voice steady through sheer will. “How may I help you?”
One of the men smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes.
“Oh, in a lot of ways,” he said lightly.
The other chuckled, already reaching into his jacket. “But first, you’re going to speak to our boss.”
The glint of metal flashed as he pulled out a gun, casual as if it were nothing more than a wallet. Abby’s breath caught painfully in her chest.
“Raise your hands,” the man ordered, voice suddenly sharp. “Slowly.”
Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure they could hear it.
“And walk toward us,” he continued. “No sudden movements. Don’t try to be a hero.”
Abby’s hands rose, fingers shaking despite her effort to control them. The warmth of the bakery—the ovens, the bread, her mother’s legacy—felt impossibly far away now.
As she took her first slow step forward, one terrifying truth settled into her bones:
The debt had found her.
Abby swallowed hard and did exactly as they said.
“I have no business with whatever you have going on with my father,” she said, her voice tight as she moved, hands still raised. Each step toward them felt unreal, like she’d slipped into someone else’s nightmare.
“Sit.”
The command was sharp. Final.
The man with the gun pointed toward one of the small round tables in the customer area—the kind usually occupied by retirees sipping coffee and couples sharing pastries. Abby lowered herself into the chair slowly, her legs weak beneath her, the irony of the setting almost cruel.
The other man reached into his pocket and placed a phone on the table in front of her.
The screen lit up.
Unknown Number.
Before Abby could even process it, the call connected.
The screen filled with an image—and her breath tore out of her in a scream.
“Papa!”
Miguel Vasquez was tied to a chair, his arms bound behind him, his body slumped forward like it could barely hold itself upright. His right eye was blackened and swollen shut, a jagged cut splitting the skin above his brow, dried blood streaking down the side of his face. Sweat soaked through his shirt, his chest rising and falling unevenly.
“Papa—please—” Abby choked, surging forward instinctively, only to freeze when the gun lifted slightly in her peripheral vision.
“Let him go,” she cried, her hands clenching into fists on the table. “Let him go! He didn’t mean—he didn’t—”
A low chuckle sounded from somewhere off-screen.
The voice that followed was smooth. Calm. Almost amused.
“Hi, Abby,” it said. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
Her blood turned to ice.
Aksara