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I fold her into my arms and hold her because I don’t like it either.

On Friday afternoon, my phone buzzes with a screenshot.

Daniel, to Vera. I need eight thousand by Sunday. Not a loan. I’m done asking nicely. You owe me that much.

Under it, her answer to him: No.

I forward it to Anton. Anton forwards it to the man on the street that night, and the man after him.

No one threatens my woman and gets away with it.

On Sunday night I’m in a garage in Cicero that belongs to one of Anton’s cousins, with Anton, four of his men, and a hand-drawn map of Zorin’s south yard spread across the hood of a car. We’ve walked through Tuesday three times. Where the night shift parks. Which gate sticks. Where the foreman stands to smoke.

The phone rattles against the hood.

Vera. A screenshot. Another message from Daniel.

Rosa’s at the shop. She fell. Says not to call you because you’ll make a fuss.

Under it, from Vera, sent while I’m still reading: Calling Tessa now.

19

VERA

“If you’re calling to ask how it went, I’m not talking about it until the results come,” Tessa says when she answers my call. “I’m eating ice cream out of the carton and Rosa’s cat is judging me.”

“Is Rosa with you?”

Something in my voice makes her stop. “She’s right here. On the couch. Why?”

“Put her on.”

A rustle. Then Rosa, sleepy and annoyed. “Vera? What is it?”

“Have you been to the shop tonight?”

“I’ve been at home since we closed. Why would I be at the shop?”

My heart is thudding even though we have the new alarms and they haven’t been triggered. Nikolai isn’t here, and I guess I always knew they were waiting for him to be elsewhere.

“Stay there,” I say. “Both of you. Lock the door. I’ll call you back.”

I hang up before she can ask anything else.

Two of Anton’s men are on the floor below Nikolai’s apartment. Another is keeping watch outside the bakery. Still, my hands are shaking when I open the camera feed.

The front camera shows the shop the way we left it at nine. Chairs up on the tables. Case empty and wiped. The register drawer is open the way Rosa leaves it at night so nobody bothers breaking it.

The kitchen camera reveals the new oven, the steel table, the swinging door, closed.

The alley is empty under the light over the back door. Then it isn’t. My heart skitters as someone comes into the frame from the far end, hood up, hands in his jacket. He stops at the back door and looks over his shoulder, up the alley, the way he came.

I know the way he stands before I see his face. I lived with it for a year.

Nikolai’s name flashes across my screen.

“Rosa’s at home,” I say before he can speak. “I’m watching the alley. He’s at the back door.”