Page 1 of Owned By The Bratva King

1

Quinn

It’s five-forty-five a.m., and I’m exhausted. But I must keep going.

In the early hours of this cold New York City morning, it’s as though everyone is asleep but me. My boss, Jeanette, left ages ago; as far as she’s concerned, I insist on closing and opening the bakery daily because I enjoy my job.

That part is true, but not the reason I’m always here. Thanks to stupid fate, my place of work recently became my home.

I sleep on the mezzanine level, walled in by sacks of flour. Not that I mind; I’ve lived in worse places. If anything, the anonymity of my existence affords me a degree of safety. I don’t want to be seen, and I don’t want to matter.

The air is hazy with powdered sugar. My back aches as I stand at the kitchen island and lay out the pastry ready to blind-bake, a daily ritual I could do blindfolded. I take a break to wipe my face with the back of my hand, leaving a sweet smudge on my brow, and slide the trays into the oven, stifling a yawn.

You’ll keep going, Quinn. Sure, you’re worn out, but what choice do you have?

Five fifty-five a.m. Almost time to start another day.

I pause to flip the pages of Classique Patisserie. It was Mom’s copy, and it’s well-used, her notes scribbled in the margins. Had things been different, she’d have taught me.

I’m trying to learn, but I only work here and must make what I’m ordered to make. It doesn’t mean I don’t go off-road now and again, like the fancy frosting I invented for the cinnamon buns.

I daydream about becoming a professional pâtissier, but the training fees are exorbitant. At least dreams are free, even though they hurt. This tiny space is all I have, and my world is shrinking day by day; eventually, there will be only these four walls and me.

If only I could UNO Reverse my life and set off in another direction. Would that be so wrong? I don’t have much going for me; I’m plain-looking and lack the confidence to put myself out there. I have fuzzy memories of being loved, but once my parents were gone, I was not enough.

Too fat, too shy, not smart, and most galling of all, not grateful. For what? What kid would buy a Greyhound ticket with stolen money and flee to the city if everything was great at home? I was fifteen, for crying out loud. Manhattan seemed too tall back then; not much has changed ten years later.

Five fifty-eight. I rub my sleeve on my cheek, catching a tear, and snatch the keys from the hook beneath the cash register.

There’s nothing for it. Another day and all I have to do is get through it. What did Billy Joel sing? ‘It’s always once upon a time in New York City…’

Six a.m. I turn on the shop light, lift the blind, and unlock the door, turning the sign over to ‘open.’ The sandwich board is leaning against the wall, and I wipe it clean with a damp rag and drag it outside.

Terri from Hungry Hearts is leaning on her car, waiting for me. She seems to arrive earlier every day.

“Hi, Quinn.” She gives me a brisk hug. “Lots of empty bellies on the streets this morning. What you got?”

“I saved a basket of croissants from yesterday.” I ask the question I'm always afraid to ask. “You got a lot of kids on your watch?”

“So many.”

I feel sick to my stomach. The thought of young people being swallowed up by this city reminds me of myself; not only where I've been, but where I'm headed.

I go inside and retrieve the leftover pastries. “Here.” I hand Terri the basket. “I wish I could do more.”

“No worries, honey,” she says. “There's only so much one person can do. Every bit helps.”

Terri drives away. I kneel on the concrete and I retrieve a chalkboard pen from my apron pocket, my breath fogging in the cold.

Specials, I write. Florentines, $4. Baklava and flat white, $5.

My ears ring a nanosecond before I hear the sound, and I hurl myself onto the sidewalk, the bang reverberating through the still air.

A gunshot. Must be.

I scramble inside and touch my hip pocket, looking for the key. It’s not there. Shit, what did I do with it?

When the entry bell sounds, I don’t look up. I’m still scanning the floor, hoping to spot the elusive key, when my eyes stop at a pair of black leather dress shoes.

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