Page 68 of A Very Daddy Christmas

The whole breakfast room comes to a standstill as Sebastian, Waylan, and I are forced to assess our situation once again. I smile and pat George on the shoulder, hard enough to startle him.

“I don’t make threats, Mr. Hamilton. I make promises, and I keep them.”

“We don’t have to sit here and put up with this nonsense,” Orson says and gets up. “Come, George. I’m sure we’ll find the privacy we need in the cigar room without having to file a complaint with the club’s management.”

“Run, little rabbits, run,” Waylan chuckles as we watch the two of them skitter away. “You can’t escape your own fates.”

We’re left at the table, unfinished coffees and sandwiches sitting before us. It feels like a slap in the face. We didn’t get what we came here for, but I wonder if we at least made a dent in their sense of security. They know we know about Denaro. They know we suspect a dirty connection. It’s not enough though.

“Hopefully they’ll get rattled enough to slip and make a mistake,” I tell Sebastian.

“We can’t bank on that,” Waylan says. “It’s far from over.”

“It’ll get worse before it gets better, but what’s most important is keeping Cora and Eva safe,” I reply.

Sebastian shakes his head. “Denaro is at the bottom of this. We can’t let him slip away. I’ve got a feeling he’s got his fingers deep in a few pies. Deep enough to make waves without ever showing his face.”

“He has been pretty private, you’re right about that,” I mutter.

“What do we do when we want the rats out of the house?” Waylan asks a rhetorical question.

You smoke them out. That’s what you do. You give them a reason to emerge from their hiding spots. Therefore, we need to give Denaro a reason to poke his head out. The best way to do that, without stirring the pot with local law enforcement, is to keep resisting whatever Orson and George do going forward.

Cora needs us more than ever. Her future and her happiness, her safety and her well-being, all depend on it.

21

Cora

Idon’t know if it’s the stress, the pregnancy, or a bit of both, but I seem to be spending more and more time each morning puking my guts out in the bathroom. At home, it’s easier to hide my symptoms. At the bakery, it’s getting harder to conceal a growing issue that shouldn’t be an issue. It’s a blessing.

I’m having a baby.

And I’m terrified.

Smack in the middle of a coffee order, I feel the burn traveling up my throat. I give the customer an apologetic smile and nudge Eva, who’s cleaning a work surface next to mine.

“Eva, can you handle this gentleman’s panini, please?”

“Yeah, sure, what’s going—”

I bolt before my sister has a chance to finish her question. I make it to the bathroom just in time, emptying everything in my stomach. I wipe the sweat off my face and neck, then wash my hands and rinse my mouth.

“Ugh, there went my breakfast,” I mumble to myself in the mirror.

“What in the world is going on with you?” Eva demands, scaring me half to death.

Oh, shit.

“I didn’t lock the door,” I mutter, trying to muster the courage to look at her.

My sister stands a few feet away, leaning against the bathroom door, hands on her hips and a streak of blueberry jam smudged across her green Levine Bakery apron. “No, you did not.”

“Who’s manning the counter?” I ask, trying to change the subject.

“Carl. Everyone’s taken care of, for now. Except you, it seems,” Eva replies, looking understandably worried. “Cora, what’s going on here? This isn’t the first time you’ve slipped away, pale-faced and sickly.”

“I’m okay,” I offer a weak smile.

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