Page 38 of My Young Mafia Daddy

‘Mitch, the customer asked for three boxes of triple glazed,’ I say, trying not to sound too stressed out. ‘This is two boxes of single glazed with a side of raspberry twirlers?’

‘Argh. Shit. Sorry, my bad,’ Mitch replies, the tension in his voice clear for all to hear. ‘One second, I’ll box up the right order.’

‘No problemo,’ I shout back, smiling at the customer as he patiently waits for the right order.

I think that if we can just get through the morning rush, both me and Mitch can sit down and take a moment to discuss the options.

I might be a baker by trade now, but I did study business at college many years ago. I can’t say I ever wanted a career in finance or anything like that, but I can still remember some of the stuff I studied.

Maybe what we need is a brainstorming session to come up with a plan.

I’ve also got a Little friend who is a lawyer too, maybe he can see whether this sale is legal or if it’s possible that as an existing business we can insist on seeing out our lease.

I don’t know if any of these things will lead anywhere, but I know that I have to keep positive and not give up hope.

But just as I’m about to go back to the storeroom to help Mitch out, a hush comes over the bakery…

‘Um… hello?’ I say, my eyes fixed on the three men who have just entered. ‘Mitch? I think you need to come out front. Like… right now.’

I don’t know who these men are, but I know that I don’t like the vibe they’re giving me – and neither do the customers as every one of them scuttle out of the bakery at super-sonic speed like frightened mice who have just seen three big, hungry cats walk in.

‘Can I help you?’ Mitch says, standing next to me and putting on a brave voice even though I can tell he is nervous.

‘The name’s Conte,’ the man says. ‘But you can call me Mr. Landlord.’

I don’t like the look of Conte, or the sound of him either – he sounds mean and evil.

He’s dressed all in black apart from a thin dark purple tie. He’s older than me, maybe in his early fifties.

The thin scars on his face tell me that Conte is a man who isn’t scared of getting in a fight – and probably wins most of them too.

If Conte has those scars and is alive to tell the tale, I dread to think what happened to the other guys!

The two thugs with him are big and mean too. They both look like they’re in their early thirties and are wearing black jeans with black t-shirts.

Judging by the fact that neither of the two thugs have a full set of front teeth, these two men aren’t afraid of throwing punches with their heavy, hammer-like fists.

I’m scared.

But I need to listen to what Conte is saying to Mitch…

‘You’ve got two weeks to clear your crap,’ Conte laughs. ‘When I said you could call me Mr. Landlord, that was probably a bit misleading. You should probably call me Mr. Eviction.’

‘Two weeks? But I’ve got a contract!’ Mitch says, his voice trembling as he tried to stand up to the bully.

‘Contract?’ Conte bellows. ‘Here that guys? The man says he has a contract?’

The two thugs laugh along with Conte before one of them swipes his hand across a shelf and sends several rows of fine Danish pastries flying.

‘That’s what I think about contracts,’ Conte says. ‘And unless you want us to start throwing you about, or worse, I’d accept your fate.’

This is bad.

This is even worse than bad.

I need to message my Daddy and I need to do it quickly.

Typing as quickly as I can and fitting in as much information as I’ve got, I update Nico on the fact that Conte is here.

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