Page 13 of Craving

Six months ago, Mr. Petrovski’s neighbor—who happened to be Amelia’s neighbor too—had been involved in an elaborate operation to sell stolen goods. She’d disappeared while her partner took the fall, and the whole town had been awash with gossip for months afterward. When the original thief had been caught, Amelia nearly had to go into hiding to avoid the hordes of locals wanting to juice her like a lemon for all the sordid details. They’d heard about her neighbor Mrs. Gordon’s involvement only the day before, on the morning of Amelia’s wedding. Camilla thought it was a good thing Amelia was leaving for her honeymoon today. The gossip would be out of control.

Since the ordeal had started, any little drama had been blown out of proportion. Like, for example, a vandalized bakery window.

“You’ve got a good nose for these things, Mr. Petrovski,” Camilla said in a placating voice before turning to the next customer. “What can I get for you?”

By closing time, Camilla’s feet ached, but her heart was full. She’d sent everyone home and was doing the final cash-out at the register, humming to herself. She’d spent all day feeding people. She’d heard countless sympathetic comments. Her community had rallied around her to give her one of the best days of business her bakery had ever experienced.

Everything would be okay, and soon she’d be in that beautiful house, laying her head on a pillow, feeling utterly content. A couple more days like this, and Camilla would be able to fix the window, save a security deposit for a new place, and finally start over.

Then the bell above the door jingled.

“We’re closed!” Camilla called out a moment before she looked up—and stilled.

Frankie Smith strolled through the door. He stood silhouetted in the doorway with two of his goons standing a step behind him. Glancing at the plywood, Frankie sniffed then swung his gaze to Camilla.

She stood frozen, gripping the counter, not understanding what she was seeing. What was he doing there? Why did he come? She’d paid him! Their business was done!

The trio’s footsteps echoed on the tile floor as they approached. Frankie was a shortish, pudgy man with a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair. His face always looked red, and his nose had a purple tip and the broken capillaries that betrayed decades of heavy drinking. He wore a blue button-down shirt and a leather jacket, along with brown pleated pants and black shoes. His goons were over six feet tall, possessing protruding foreheads and an inability to speak in polysyllabic words.

Ice water could have dumped over Camilla’s head, and it would have chilled her less than the sight of those men in her space. She straightened and donned the mask she always used with him. Professional, unflappable, unafraid. “Mr. Smith,” she said with a nod. “What can I do for you?”

He gave her an oily smile. “I’m here to collect, darling. You’re late.”

Camilla’s brows slammed together. “W-what? No! I made the transfer yesterday. I sent you a text with the receipt as proof.”

Frankie shrugged, spreading his palms. “Ain’t got no money in my account, girl. No money means—you—are—late.”

“T-that’s just because it was a Saturday,” she stammered. “But you got the receipt... It’ll be in your account on Monday, Frankie. I sent the money on time.”

A snort and a shake of the head was the only response he gave. He snapped his fingers at one of the goons behind him, who reached into his leather jacket and pulled out a sheaf of papers. Frankie took the stack, flipped to the second-to-last page, and slapped the documents on the counter for Camilla to see.

“Read section fourteen point seven of our loan agreement for me, Miss Fox.”

Heart hammering, Camilla frowned at the papers. The letters swam all over the page. She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them up again, taking a deep breath. “‘In the case of default on the loan, an excess discharge fee will be incurred by the loanee in the amount of ten thousand dollars!’” She whipped her head up to meet Frankie’s gaze. “What? No!”

“It’s right there in black and white, and your pretty little initials are at the bottom of every page,” Frankie answered, beady eyes flat. “So pay up, Ms. Fox, and let us be on our way. Otherwise…” He let the word hang, glancing around the bakery.

He didn’t have to finish the sentence. Camilla knew what would happen otherwise. That had been a guillotine blade hanging above her neck for the past decade.

Because a loan shark didn’t only charge fees and interest. No, Frankie Smith had put clauses in their loan agreement that stated that if Camilla failed to make the repayments, the ownership of the business would revert directly to Frankie Smith. Worse, she’d have to work for him for five whole years. He could run her bakery to the ground, and Camilla would have to help him do it.

But she didn’t have ten thousand dollars. She’d spent everything she had to make the final loan payment yesterday. Literally everything. She’d had to wait until Saturday morning to make the transfer, because that’s when the deposit from Friday’s earnings at the bakery finally showed up in her account.

Her credit was shot; she wouldn’t even be able to borrow ten thousand dollars to pay him off.

“Frankie…” Her tough-woman persona was gone. Camilla was close to tears. “This can’t be legal.”

“You gonna take me to court?” Frankie arched a brow. He didn’t look scared, because he already knew the answer: No, she wasn’t going to take him to court. She couldn’t even afford a dumpy studio apartment in Stirling’s worst neighborhood. Legal fees were beyond her.

Frankie sighed, planting meaty fists on the counter. “Listen, honey, I’m a nice guy, so I’m going to be lenient.” He leaned closer, and his breath smelled of onions. His eyes drilled into hers. “I’m going to give you”—he tilted his head, like he was mulling it over—“two weeks to come up with the money. I won’t even charge you interest. You just gotta get ten thousand dollars to my account by…” He glanced at Goon Number One on his left, the one who’d been carrying the papers.

The goon checked his phone. “The nineteenth of November.”

“The nineteenth of November,” Frankie repeated, smiling. “Easy.”

Calculations flew through Camilla’s head. The bakery’s profits outside of the wedding season after expenses, staff wages, and taxes were just over a thousand dollars a week, and that didn’t include paying herself a wage. She couldn’t do two weeks. No way.

“Eight,” she said. “I need eight weeks.”

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