Page 36 of Working for the Mob

“That’s it? That’s not too bad. That’s only around ten loaves,” she said, brightly. “And each batch makes two of them. Oh, and one loaf for Mrs. Jenkins!”

“Do we have that many bowls?” I asked her. I hadn’t memorized how many cooking bowls had been left to us in the abandoned house.

“If not, we can double up on some,” she assured me. I took her word for it.

I kept on kneading until all six balls of dough sat in parchment covered bowls. Not only were my feet sore, but my fingers and forearms ached as well.

“What do we do next?” I asked.

“We need to give them a couple hours to sit. The first batch may be close to ready by now. Let me have a look.” She peered into the first bowl. “I’d say that it's already doubled in size. We can start on this one.”

She pulled the dough into two halves and handed me one. “Here, pat this into a nice oval shape.”

To show me how, she pressed her dough into an oval, and I tried to as well. My blob of dough looked more like a pair of saggy bosoms.

“Now fold the dough into like a business letter, and then close it with the heel of your hand. And then we roll it into a log.”

Lucy’s logs had less lumps and indentations than my own. She took my hands and showed me how to remove the imperfections. It was nice to feel another human’s touch without the electric sparks that Art’s caused.

“Now we let these rise and we start on the next one,” Lucy said, and set them aside.

We took a few breaks while rolling since we could roll the dough a lot faster than we mixed and kneaded it. Each time, I collapsed on the closest couch and laid there with my feet in the air. The last couple dough balls took so long to rise that Lucy already had the first two loaves in the oven.

“I’ll check it after twenty minutes to see if it’s done,” she said, and continued to work on the dough balls.

It was fully dark outside by the time the first loaf came out of the oven––I would be ready for bed soon, but we still had four more loaves to bake.

Lucy pulled the baking sheet out of the oven and inspected each loaf. She picked one up, careful not to burn herself, and tapped the bottom. I watched in confusion as her face lit up. “It's got that hollow sound!” she said, her excitement contagious. A ball of energy formed in my chest.

“I think we want this crust to be crispier, but this is better than what we bought from that new bakery,” she said. She filled a pan with water and put it on a lit burner. “This will give it that crackle we want.”

“The other bakery! We need to let Jamie know not to buy from the other bakery,” I said, and Lucy’s excitement extinguished like a candle.

“But I don’t have his number,” she said, her eyes wide.

Chapter 11 – Art

The Valuncias didn’t back down like my cocky brother assumed they would. Even though the police found McLaurin’s body, the Valuncias kept their price hikes. They must have forgotten that it was the Neccis who ran the town and only allowed them to operate in Lannington.

It forced me to find new suppliers for every Necci-owned business, which was basically all of East Lannington. I had Henry drive a delivery van to Turnersville the previous morning to supply the café and supermarket with the essentials to get it through the day, but the expense was not sustainable.

I already reached out to the suppliers, and Henry would make the same drive tomorrow morning. I had to keep the people of East Lannington fed. It was my responsibility.

My stomach grumbled at the thought of food. After Genevieve overheard me yesterday, I had skipped lunch today to avoid seeing her, and still hadn’t eaten dinner.

The room grew colder by the minute. The temperature outside would dip below freezing overnight, which would give me a blustery ride home. I pulled on my coat, swung open the door, and my eyes widened and my heart leapt in my chest. Genevieve stood at the threshold, about to knock.

Her hair hung haphazardly around her face and she was out of breath, as though she had just finished a night of raucous love making. Her flushed cheeks glowed from the cold outside. White streaks and powder stained every inch of the front of her dress.

“Genevieve,” I said––all I could think oftosay. What was she doing here at my doorstep? Did she come here to apologize? Or was I the one who was supposed to apologize? I didn’t care. I was just happy to see her.

“I wouldn’t have come here if this wasn’t time sensitive,” she said. She wore the same dress she wore at the café. She definitely needed a wardrobe upgrade.

“Er … right.”

“We need to let Jamie know not to order the loaves of bread tomorrow morning,” she said. “And we had no way of calling him.”

“We?”

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