Chapter 3 - Blood on the Baking Sheets
Thirty minutes later, Roman’s black SUV tore through the quiet, snow-dusted streets of downtown Brooklyn, screeching to a halt in front of Vivien’s Sweet Treats, a cozy, warm-windowed bakery that smelled permanently of vanilla, cinnamon, and toasted sugar.
Except tonight, the front window was dark. The deadbolt on the glass door was thrown, but the glass panel next to the brass handle was starred with a clean, circular fracture—the unmistakable signature of a glass-cutter.
Roman didn’t wait for Leo to open the door. He threw his own door open, drew his Sig Sauer P226 with practiced fluidity, and kicked the front glass door inward with enough force to splinter the wooden frame.
The security alarm began to shriek, a high-pitched electronic wail that bounced off the glass display cases filled with unsold cupcakes and pastries.
"Clear!" Leo shouted, sweeping his weapon toward the back storage room, stepping past metal mixing bowls and sacks of organic flour.
Roman walked slowly into the center of the shop. The air was cold. The ovens were off. But on the stainless-steel prep table in the center of the kitchen, something caught the pale amber glow of the emergency exit sign.
A single white baking sheet.
On it sat a half-decorated cinnamon roll, identical to the one she had been trying to make that morning. But the white cream cheese frosting wasn't neat. It was smeared across the metal surface in a dark, brownish-red streak.
Blood.
And beside the tray lay a silver charm bracelet—the one Roman had given her for their first anniversary, bearing a tiny gold key.
Roman stared at the bracelet, his chest tightening until every rib felt ready to snap. Someone had taken her. Not for ransom—professional kidnappers didn't leave cryptic notes about dead men under crystal glasses in Manhattan. This was personal. This was a message carved directly into his flesh.
"Boss," Leo called out from the back office, his voice trembling slightly. "You need to see this."
Roman strode into the cramped office space. The computer monitor was glowing, displaying a single open window. It wasn't a ransom demand. It was a live security camera feed looping from the alley behind the bakery.
The timestamp in the corner read 8:42 PM—just thirty minutes before Roman had lifted his water glass at Bellamy House.
On the grainy, night-vision monitor, two figures dressed in black tactical gear were dragging a struggling, hooded figure out the back door of the bakery. The captive fought with surprising ferocity, kicking backward and twisting away, managing to knock off one attacker's ski mask for a fraction of a second.
Roman slammed his palm against the edge of the desk, his eyes locking onto the screen with a mixture of horror and absolute, murderous disbelief.
The man whose face had flashed on the screen for one brief, illuminated second was supposed to be resting in a concrete vault six feet under the New Jersey wetlands.
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It was Marcus Vance.
The man Roman had executed with three bullets to the chest seven years ago during a bloody turf war for control of the New Jersey docks.
