Fuck. I adjust myself as I open the door. It should be locked—the bakery is technically closed right now. She still hasn’t fixed the lock. This woman is a fucking mess. But that thought isn’t what has my body stopping, frozen like a bucket of ice was dumped over my head. It’s the sound of a smack, then a man’s voice screaming, “What the fuck!” And as I enter the bakery quickly, on red alert, it’s the sight of Johnny Vitale pinning one of Lola’s hands above her head. A white envelope on the floor next to her. And fear on her face.
