Chapter 1 - THE $50 KISS THAT SHOULD HAVE MEANT NOTHING
Some mistakes you could walk back from.
Most people screwed up by texting an ex at two in the morning or putting a massive charge on a credit card they could not afford.
Mave Sullivan screwed up by pressing her mouth against a man who could end her life with a single bored flick of his wrist.
It was just a stupid dare.
A petty joke in a sticky-floor dive bar to win fifty dollars.
She did not know he owned half the city.
She simply thought he needed to smile.
Neon signs flickered outside the bruised windows of Ali’s Pub, bleeding sickly pink light across the scarred mahogany bar.
Mave picked at the peeling paper label on her cheap beer, her fingernails chipped and dusted with dried flour.
Tuesday nights were graveyard shifts for the soul.
Nobody important went out on a Tuesday in this part of town except exhausted workers pretending the world was not grinding them into dust.
Khloe leaned across their small, wobbly table.
Her eyes were entirely too bright, fueled by two shots of terrible tequila and a complete lack of impulse control.
“I’m telling you, he hasn’t blinked in ten minutes.”
“Stop staring.”
“Look at him.”
“I don’t want to.”
“He’s creepy.”
“Then definitely stop staring.”
Mave was bone-tired.
Her feet ached after a nine-hour shift at Bell Street Bakery.
She smelled permanently of yeast, burnt sugar, vanilla, and industrial bleach.
All she wanted was to finish her beer, go home to her drafty apartment, and sleep until her alarm dragged her back into reality.
But Khloe had that dangerous, bored tilt to her chin.
“Fifty dollars,” Khloe said.
Mave frowned.
“What?”
“Fifty dollars says you won’t go over there and kiss him.”
“You are out of your mind.”
“Look at him. He looks like he hasn’t experienced joy since 1999.”
“Maybe he likes it that way.”
Khloe slapped a crumpled fifty-dollar bill onto the table.
“Plus I’ll cover your closing shift Friday.”
Mave stared at the money.
Her electric bill was overdue.
A red FINAL NOTICE was taped to her refrigerator.
Pride was wonderful.
Electricity was better.
“You’re a terrible friend.”
“You love me.”
“I tolerate you because rent prevents me from finding better friends.”
She grabbed the bill.
Then she stood.
The pub suddenly felt too small.
The man occupied a booth in the back corner.
He wore a dark tailored suit that looked absurdly expensive against the peeling vinyl.
Two enormous men sat nearby.
As Mave approached, both men stood.
Fast.
Terrifyingly fast.
Their hands moved toward their jackets.
Mave froze.
Then the stranger lifted one gloved finger.
The men immediately sat down.
That should have been enough.
Every survival instinct Mave possessed screamed at her to turn around.
Instead, stubbornness pushed her forward.
She stopped beside his table.
Up close, he was worse.
Handsome, yes.
But not in a comfortable way.
His face was hard angles and exhaustion.
Dark hair.
Sharp jaw.
Eyes like tarnished metal.
He looked like a man who had forgotten what ordinary life felt like.
He slowly looked at her.
Mave’s courage began evaporating.
So she did the stupid thing before she could reconsider.
She leaned down.
And kissed him.
His lips remained completely motionless.
One second.
Maybe two.
Mave pulled back.
Her face burned.
He stared at her.
“You have exactly three seconds,” he said, “to explain why you just did that.”
“It was a dare.”
Silence.
“A dare.”
“Yes.”
She pointed toward Khloe.
“My friend. Fifty dollars and a covered shift.”
His eyes moved toward Khloe.
Khloe immediately pretended to study the ceiling.
Mave swallowed.
“I’m sorry. Have a good night.”
She walked away.
Fast.
When she reached the bar, the bartender looked like he had seen someone step willingly into traffic.
“Are you insane?”
“It was just a kiss.”
“Do you know who that is?”
“No.”
“That’s Rowan Mercer.”
The name hit her.
Hard.
Everybody knew Rowan Mercer.
You did not have to be a criminal.
You simply had to live in the city.
Mercer owned shipping yards, construction companies, restaurants, warehouses, and enough politicians to make people uncomfortable.
Some called him a businessman.
Others used darker words.
Nobody used them loudly.
Mave slowly looked toward the booth.
Rowan was watching her.
“Oh,” she whispered.
Khloe finally understood.
“Oh.”
“We’re leaving.”
They left.
Mave spent the entire night expecting something terrible to happen.
Nothing did.
The next morning, the world stubbornly continued.
By three in the afternoon, she had almost convinced herself Rowan Mercer had forgotten her.
Then she took the trash into the alley behind Bell Street Bakery.
A black town car waited.
One of Rowan’s enormous guards stood beside it holding an umbrella.
Then Rowan stepped out.
Mave stopped breathing.
He walked toward her through the rain.
Three feet away, he stopped.
Then reached into his coat.
Mave braced herself.
He withdrew a fifty-dollar bill.
“You left this on the table.”
She stared.
“I left it for your drink.”
“I didn’t order one.”
“Then throw it away.”
He held the money toward her.
She did not take it.
“You didn’t need to track me down at my job like a debt collector.”
Something almost like amusement appeared in his eyes.
“I didn’t track you down to return your money, Mave.”
Her stomach dropped.
“Then why are you here?”
Rowan looked toward the bakery.
“Your landlord sold this building yesterday.”
Mave blinked.
“What?”
“Bell Street Bakery’s lease expires in forty-one days.”
“How do you know that?”
“I bought the building.”
For three seconds, she could not speak.
“You what?”
“The property was part of a commercial package.”
“You bought my workplace?”
“Yes.”
“Because I kissed you?”
His eyebrows lifted.
“No.”
“That would be insane.”
“Correct.”
“Good.”
“I bought it six hours before you kissed me.”
That shut her up.
Rowan glanced toward the bakery again.
“Your employer will receive an eviction notice tomorrow.”
Mave’s anger arrived before fear.
“There are twelve people working there.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t evict us.”
“That is not why I came.”
“What do you want?”
He studied her.
“Your help.”
She laughed.
Actually laughed.
Rowan Mercer did not.
“You have bodyguards.”
“Yes.”
“Lawyers?”
“Several.”
“Accountants?”
“Too many.”
“Then why would you need help from a baker?”
“Because someone is trying to kill me.”
Mave stopped smiling.
“And somehow that involves croissants?”
“It involves your father.”
The alley disappeared.
“My father is dead.”
“I know.”
Patrick Sullivan had died eleven years earlier.
Car accident.
Rainy highway.
Wrong place.
Wrong time.
Mave had been nineteen.
“What does my father have to do with you?”
“He worked for Mercer Shipping.”
“I know.”
“What you don’t know is what he found before he died.”
Her throat tightened.
“Found?”
“Financial records.”
“What kind?”
“Records proving someone inside my organization was stealing millions and moving weapons through legitimate shipping routes.”
Mave stared.
“My father drove trucks.”
“He also noticed numbers.”
“Everyone notices numbers.”
“Your father noticed the same container appearing on three different manifests.”
Rain ran down Mave’s face.
“He reported it.”
“To whom?”
“My father.”
Rowan’s father, Alexander Mercer, had died six years earlier.
Mave suddenly felt cold.
“What happened?”
“Your father died four days later.”
Her heartbeat changed.
“The police said—”
“I know what the police said.”
“Are you telling me my father was murdered?”
“I’m telling you I don’t believe his death was an accident.”
Mave stepped backward.
“No.”
“Mave.”
“No.”
She pointed at Rowan.
“You don’t get to walk into my alley eleven years later and rewrite my father’s death because you need something.”
“I agree.”
That stopped her.
“What?”
“You shouldn’t believe me.”
He reached into his coat again.
This time he withdrew an envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
Her father.
Standing beside Alexander Mercer.
The timestamp was four days before Patrick died.
On the back, in her father’s handwriting:
IF SOMETHING HAPPENS TO ME, CHECK THE BREAD BOOK.
Mave stared.
“What is the bread book?”
“I was hoping you knew.”
She did.
Her mother’s recipe book.
The old red notebook Patrick used to tease her about because Mave’s mother had written recipes on everything—receipts, envelopes, napkins—and eventually pasted them all inside one battered binder.
Mave still had it.
In her apartment.
Rowan watched her face.
“You know.”
“No.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“And you’re terrifying.”
“So I’ve been told.”
She shoved the photograph back.
“I’m not helping you.”
“Then don’t.”
“What?”
“I said don’t.”
She stared at him.
“I came because you deserved to know.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
He held out the fifty.
Mave looked at it.
Then at him.
“You are unbelievably strange.”
“Yes.”
She finally took the money.
“Debt settled?”
“Not remotely.”
Before she could ask, he walked away.
That night, Mave went home.
She lasted fourteen minutes.
Then she pulled the old red recipe binder from the cabinet above her refrigerator.
Her mother’s handwriting covered the pages.
Apple pie.
Irish soda bread.
Cinnamon rolls.
Then she found one recipe she did not recognize.
Mercer Bread.
There had never been Mercer Bread.
She turned the page.
A key fell out.
Small.
Brass.
A number engraved on it.
Mave sat down.
Then she noticed writing hidden beneath the recipe.
Her father’s handwriting.
Mave—
If you ever find this, I’m sorry.
Trust nobody who says they’re protecting you.
Especially a Mercer.
She stopped breathing.
Her phone rang.
Unknown number.
She answered.
“Hello?”
A man’s voice.
“You opened the book.”
Mave froze.
“Who is this?”
“You should have listened to your father.”
The line went dead.
Then someone knocked on her apartment door.
Three slow knocks.
Mave grabbed a kitchen knife.
“Who is it?”
Rowan’s voice came through the door.
“Mave.”
She tightened her grip.
“My father left me a message.”
Silence.
“What did it say?”
“Not to trust a Mercer.”
A long pause.
May you like
Then Rowan answered.
“Your father was a smart man.”
