Chapter 5 - The Bakery Visit
Two days after the stormy birthday showdown, the morning sun broke crisp and clear over New York City. Dominic Russo sat in the back of his armored town car as it glided quietly through the bustling streets of Queens, pulling up to a modest, slightly faded storefront bearing the hand-painted sign: Bennett’s Sweet Treats & Bakery. The front window displayed a few day-old pastries and a handwritten sign advertising coffee for a dollar fifty. Dominic adjusted the cuffs of his dark navy suit coat, signaling Tony to cut the engine. He didn't want an army of guards swarming the neighborhood; he wanted quiet. Operating his manual wheelchair, Dominic rolled down the sidewalk and pushed open the front door of the bakery. A small brass bell chimed overhead, instantly drawing the attention of the shop’s sole occupant. Nora Bennett stood behind the glass pastry counter, wiping flour from her hands with a dishtowel. When she saw the paralyzed mob boss rolling into her humble shop, her jaw practically dropped. She dropped the towel and stared at him in utter disbelief. “Mr. Russo? Dominic? What on earth are you doing here?” she asked, looking frantically toward the street as if expecting a SWAT team to follow him. Dominic maneuvered his chair smoothly near the counter, offering a faint, reassuring smile. “Good morning, Nora. I was in the neighborhood, and I wanted to check on my baker.” “Your baker?” Nora crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow. “This is a quiet neighborhood, Dominic. We don't need mafia shootouts between batches of cinnamon rolls. Is everything okay? Did my delivery cause trouble?” “Your delivery caused the most refreshing disruption I’ve experienced in four months,” Dominic said smoothly, his eyes scanning the cozy, flour-dusted interior. It smelled of vanilla, yeast, and hard work—a stark contrast to the sterile opulence of the Whitmore Hotel. “I came to see if you needed a new car heater.” Nora blinked, caught off guard. “What?” “Your delivery guy quit, your car heater died, and you dragged your son across town in February because your livelihood depended on sixty-five dollars,” Dominic said, his voice dropping into a tone of quiet earnestness. “A woman who works as hard as you do shouldn't be freezing her commute. Allow me to replace the vehicle.” Nora’s expression hardened instantly, her pride flaring up like a shield. “I don't take handouts, Dominic. I work for every dollar I make. If you’re here to play the wealthy savior, you can wheel right back out that door.” Dominic held up his hands in a gesture of absolute surrender, genuinely impressed by her unyielding spirit. “Forgive me. Poor phrasing. Let’s call it a business investment in my primary cake supplier.” Before Nora could formulate a sharp retort, the shop’s back door flew open, and six-year-old Leo bounded into the room holding a plastic superhero action figure. When he spotted Dominic in his wheelchair, the boy’s eyes lit up. “It’s the man from the palace!” Leo shouted happily, running right up to the wheelchair. “Did your legs start working yet?” Nora gasped, her face flushing bright red. “Leo! Manners! You cannot just ask people that!” Dominic chuckled—a low, genuine sound that completely transformed the harsh lines of his face. He reached out, patting the top of Leo’s messy hair. “Not yet, buddy. But I’m working on it.”
