The high from the grand opening had crashed, leaving behind a profound, quiet hum in its place. The crowd was long gone, the last stragglers having disappeared into the chilling Toronto dusk. The door was bolted, the open sign flipped to Closed. Only Nevaeh and her inner circle remained, their tired movements a stark contrast to the earlier, frantic energy. They worked in a comfortable, silent rhythm forged over years of friendship: wiping down tables, sweeping up stray crumbs, and stacking the mismatched chairs Nevaeh had lovingly collected from flea markets. The air, once thick with explosive excitement, now held only the lingering, sweet fatigue of success and the faint scent of stale coffee.
Imani broke the silence, her voice a low, steady murmur as she meticulously stacked clean mugs behind the counter, the clatter seeming loud in the sudden quiet. "Okay, but seriously, what was that?"
Nevaeh pretended not to hear. She was focused intently on scrubbing a tiny, almost invisible smudge off the gleaming stainless steel of the espresso machine, her movements tight and unnecessarily vigorous.
"What was what?" she asked, her voice a little too breezy, a forced lightness that felt hollow even to her own ears.
"Don't 'what was what' me, Nevaeh," Taylor chimed in, tossing a handful of crumpled napkins into a bus bin. He leaned against the counter, his expression shifted from his usual playful grin to one of deep concern. "I've never seen men in suits look so... wrong in a café. The vibe was entirely off. They looked like they were about to foreclose on the place and then eat it, flour and all."
Willow emerged from the back kitchen, stripping off her apron with a frustrated snap. Her scowl was fierce. "They looked like they were running a very illegal drug deal in our corner booth. And the one with the horrible tattoo gave you a look, Vaeh. Like he was sizing you up for the auction block."
The casual mention of the gaze from the man with the tattooed neck—the cold, proprietary way he had stared—sent a fresh, icy chill down Nevaeh's spine. She felt a blush of heat flood her cheeks, a searing mix of acute embarrassment and lingering, visceral fear. She straightened up, holding the damp cloth in her hand like a flimsy, ineffective shield.
"It was probably just a business meeting," she said, forcing a casual shrug she didn't feel. The lie tasted like ash. "They were dressed up, so maybe they're lawyers or something. Toronto is full of all types. Just high-strung Bay Street commuters looking for a discreet spot."
"Lawyers who bring their own thick, sealed manila folders to a bakery grand opening?" Amanda countered, her tone dangerously skeptical as she finished cleaning a table. "And who stare at the owner like she's a piece of property they're planning to buy and develop?"
Nevaeh's carefully constructed composure began to crack. The memory of the leader—the man whose name she didn't even know—standing sentinel in the doorway was too vivid. His posture had radiated a silent, undeniable power that had sucked the oxygen right out of the room.
She tossed the cleaning cloth into the sink with a metallic clang that was far too loud for the quiet space. She wanted to laugh it off, to dismiss it as a weird, one-time incident that got blown out of proportion. But the static-filled snapshot of those five suits lingered, dominating her mind.
"Look, the day was amazing," she insisted, turning to face them, trying to inject her voice with the genuine excitement she'd felt hours ago. "Let's not let five weirdos ruin it. It was a huge, resounding success, right? The word is out. The scones sold out. We're going to make it."
Her friends exchanged a long, silent look—the shared, worried conversation that spoke volumes. They knew her well enough to recognize the wall she put up when she was truly scared. Willow sighed, stepping forward and placing a gentle, warm hand on her shoulder.
"Nevaeh, you're shaking, Vaeh," she asked softly, her gaze a genuine reflection of her concern. "What happened? Tell us the truth."
Nevaeh finally let the facade shatter. The energy needed to hold it up had exhausted her. "I don't know," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I just... something felt wrong. The one who stayed by the door, the leader... he just stood there and watched me. It was like he was a king surveying a new part of his kingdom. It was unnerving. Proprietary."
"And you don't think that's worth worrying about?" Willow pressed, her hand tightening slightly on Nevaeh's shoulder.
"I don't think I have a choice," Nevaeh said, her voice rising with a sharp edge of frustration and panic. "What am I supposed to do? Call the cops and tell them some hot, well-dressed men held a meeting at my bakery and stared at me? They'll laugh me out of the station. I just have to forget about it. It was a one-time thing. They'll never come back."
The last words sounded less like a statement and more like a desperate, pathetic plea to the universe. Her friends didn't push it further, though their concerned faces remained a constant source of guilt. They knew her stubbornness was a key part of her success, but they also knew that stubbornness was often layered over a deep well of denial.
Long after her friends had exchanged weary hugs and driven off into the cooling night, Nevaeh sat alone in her café. The sweet, heady smells of the day had finally faded, replaced by the faint, antiseptic scent of cleaning supplies and the smell of ozone from the silent appliances.
She sat at the counter, hunched over a lukewarm cup of the leftover espresso she hadn't had time to drink all day. She stared out the window at the empty street, her mind a relentless playback loop of the afternoon. The man's face, the cold intensity in his eyes, the way his men moved as one unit. His presence had been the single, biggest event of the entire day, overshadowing her success.
Who was he? Why did he come here?
The questions felt like tiny needles, pricking at the frayed edges of her hard-won peace. She had been so careful. Every detail of her life here in Toronto was clean, accounted for, and boring. She hadn't left a trail.
The need to understand was a gnawing ache in her stomach, a feeling far more powerful than the fear itself. The unknown was a gaping, terrifying hole. The leader of the group, she recalled, had called one of his men by a short name, something clipped and sharp. She replayed the scene in her head, focusing only on the subtle sounds over the din of the crowd.
He spoke to the man next to him... a quiet, sharp command... something like, "Tell Dyl to take the back booth." No, wait. "Tell Dylan to wait."
She suddenly remembered Willow mentioning seeing a business card. No, not a business card. A folder that one of the men had been looking at. She grabbed her keys and dashed to the back table the men had occupied. She ran her hand under the edge of the tablecloth, finding nothing. She knelt, her eyes scanning the dark wood floor beneath the table. Nothing.
Disappointment was sharp, but then her hand brushed against the underside of the table edge. Tucked neatly into the crevice where the table met the wall was a single, expensive-looking white business card, the edges embossed with a subtle silver foil.
She snatched it up, her heart suddenly galloping against her ribs. She flipped it over.
Long after her friends had exchanged weary hugs and driven off into the cooling night, Nevaeh sat alone in her café. The sweet, heady smells of the day had finally faded, replaced by the faint, antiseptic scent of cleaning supplies and the smell of ozone from the silent appliances.
She sat at the counter, hunched over a lukewarm cup of the leftover espresso she hadn't had time to drink all day. She stared out the window at the empty street, her mind a relentless playback loop of the afternoon. The man's face, the cold intensity in his eyes, the way his men moved as one unit. His presence had been the single, biggest event of the entire day, overshadowing her success.
Who was he? Why did he come here?
The questions felt like tiny needles, pricking at the frayed edges of her hard-won peace. She had been so careful. Every detail of her life here in Toronto was clean, accounted for, and boring. She hadn't left a trail.
The need to understand was a gnawing ache in her stomach, a feeling far more powerful than the fear itself. The unknown was a gaping, terrifying hole. The leader of the group, she recalled, had called one of his men by a short name, something clipped and sharp. She replayed the scene in her head, focusing only on the subtle sounds over the din of the crowd.
He spoke to the man next to him... a quiet, sharp command... something like, "Tell Dyl to take the back booth." No, wait. "Tell Dylan to wait."
She suddenly remembered Willow mentioning seeing a business card. No, not a business card. A folder that one of the men had been looking at. She grabbed her keys and dashed to the back table the men had occupied. She ran her hand under the edge of the tablecloth, finding nothing. She knelt, her eyes scanning the dark wood floor beneath the table. Nothing.
Disappointment was sharp, but then her hand brushed against the underside of the table edge. Tucked neatly into the crevice where the table met the wall was a single, expensive-looking white business card, the edges embossed with a subtle silver foil.
She snatched it up, her heart suddenly galloping against her ribs. She flipped it over.
Dylan Burke
Chief Investment Officer
Confidential
Dylan Burke. The name was a common chord in a song she desperately wished she didn't know. His face, however, was not. He had a look that was impossible to forget.
She ran back to the counter, her hands slick with a cold sweat. She pulled out her phone, her fingers hovering over the search bar, the screen reflecting her wide, panicked eyes. She typed the name into the search bar, a single, decisive action that felt like she was signing her own confession.
The search results loaded instantly, hundreds of links related to finance and real estate. See, Vaeh? Lawyer. CEO. Nothing to worry about. She tried to cling to that narrative. But then she scrolled, and the tone shifted. The dates were older, the headlines sharper, written in the frantic, dramatic style of local investigative journalism.
She clicked one. The article was a deep dive, dated five years prior, focusing on the shifting power dynamic in the city's criminal landscape. It was accompanied by a grainy, pixelated photo that was chillingly unmistakable: the sharp jawline, the black, assessing eyes. It wasn't just a Dylan Burke. It was the Dylan Burke.
She read the headline slowly, meticulously, the words burning themselves onto her mind:
The Scion of Toronto's Underworld: Is the Burke Family's Reign Coming to an End?
Burke Family. The name was synonymous with every dark alley, every closed-door deal, every whispered legend of untouchable power in the city. Her perfect little bakery, her sanctuary, had just become a square on the chessboard of the city's most notorious crime syndicate. The realization hit her like a physical blow, stealing the air from her lungs.
She scrolled back to the initial, newer search results. "Chief Investment Officer." That was the cover. The suit, the expensive card—it was all a deliberate, polished façade for the deep-seated rot that controlled half the city's infrastructure.
She threw the phone down on the counter. The metal of the espresso machine felt cold and hard against her shaking hand. This wasn't a random business lunch. This was a targeted visit. The king had come to inspect his new domain.
Nevaeh walked slowly back to the back table. She had to know if they had left anything else. The man with the neck tattoo had looked at her, and now she understood that look: it wasn't a glance, it was a tally.
She ran her hand under the table one more time, pushing deeper into the crevice. Her fingers found something flat and thick. She pulled it out—not a napkin, but a heavy, sealed manila envelope, the kind meant for legal documents, the seal stamped with a subtle, stylized 'B'.
Her breath caught in her throat. She didn't want to open it, but the need to know—the desperate need to grasp the shape of the coming disaster—was overwhelming.
She broke the seal, the crisp tearing sound loud in the silent cafe. Inside, there was a single sheet of thick, cream-colored paper. It wasn't a foreclosure notice, but a formal, binding document.
The title, centered at the top in heavy, elegant font, read:
CONTRACT OF AGREEMENT REGARDING
LEASEHOLD AND PROPERTY PROTECTION
Nevaeh's mind screamed. This wasn't about coffee. This was about control.
She skimmed the document, her eyes frantically trying to make sense of the dense legalese. Paragraphs referenced her lease agreement, her recent permit issues with the city (the very small snag she thought she had dismissed earlier!), and an "immediate, unconditional resolution" to those issues. It promised to make her building permits untouchable. It promised "protection" from any future bureaucratic or civil obstacles.
In exchange for these services—for the guarantee that her dream would never be threatened by the city—the contract demanded
SECTION 4. PAYMENT AND COOPERATION.
"The Proprietor, Nevaeh Harper, agrees to grant Burke Capital (The Principal) unrestricted, confidential access to the premises for use as a secondary, private meeting space on no less than two evenings per week, and to conduct the Principal's business without interference or inquiry."
Unrestricted access. Private meetings. Conduct the Principal's business.
Her sanctuary. Her safe space. It wasn't hers anymore. It was being requisitioned. The "Chief Investment Officer" wanted to use her beautiful bakery as a legitimate front for the Underworld. The man had not been looking at a baker; he had been looking at a pawn and her prime piece of commercial real estate.
Her shaking hand fell away from the paper. It fluttered down to rest on the counter next to the business card. The contrast was stark: the beautiful, fragile sugar-dusted counter and the sharp, black reality of the contract.
She looked around her cafe. The rustic brick, the warm lights, the careful details—it all felt like a beautiful trap. She had wanted security, and now security was being offered to her by the very devil she had run from.
A Contract of Smoke and Sugar. The title of her nightmare.