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“Fine.” I push the paper toward him. “Just mark off the ones you get done.”

He nods and picks up the first bun.

Once I’m in the back office, Oliver shuts the door. Already, my stomach hurts just looking at him. His face contorts in guilt.

“No,” I sigh, already knowing what’s coming. “You didn’t.”

“It’s not that bad.” Guilt lingers in his eyes.

“How much?” I want to scream. I want to pull his hair out. I want to put my fist through his nose, maybe split his lip open. But doing any of those things won’t work. I’ll just feel bad for doing it and have to take him to the hospital to get him cleaned up. And I don’t have the energy for it today.

“C’mon, Charlie. Don’t look at me like that. It’s not what you think. I didn’t go to a bookie.” He wipes his hand over his face, and I notice the exhaustion there. “I didn’t gamble, I swear. I needed some cash to invest in this business that had a ton of promise. I knew you didn’t have the money, so I borrowed it.”

A loan shark. The stomach pains twist into nausea.

“How much, Oliver?” I ask with my eyes closed. Now more than ever I can’t let that order cost us any lost business.

“Two hundred.” He pinches his lips together.

“Just two hundred?” The amount sounds wrong. Why would he be so worried over a lousy two hundred?

“Grand, Charlie. Two hundred grand.” His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat after he gives me the full amount.

I’m going to vomit. The donut and coffee I had for breakfast this morning is going to reappear all over my desk any second.

“Two hundred thousand dollars?” I want to yell it, but the shock takes most of the sound from my voice. “Where the hell am I going to get two hundred thousand dollars?”

“I know.” He grimaces. “I just… maybe just a little cash? Just to give them to get them off my back?”

“Them?” I clench my teeth as a thought strikes me. “Who’s them, Oliver?” I close my eyes, trying to ward off the name he’s about to give me. Because I know it’s coming. I can sense it in my bones, but once he says it I won’t be able to unhear it.

“The Romanovs.”

I sink into my office chair, an old wooden chair with wheels my father’s had in this office for two decades.

“You borrowed money from the Russian mob?” I can’t look at him. If I look at him, and I see the remorse in his eyes, I’ll feel sorry for him. And I’m too angry to feel sorry for him.

“It was a good business investment, Charlie. I swear it,” he hurries to justify. He can always excuse his behavior.

I put my hand up in the air to stop his excuses. I’ve heard all of them before, and I don’t have time for a rerun of a bad show.

“How much will keep them happy?” Already, I’m doing math in my head.

“I think I can get more time with ten thousand.” The number rolls off his tongue as though he’s asking for a couple of bucks for a cup of coffee.

“Five percent? You think five percent will appease them?” My brother, always the delusional optimist.

“It’ll buy me some time.” He runs his hands through his shaggy brown hair.

“For how long?” Loan sharks aren’t really known for their patience, and the Romanovs aren’t known for being reasonable.

“I don’t know,” he whines. “They’ll be here tomorrow to collect. Do you think you can help?”

“Here?” I move back to my feet. “You have them coming here? To our deli?”

“I thought it would be safer. A public place.” He shrugs.

As though public spaces ever stopped the Romanovs from doing what they wanted to do. Having an audience to a crime when you have big players in the NYPD in your pocket isn’t exactly a hindrance.


Tags: Measha Stone Crime