Chapter 6 - Baking in the Dark
Life in the Vargas estate was surreal. For the first week, Clara was confined to bed rest, recovering from her concussion. But by the second week, the stillness was driving her mad. She needed to move. She needed to bake.
She found her way to the estate's massive, industrial-grade kitchen late one night. The house was asleep, save for the perimeter guards. Clara gathered flour, yeast, butter, and sugar. The rhythmic motion of kneading dough was the only thing that kept the nightmares of Hector’s fists away.
She was pulling a tray of fresh cinnamon rolls from the oven when a shadow filled the doorway. Julian stood there, wearing a silk robe over dark trousers, holding a glass of scotch. He looked exhausted, the weight of the escalating gang war evident in the deep lines around his eyes.
"You should be resting," Julian said, stepping into the kitchen. The smell of cinnamon and sugar seemed to soften his rigid posture.
"I can't sleep," Clara admitted, setting the tray on the marble island. "The silence is too loud here. Baking helps." She pushed a small plate toward him. "Eat. You look like you haven't slept in a week."
Julian looked at the pastry, then up at her. Nobody ordered Julian Vargas around. But Clara’s eyes were earnest, maternal, and completely devoid of fear. Slowly, he sat on the barstool and took a bite. It was the best thing he had tasted in decades.
"My men were attacked tonight," Julian said quietly, the confession slipping out before he could stop it. "At the docks. Ramon is getting bolder."
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Clara reached out and placed her hand over his. Her skin was warm, dusted with flour. "You don't have to fight the whole world alone, Julian."
For the first time in thirty years, Julian didn't pull away.
