Standing right beside our table, looking hollow-eyed, gaunt, and wearing a stained security guard uniform that was two sizes too big, was Ryan.
He had lost weight. His hair was unwashed, and the arrogant, polished swagger he used to carry around the apartment had completely vanished, replaced by the desperate, hunted expression of a stray dog.
Ryan stared down at me, his eyes wide and bloodshot.
“Emily...” he whispered, his voice cracking. “God... Emily, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
Dad didn't stand up. He didn't yell. He simply set his espresso cup down on the saucer with a quiet, deliberate clink and slowly turned his head to look at Ryan.
Ryan flinched violently, taking a half-step backward as he recognized the terrifying presence sitting across from me.
“R-Mr. Moretti,” Ryan stammered, sweating profusely despite the cool autumn air. “Please... I just... I need to talk to my wife—my ex-wife. Just for a minute. I lost my apartment, I lost my job, the bank seized my car... I have nothing, Emily. Please. Can’t we talk about this? We had a life together.”
I looked at him—really looked at him. I looked at the man who had screamed at me for being too slow, who had locked me in rooms, who had left bruises on my body while telling me I was worthless.
There was no anger left in me. There was only pity.
“You didn't want a wife, Ryan,” I said, my voice steady, calm, and completely devoid of emotion. “You wanted a victim. And you ran out of victims.”
Ryan’s face contorted in desperation. He lunged forward, reaching out a hand toward my arm. “Emily, please—!”
Before his fingers could even brush my sleeve, a massive shadow loomed behind him.
Tony Rossi had quietly stepped inside the bakery from the street entrance. With terrifying speed and ruthless efficiency, Tony grabbed the back of Ryan’s collar, wrenched him backward off his feet, and pinned him hard against the bakery wall, pressing the barrel of a concealed stun baton firmly against his ribs.
Ryan gasped for air, his eyes bulging with terror as Tony whispered something low and lethal into his ear.
“Touch her again,” Tony said softly, “and you won't live long enough to regret it.”
Dad calmly picked up his espresso cup, took another sip, and looked up at Ryan.
“You heard my associate,” Dad said smoothly. “Walk away, Ryan. This city is too small for you to cross paths with my family ever again.”
Tony shoved Ryan hard toward the front door. Ryan stumbled over his own feet, caught himself on the glass door, and bolted out onto the sidewalk, disappearing into the midday Chicago traffic like a coward.
The bakery returned to its quiet, peaceful hum.
Dad looked back at me, a warm, reassuring smile breaking across his weathered face.
“Ready to go home, sweetheart?” he asked gently.
I smiled back, placing both hands protectively over my belly as our daughter kicked again, as if cheering for the victory.
“Yes, Dad,” I said, standing up and taking his arm. “Let’s go home.”
