Chapter 8 - THE NIGHT THE BAKERY DOOR BROKE
The attack came during a snowstorm.
Hannah was closing the bakery.
Samuel had gone upstairs.
Dante was helping stack chairs.
Then the front window shattered.
Glass exploded across the floor.
Hannah screamed.
Dante pulled her behind the counter.
A second crash followed.
Someone had thrown a brick.
Attached was a note.
LEAVE TOWN.
Dante looked toward the street.
A dark truck sped away.
He reached for his phone.
Then remembered he'd left Boston without one.
Hannah handed him hers.
“Call the police.”
He did.
The officers arrived twenty minutes later.
They photographed the damage.
Collected the brick.
Took statements.
Hannah stood beside the broken window.
Her hands shook.
Dante approached.
“Are you hurt?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
He looked at the glass.
“I'm sorry.”
She turned.
“For what?”
“For bringing this here.”
Hannah stared.
“Your uncle brought this here.”
Dante looked down.
She continued.
“You didn't throw the brick.”
He nodded.
“But my family—”
“Your family isn't your excuse.”
He looked at her.
She stepped closer.
“And it isn't your sentence either.”
Silence.
Dante stared.
No one had ever spoken to him like that.
Not with fear.
Not with flattery.
Just truth.
Hannah looked toward the bakery.
“We'll clean it.”
Dante nodded.
“I'll help.”
They worked until dawn.
Sweeping glass.
Covering the window.
Moving furniture.
When the sun rose, neighbors arrived.
The diner owner brought coffee.
The hardware store owner brought plywood.
A retired carpenter offered tools.
A church volunteer brought blankets.
Dante watched them.
Nobody asked for payment.
Nobody demanded favors.
They simply helped.
Hannah looked at him.
“See?”
He frowned.
“What?”
She smiled.
“This is what people do.”
Dante stared at the neighbors.
He had spent years believing loyalty required leverage.
But here, people showed up because someone needed them.
And he began to understand what Mick had meant.
A man was measured by whether he'd help carry a heavy bucket.
That afternoon, Dante carried buckets.
Flour.
Water.
Broken glass.
He worked until his hands blistered.
And when Hannah noticed, she laughed.
“City hands.”
He smiled.
“Apparently.”
She took his palm.
Examined the blisters.
Then handed him a pair of gloves.
“Try these.”
Their fingers brushed.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Hannah looked away.
Dante felt his heart race.
He had known beautiful women.
Powerful women.
Women who wanted his name.
May you like
But Hannah had given him gloves.
And somehow, that meant more.
