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The place is minimalistic yet sophisticated, with soft lighting that casts the space in an inviting, yet awe-inspiring ambiance.

The walls are adorned with pictures of coffee fields and tea plants—I hired an interior designer to take care of all this crap.

The three barista/waiters and the two assistant bakers are sitting around one of the dark wooden tables on the plush, high-backed chairs.

The marble-topped bar stretches across from them, where they serve artisanal smoothies, organic teas, and uniquely fine coffee brews.

Patrons can catch a glimpse of the culinary baker and his minions in action through the massive glass panel showing the open kitchen.

Every little detail contributes to an atmosphere of understated luxury.

Contrary to my brother Raph, I try to project a non-threatening image to look approachable to my underlings, unperturbed but assertive. Because you never know when people can be of use. That’s why I let my lips curl a little as I reach them.

They greet me with different levels of politeness. I don’t like inane chatter or talking for the mere sake of it. I only do that if there’s a purpose, an angle I can exploit, usually to feel people out. Today, I just want to hurry this up and go back home.

“Where’s Russ?” I ask about the manager.

“In his office,” comes Linda’s rapid reply.

“Go get him.” She runs off as soon as I utter the words.

“Would you like a coffee, boss?” one of the baristas offers me.

I nod. “To go.”

I turn to the others. “There have been a couple of heated verbal arguments in the last few weeks, one in front of the customers. Do any of you care to tell me what happened?”

Nobody speaks, suddenly avoiding my eyes, except one guy. His gaze doesn’t waver, spine straight, hands balled up. A defensive pose like he’s expecting something negative to come his way. If he intends to physically attack me, his small and delicate figure won’t help him at all against me.

“Name?”

“Izzy Pratt.” His lips turn into a long line, and I suddenly know why.

“You’re the one involved in the quarrels.”

“Quarrels?” He sniffs bitterly. “I don’t know who your source is, but that’s not the word I’d use.”

“And what word is?” I accept the coffee the barista hands me, tilting my head at him without taking my eyes off Izzy Pratt.

“Bullying, harassment, threats.”

I like his boldness, but it reminds me too much of Lori.

“Mr. Mahoe. What a pleasure!” The manager, Russ, finally arrives, looking like he has not a worry in the world. He reminds me of Ken from Barbie. However I can read anxiety in his stiff smile.

“Sorry for my tardiness, I was organizing some papers in the office.”

I ignore his ass licking and get straight to the chase. “You’re fired. Pack your shit and go.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then a gasp and low murmurs go around the room.

“What? But…why? I’ve been doing a great job in the last month,” Russ sputters with a desperate expression, and I know why. Yesterday, Rami cleaned out his bank account and got him evicted. Now he’s losing his job. This is nothing compared to what I really want to do to him.

“You’ve got your girlfriend a job here and a quick promotion as the assistant manager without any references.

You’re also fired, by the way.” I wave at Linda while taking a sip from my coffee.

This is good stuff; I should get some of these beans for home.

“And also you let your drug dealer friends set up shop inside my café.” I took care of those fuckers already by giving an anonymous tip to the cops. They were picked up two days ago.

“That’s not true, I-I swear,” he says pathetically. What a fucking waste of space this guy is.

“Go before I call the cops.”

“You have no proof!” he barks.

“You turned off the CCTV inside the café, but not outside in the back alley where you and your pals smoked weed together during work hours.” Fucking amateur. “I have plenty, shithead. You also owe me seven hundred dollars for all the free food you and Linda gave away to friends and family.”

His face has turned red, body trembling with anger. If he tries to pounce on me, I have a nice surprise for him—witnesses be damned. It would be self-defense, and Veronica is registered. I almost hope he does attack me. But time passes, and the worm doesn’t make a move.

“What the fuck are you still doing here? The holier-than-thou boss spoke.” I give him a long, challenging look since I’ve heard him call me that behind my back. “Get the fuck out before I make you,” I hiss with an incinerating glare.

He finally flees, tail between his legs, toward the office with Linda following him like a lost puppy. “You.” I point to the barista who gave me the coffee. “Make sure he doesn’t steal anything.” He nods and quickly jogs after them.

“You can go back to work,” I tell the others.

I’ll keep my eye on Russ, and if he crosses the line at any time, I’ll stuff every hole in his body with bullets.

Nobody fucks with me. The thought that he’s been doing it for a month enrages me.

I started having my suspicions about two weeks after he started, but Rami told me we needed more proof. Just in case. Now I have enough.

“Are you going to fire me too?”

I lower my gaze to Izzy Pratt. He’s still here.

“Since they bullied me because?—”

“I don’t care,” I cut him off, but he keeps talking.

“Because I’m trans.” He widens his arms to show me…what exactly?

I give him a once-over. Big lips, long hair. The level of wariness in his eyes is odd for a person this young, unclouded of any delusions. Which tells me he had a rough life. “Does being trans affect your work efficiency?”

He frowns. “Uhm, no.”

“Izzy, here is your batch.” Charles comes out of the kitchen to leave a tray on the counter. He tilts his head at me and goes back to work.

“I don’t remember those pastries on the menu.”

“Oh, I made them.” His cheeks turn pink. “I noticed most customers take coffees to go, and the cakes we provide are not easy to carry.” He shrugs.

I make my way to the tray. The presentation is nice, they look inviting and smell good.

“These are strawberry tarts, and those are lemon cheesecake bars.”

I toss a round tart in my mouth, and fuck, it’s good, at an incredible level.

It melts on my tongue, the balance between sweet and sour is perfect.

Now that I think about it, a week ago, Charles told me there was an employee who is very good at baking.

The Russ and Linda fuck-up discovery pushed that discussion aside.

“Do you have a culinary degree?” I ask.

“No.” He turns his eyes down and sighs. That must be the reason why he got a job as a barista and not as a baker.

“I’m moving you to the kitchen. I want these pastries on the menu,” I let him know.

“What?” he replies, seemingly baffled. Deciphering people’s emotions is a drag sometimes. And why do they always need explanations? Can’t they just take what they’re given? Sari included. Damn it.

“You’re the best employee here, always on time, never complain, a hard worker. Also, you could be an alien, and I wouldn’t care. That’s your private life. None of my business. I’m your boss, not your pastor.”

Nobody bothered me when I was finding my way, and I turned into the best version of myself.

I’m simply giving Izzy the same courtesy.

Why? Because an idea is whirling inside my head.

I saw a for sale sign a few weeks ago outside an old bakery near Rami’s warehouse apartment.

My eyes fall on the pastries Izzy made. This could be a new opportunity for a franchise.

“I’ll give you a three-month trial. Keep the status of this café high. Don’t, and you’re fired,” I finish. Three months is enough time to see how he does and to start planning accordingly.

He is still looking at me like a dead fish, mouth open and all, but he nods after a second.

I keep talking as I walk toward the office, expecting him to follow, and he does.

“I appoint you as the temporary manager until I find a permanent one. You’ll have double salary until then.

Your first task is to find two more servers, take care of that quickly.

I’ll send you an email with whatever you need to know about inventory, quality control, menu planning, cleaning equipment, and so on.

You’ve been working here for two months right? ”

“Yes.”

“So you know some things already. My phone number is only for emergencies. I’ll see you in a week. I expect a full briefing.”

He suddenly grabs my hand in his. “Mr. Mahoe. Boss, thank you so much for this opportunity. Baking is my life. I won’t let you down.

” His beaming smile is not as annoying as I expected.

The way he’s looking at me—I like to be adored by people even though they are only little ants to me.

Inconsequential, insignificant. But if Izzy Pratt is as good as I believe, he could be of use.

“Let go,” I deadpan, more than ready to leave.

He suddenly drops my hand and starts backing away. “Sorry. I’ll see you in a week.” He scurries away.

When I get to the parking lot through the backdoor, a loud, irritating jingle hits my ears.

It’s coming from an ice cream truck across the road.

I see Russ and Linda leaving in their car; I can hear their heated fight even though the car windows are closed.

How much I’d like to punish them, see their suffering, blood rolling down their cheeks.

My cock turns hard at the prospect, and Sari’s face suddenly pops up in front of my eyes.

I’m associating sadistic pleasure with him now. Fuck!

I enter my car and slam the door.