The bell above the bakery door chimed, cutting through the heavy silence left by Adrien Moretti’s departure. Lena let out a long, shuddering breath, her fingers still resting on the glass counter where the blank check had been.

"Your uncle?" Lena crossed her arms, trying to regain some semblance of control as Adrien poured himself a straight shot of scotch and tossed it back.

"Dante Vance. He’s spent the last decade trying to strip the Moretti family of its legitimate holdings and drag us back into the dark ages of trafficking and blood money," Adrien said, his voice cold enough to freeze steel. He looked at Lena, his dark eyes locking onto hers. "And he knows that your grandmother's recipe book contains the ledger numbers for the offshore accounts he used to siphon our family fortune twenty-two years ago."

Lena stared at him, the pieces finally clicking together. "That’s why you wanted the cake. You weren't just chasing a childhood memory—you were tracking the trail."

"I was doing both," Adrien admitted quietly, stepping closer to her. "When I tasted that cake, I knew you were Clara’s granddaughter. But I didn't expect Vance to move this aggressively. By coming after you tonight, he’s made it clear: he thinks you have the ledger."

"And do I?" Adrien paused, watching her closely.

Lena reached into her canvas bag, pulling out the water-stained journal. She flipped to the back page, pointing at the mysterious numbers scrawled beneath the orange almond cake proportions.

"My mother always said these were baking adjustments," Lena said softly. "Baker's percentages. But they never made sense for any cake I've ever baked."