Page 1 of P.S. I'm With You
Prologue
NIKA
The doorbell echoes through my quiet bakery, jolting me from my task of scrubbing the counter. Turning, I see a young man standing at the entrance, fidgeting and glancing over his shoulder as if being followed. His nervous demeanor sets off alarm bells in my head—those who enter an establishment with such unease are either hiding something, or about to cause trouble. And considering I’ve never seen the man, I can only assume the latter.
Grabbing my butcher’s knife, I slam it into my cutting board before glaring up at the man. He has unimpressive brown eyes and a weak chin he’s failing to hide under his patchy facial hair. “Are you lost?” I bark out, knowing I only have moments before my daughter or granddaughter come rushing out here to drag me into the back and gag me. They act as though I’m the old lady losing her mind with her age. Ha! I’m as sharp now as ever before. But I’ll let them continue to believe what they need if it gives them peace.
“Hi, yes,” the man squeaks, “I’m looking for a Ni-ka K-K––”
“Nika,” I say firmly. “I ask for last time, you lost?”
“N-No! I’m Justin, I’m supposed to give this to a Nika Kov-Kovac?” Eyeing the box, I see the imprint of the Iris and my heart stops.
“I am Nika, who sent this?” ThisJustinsets the box on the counter and steps back.
“He said you would know who, now tell him I did my job and to leave me alone.” The man runs out of my shop, leaving me alone with the box. I stare at the brown paper with a purple flower and a name written on the top. It’s not my name, at least, not a name I’ve gone by in many decades.
Kasapin.
Shit! Why is this here? Now? How have they found me after all this time?
“Baka?” Turning, I look at my granddaughter, Stefa. She goes by ‘Stevie’ but I refuse to call her that. “Did you scare off another customer?” The disappointment in her voice isn’t lost on me.
“Ah yes, Stefa, because Baka scare all customers away. It’s best business practice. How you think we have the success?” Her brows furrow and I’m about to walk over and flick her in the forehead when she speaks again.
“Then who came through the door?” she asks, raising her black brow. She has ebony hair like her mother and I once had, but chooses to color it with a bright blue-green. I don’t understand, but the kids these days do weird things.
Although…
My gaze trails back to the box and this gets Stefa’s attention. “Oh! Is that my package?”
“No!” I snap, putting an arm around the box. “No, Stefa, this is for Baka.”
“What is it, Mama?” My daughter, Zora asks while making her way from the back.
“I buy the newest sex toy,” I state firmly. “It suppose to hit pleasure spot no man can reach.” Stefa smacks her face with her hand and walks away, but my Zora doesn’t move.
“Mama,” she says softly. “Kasapin?”
“Ne!” I warn, feeling overwhelmed. “Zora, do not speak that name!” I order in our native language.
“Mama! I know the name. I know the flower. Why now?”
“We have a rule,” Stefa says, walking back out. “No full-on Croatian because you’re hiding things.”
“Ahh.” I wave my hands dismissively before walking to the entrance and locking the door, turning off the open sign. “This was not to be talked about until I die. Make for good story at funeral. But fine, come now, it’s time I told you.” Stefa looks between me and her mother.
“Tell me what?”
Taking a breath, I run my fingers over the letters spelling out the wretched name. “About Kasapin.”
“Kasapin? That means––”
“The Butcher,” I whisper, my hand balling into a fist. “It mean ‘The Butcher’ and was what those who feared Baka would whisper in the darkest corners back home.”
One
NIKA
