Bratva Claim (The Volkov Trilogy #1)
Chapter 1 Sienna
Sienna
Mornings at the bakery are a chaotic kind of magic.
The smell of cinnamon, vanilla, and fresh bread swirls in the air, mixing with the sound of the industrial mixer whirring and Lucy humming some old Taylor Swift song off-key.
I love it. Usually.
But not when I’m trying to wrestle a giant box of muffins, bagels, and a ridiculously extravagant birthday cake out the door by myself.
“This was a dumb idea,” I mutter, shifting the weight of the box against my hip as I elbow open the bakery’s door. “Lucy, remind me next time that I’m not a bodybuilder.”
“Noted,” Lucy calls after me. “But you said you could handle it, and I have three dozen croissants in the oven, so…”
I bite back a groan and make my way toward my car, balancing the box with sheer willpower. It’s a miracle I get it inside without a catastrophe, but the real challenge is still ahead.
Delivering it.
The order is for a big-shot company in a high-rise downtown. When the guy who placed the order called yesterday, he was all business. No warmth, no small talk, just a clipped, “I need this delivered by nine a.m. sharp.”
And here I am, right on time, somehow not covered in frosting or pastry crumbs.
A personal victory in my book, if I do say so myself.
The building is sleek and intimidating, all steel and reflective glass, the kind of place where people wear thousand-dollar suits and act like they don’t have time for nonsense.
Which explains why the receptionist barely glances up when I approach the desk after an unnecessarily long elevator ride to the top floor.
“I have a delivery for Benedikt Volkov.” I hoist the box a little for emphasis.
She finally looks at me, giving me a once-over that makes me feel like I don’t belong.
She’s perfectly put together, with sleek blonde hair and a slim frame, exuding the kind of effortless elegance that makes me acutely aware of the flour and egg smudges on my apron.
“Sienna Graves. The baker.” I paste on my best customer service smile. “This was preordered and paid for by someone named Artem.”
The receptionist sighs like I’ve ruined her morning. “One moment.” She taps something on her keyboard, then gestures toward the elevator. “Take it up to the top floor. Mr. Volkov’s office.”
“There are more?” According to the elevator I’d just exited, I was currently on the top floor.
She tosses a white badge at me—well, on top of the counter—and dismisses me by looking back at her slick Macbook.
“Great,” I say, even though it doesn’t feel great.
The elevator ride is smooth and eerily quiet, giving me too much time to think. This delivery shouldn’t be a big deal, but something about it feels… off.
Maybe it’s the way Artem was so precise about the order.
Or the way the receptionist acted like I was wasting her time.
Either way, I shake it off.
When the doors open, I step into an office so sleek and expensive-looking that I feel like I should’ve worn something nicer than my bakery uniform.
A massive desk sits near the floor-to-ceiling windows, and behind it, a man sips his coffee, watching me.
He doesn’t say a word.
I freeze for a second because… wow. Dark hair, sharp features, and piercing eyes that study me like I’m an equation.
He’s not just a corporate guy in a suit. He has an energy, something commanding and dangerous.
Intimidating, even.
I clear my throat and force myself to walk forward. “Mornin’! I’ve got a delivery for you.”
Still nothing.
Just that steady, unreadable gaze.
Okay, weird.
I shift my weight, gripping the box tighter. “Uh, it’s a birthday order. Muffins, bagels, and a cake.” I wait for something, a place to put everything, but I’m still met with silence. “Do you have a spot for me?”
“It’s not my birthday.”
I blink. “What?”
He tilts his head like he’s still confused about why I’m in his office. “I said it’s not my birthday.”
My stomach drops.
Oh no. Did I mess up the order?
Placing the pink boxes down with a gentle thud, I notice I set them all over the folders on his desk. I scramble to check the receipt, scanning it for the items ordered and the name.
No, it’s all correct.
“Are you sure?” I ask before I can stop myself. “I mean… sorry. It says here that someone named Artem placed the order for you. Maybe it was supposed to be a surprise?”
Benedikt—or Mr. Volkov, I guess—doesn’t look thrilled. But he also doesn’t say anything to contradict it.
Instead, he sets down his coffee and asks, “What kind of cake?”
That throws me off. I was expecting him to demand an explanation or kick me out, not ask about the cake like it matters.
“It’s a…” I glance at the receipt again. “Chocolate espresso bourbon cake with salted caramel frosting.”
His brows lift slightly, the closest thing to a reaction I’ve seen so far. “Mhmm.”
That’s it? Mhmm?
I clear my throat, shifting the box toward him. Now that I’m closer, I get a better look at him. At the sharp angles of his face, the way his dark hair is perfectly in place, and, most of all, those blue eyes.
They’re striking, intense, like the kind that pin you in place and make you forget how to form words. Paired with his broad shoulders and the way he carries himself, it’s an unfair combination.
I swallow, suddenly feeling a little too warm.
Great. Just great.
“There are also some lavender honey bagels, sun-dried tomato and basil bagels, matcha white chocolate, and pineapple macadamia muffins.” I glance up, watching for another reaction.
Nothing, just a slow sip of coffee.
I sigh internally.
Tough crowd.
“Was there anything else I could get you?”
Why did you just say that?
One of Mr. Volkov’s brows lifts. “Like?”
A head examination, because I don’t know why I’m still standing here.
“Nothing,” I quickly reply. “I’ll just… well, enjoy the bagels and muffins and the cake, I guess.”
He doesn’t reply, just watches as I back toward the door, feeling like I’ve just survived an unspoken test.
I step into the elevator and groan out loud.
“Idiot.” I run a hand down my face. “Could you be more awkward?”
Probably not.
But at least I’ll never have to see Benedikt Volkov again.
Right?