Chapter 6 Sienna
Sienna
The restaurant is too quiet.
It’s the kind of quiet that makes my skin itch, because there’s no way in hell a place this nice is this empty during lunch hour.
I guess things work differently when you’re Benedikt Volkov.
It’s my fault for allowing him to choose the place because I couldn’t think of one that wouldn’t make him stick out like a sore thumb.
Sitting across from him, I try not to fidget as I stir my water with the straw.
He looks perfectly at ease, leaning back in his seat like he owns the place. He’s in a perfectly pressed black suit, a black undershirt, and black everything else.
Not one pop of color.
“This is nice,” I say to break the silence. “Did you reserve the entire place, or does everyone just conveniently disappear when you show up?”
“I prefer privacy.”
“Right.” I glance around while he plucks his glass of vodka. “Very private. Totally normal.”
He’s watching me with an unreadable expression. It’s infuriating how calm he is while I am seconds away from unraveling.
“You bake every morning,” he states.
“Yes. We bake everything fresh every day.”
I don’t even realize I’ve wrinkled my nose until his lips twitch like I’ve given something away.
My expression must be screaming what I don’t say aloud: Vicki is a nightmare.
She’s pushy, anal, and somehow both too involved and completely clueless.
She hired Lucy first, then me, then sat back, expecting us to keep the place afloat while she micromanaged the wrong things.
It wasn’t until Lucy and I took matters into our hands—experimenting, creating new flavors, and pushing the menu forward—that the bakery began making real money.
Vicki was furious until she saw the cash flow.
Now, she demands more.
Ben tilts his head, his gaze heavy and knowing. “Your silence is telling, Miss Graves.”
I’m already tired of this forced, polite conversation. I know men like him don’t invite women like me to lunch for small talk. I want to know what he wants, and then to be on my way.
“It’s a job, Mr. Volkov. Nothing that special about it.”
He takes a slow sip of his drink. “So, you don’t want to open your own bakery?”
“I didn’t say that. Working for one and owning one are two different things.”
“More control.”
“More everything.”
His index finger traces the rim of his glass, but his eyes never leave mine. “Except you’ve been serving more than sugar.”
I frown. “What?”
Ben leans forward to rest his forearms on the table. The shift in his posture makes the space between us feel smaller. The way he looks at me now is different. It’s not casual or amused, it’s calculated and intentional. Like I’m not just sitting across from him but caught in his web.
His tone is smooth and firm like he’s telling me something obvious that I should’ve already known. “Your bakery has been used to pass messages among people with a lot more to lose than you do.”
I stare at him, waiting for the punchline. He’s joking. This is some weird test or game that rich, brooding men play when they’re bored.
When the silence stretches too long, I chuckle and shake my head. “You mean people on diets?”
His expression doesn’t change. “I mean dirty cops and politicians.”
My face lifts with a mix of disbelief and amusement. “Excuse me?”
“I didn’t stutter, Miss Graves.”
“Um, okay.” I lean back in my chair and fix Benedikt with an expression that says I’m going to leave in two seconds if you keep talking like a crazy person. “Is this… some sort of roleplay, Mr. Volkov?”
“If it were, Miss Graves, we wouldn’t be out in the open like this.”
I have zero clue how to interpret that, but it still doesn’t stop the ideas from sprinting through my head at full speed, completely unsupervised.
Him, leaning back in his chair, all relaxed and confident, dark eyes burning with something unreadable.
Him, demanding I sit on his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
His strong thighs underneath me, solid and warm, his big hand running up my leg, and his fingers teasing the edge of my dress.
His lips just a breath away as he murmurs how he wants me to straddle his—
I clear my throat so hard that I nearly choke. “What about cops again?”
“The dirty cops that place orders at your bakery, Miss Graves.”
Wait, what?
“Dirty co—Mr. Volkov, the only illegal thing happening at the bakery is how much butter I use in the croissants.”
His expression doesn’t change. “The phone is tapped.”
My stomach drops, but I keep my face neutral. “So? Were you looking… to own a bakery or… something? Why would you… Wait; did you say tapped, Mr. Volkov?”
“You take orders,” he continues. “Give them out. Some of those orders contain more than pastries.”
“But you said tapped. Do you mean like… you’re listening to orders coming in?”
He tilts his head. “You ever wonder why certain customers are so specific with their orders? Why someone needs three honey-glazed donuts and two chocolate croissants, down to the last detail?”
“Because everyone in the office wants the same donut they had the last time?”
I don’t pay attention. Sure, I remember the regulars’ orders, but my brain is so focused and meddled that information doesn’t stick around long. I’m on to the next order and what needs to be done.
“You don’t believe me.” He’s more amused than offended.
“I… seriously have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You help run an undercover messaging system, Miss Graves.” I gape at him from across the table.
He’s still handsome.
He’s also still hard to read.
My fingers tighten around my napkin as I try to process his words.
Messaging system?
He’s saying this like I knowingly signed up for an underground network of corruption instead of just baking croissants and dealing with annoying customers who don’t know the difference between a macaron and a macaroon.
I study his face for any sign of sarcasm, but he just watches me like he’s waiting for a reaction that makes sense to him.
I don’t have one, though, because this is insane.
Is this why he called me here? Some weird, vague, conspiracy-laced business meeting? So far, the only thing I’m getting out of this is an urge to walk out the door and never look back.
I reach for my purse and straighten my spine. “I think it’s time for me to go.”
“Think about the patterns,” he says. “The repeat customers who never eat inside. The ones who pay in cash and never take a receipt.”
“Tomorrow,” he continues, “You’ll get an order for three dozen donuts.”
“So?”
“Half will be jelly-filled, and three will be honey-glazed.” He leans back again. “Pay attention to who picks it up.”
I shake my head and stand abruptly. “Mr Volkov, I’m busy at work. I don’t pay attention to who orders what and why.”
Normal people buy donuts. Normal people pick up orders. Normal people do not have random, unreadable rich men pulling them aside to make those normal things sound like code for something dangerous.
“Detective Miller Campbell.” He looks up at me. “He’s been scoping your bakery for weeks. He’s also been looking into you. You’ve been under investigation for the past seventy-three days, Miss Graves. Haven’t you noticed him following you?”
Dread creeps up my spine as I stare back at him.
My hands go cold.
I stare at him, and the sounds of the restaurant fade into the background.
Seventy-three days?
That’s ridiculous. It’s insane.
All of this is insane.
I let out a forced breath, shaking my head again, but slower this time. “No. Because that’s not happening.”
Benedik bites back a grin. “Isn’t it?”
“No.” I laugh, but it sounds thin and unnatural. “Why would a detective be investigating me? I’m a baker. I wake up at four a.m., I make pastries, and then I go home. That’s it. There is nothing about my life that warrants an investigation.”
He watches me like he’s waiting for me to catch up to something obvious.
What am I supposed to do with this information?
I cross my arms over my chest, feeling unsteady because I’m still waiting for him to tell me he’s joking. “If this is a scare tactic, it’s not working.”
“Miss Graves,” he says patiently, as though he’s explaining something to a child. “Did you ever stop to think about why your bakery has been doing so well? Why your special orders have increased so suddenly? Why certain customers keep coming back for the same things over and over?”
Because they liked our products?
My fingers curl around the strap of my purse like a lifeline. “Because they like our pastries.”
Benedikt smiles, slow and knowing. “Do they?”
I swallow.
I should leave right now.
I should turn around, walk out of here, and pretend this conversation never happened.
But it did happen.
And now, I can’t unhear any of it.
Now, I’m thinking about the guy who always picks up a box of éclairs and nothing else. The woman who orders six cinnamon rolls, pays in cash, and never says a word. The sudden influx of bulk orders that Vicki was thrilled about but never really questioned.
It was just business. Just customers.
Wasn’t it?
I look Benedikt in the eye, ignoring the cold, twisting feeling in my stomach. “You’re wrong, Mr. Volkov.”
“I’m hardly wrong about this, Miss Graves. I’ve looked into it. I know it.”
I glance toward the restaurant entrance, my nerves buzzing. It feels like everyone is taking notes.
A detective has been looking into me.
I don’t even know what that means.
I don’t know what I’ve done.
The only thing I do know is that I should never have come to this lunch.
I should have listened to my gut, ignored the invitation, and kept my head down. Because now, there’s a weight pressing on my chest that wasn’t there before. And a nagging, terrifying feeling that maybe Benedikt isn’t crazy.
Maybe I’m just blind.
“You don’t have to believe me, Miss Graves. But I’d suggest you start paying attention. Because whether you realize it or not, you’re already a part of this.”
My pulse pounds in my ears.
No.
No, I’m not.
I don’t say anything. I can’t.
I just tighten my grip on my purse, turn on my heel, and march out the front door without a look back.
Well, that’s a lie.
I look back about a hundred times and shove a chair in front of my door when I get home.