Chapter 8 Sienna
Sienna
The lock sticks. Because, of course, it does.
I jiggle the key, cursing under my breath when it won’t budge, and give it a frustrated yank before it finally turns.
The bakery is dark, but it still smells like sugar and warm dough. The cozy scent should be comforting, but it’s not.
Nothing is comforting right now.
Not when my brain is still looping through the insanity of my surprise visit with Benedikt Volkov today.
Your father owed me a lot of money.
More than he could ever pay back.
And when he ran out of options… he gave me you.
No, that’s not real life. That’s a plotline from a bad crime drama.
Stuff like that doesn’t happen to people like me—people who wake up at four in the morning to roll dough and go to bed smelling like powdered sugar. My biggest problem before today was keeping the lights on at my place while secretly covering my grandma’s rent at the assisted living center.
And now?
Now I have a mobster claiming ownership of me like I’m a damn houseplant.
He’s out of his damn mind.
If this is his idea of flirting, he lost the plot. I’m not flattered; I’m extremely disturbed. And if this is what it’s like to have a stalker—no matter how attractive he is—count me out.
I clutch my bag a little tighter and pull my jacket closer around me as I step outside. The night air is cold, and my skin is crawling. My stomach is doing flips, something that has nothing to do with the late hour and everything to do with the feeling that I’m being watched.
Because he put this in your head.
Regardless, it’s there. He won. I’ve tried to convince myself all day that this was a joke and there was no way that orders coming into the bakery were secret, coded messages for corrupt politicians.
It’s ridiculous.
Or it was, until a black SUV pulled up in the parking lot next to the sidewalk.
My heart drops.
The driver’s door opens, and a man steps out.
He’s tall and lean but broad in the shoulders. His dark suit is crisp and tailored. There’s no tie, and his shirt is unbuttoned at the top.
This guy looks like he walked out of a high-stakes poker game, smooth and confident.
I don’t like that.
“Good evening.” His voice is conversational and easygoing, like we’ve already met.
We haven’t. I’d remember.
I tighten my grip on my bag, trying to remain calm. “We’re closed.”
He smiles.
It’s nice.
Too nice.
“I’m not here for a cupcake. I’m here for you.”
I force out a laugh, but it sounds weird and breathless. “I’m sorry, but you have the wrong person.”
He doesn’t blink. “I’m Detective Campbell. I’ve been investigating an organized crime ring in the area.”
Oh.
“Felony charges, Miss Graves, for one. Two, from someone noticing Detective Campbell being camped out in front of your bakery. He’s not very good. I wouldn’t want someone to believe you’re in on what’s been happening here.”
Benedikt’s words ring in my ears, prompting the reality that this isn’t a game.
I have a feeling that I’m in some serious trouble.
I calculate how long it would take me to sprint to my car. Would he chase me?
I don’t have to answer questions, right? I’m not under arrest.
“Do you know a Benedikt Volkov?”
“Never heard of him,” I deadpan, my tone impassive.
“He was at the bakery today.”
I narrow my gaze at Detective Campbell. “Excuse me?”
“He was at the bakery. He walked in through the back, Miss Graves.” My eyes widen because he knows my name, and he quickly backpedals. “I’m sorry, but I’ve been doing my homework.”
I need to get out of this.
“I just work here,” I respond as calmly as I can. “I don’t—did you say organized crime ring?”
He bows his head. “I did. A very dangerous one, Mrs. Graves. And, if you’re in trouble, or somehow got yourself mixed up in something—”
“I just work here.”
He stares at me, and I can tell he doesn’t buy
it. “I’ve been keeping an eye on this bakery for months. A lot of interesting people walk in and out of those doors. Men who have no business being anywhere near a place like this. And I’ve seen you, working late, unaware of who you’re serving.”
I blink. “What?”
He tilts his head, studying my reaction. “You really don’t know?”
I don’t like how he’s looking at me.
Or the way my stomach churns at his words.
“I serve a lot of people,” I say, my voice light. “Customers. Regulars. Parents picking up birthday cakes for their kids. If you’re implying that I’m involved in something illegal, I think I should call my lawyer.”
He bites back a grin. “Do you have a lawyer, Miss Graves?”
I press my lips together.
His voice lowers. “Guys like Benedikt don’t just walk into people’s lives. They choose them. And the people he’s associated with don’t stop in for cupcakes.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know what that means.”
He exhales like he’s debating whether to push this. Then, he leans in, and his next words are slow and deliberate. “You don’t think you owe him anything, do you?”
A cold feeling spreads down my spine.
I don’t answer.
Because I do.
Not because I asked for it or because I agreed to anything, but because of my father.
Whatever deal he made with Benedikt Volkov, I am the price.
“You’re smart,” he says. “Men like Benedikt don’t do favors for free. Whatever he’s told you, whatever lies he’s spun, you don’t have to go along with it. You have options.”
I shake my head quickly. “I’m sorry, but I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His jaw tightens. “Sienna—”
“I need to get home.” I start for my car, not running, but extending my stride to get there as quickly as possible.
“Miss Graves,” Detective Campbell calls out. “You can help me stop this.”
Fumbling with my key fob, I unlock my car doors and slip inside without incident, locking them behind me.
My phone buzzes and I fumble for it, my breath shaky and my fingers trembling as I read the text.
BENEDIKT: Get home, Sienna.
I suck in a breath, my heartbeat hammering in my ears.
How does he know?
I feel sick.
What am I supposed to do?
I wish I’d never walked into that damn lunch with him in the first place.