Chapter 8
Ayla
The ringing drags me out of sleep like a hand around my ankle.
I groan, roll over—and fall straight off the bed.
“Fuck,” I mutter, tangled in sheets, face down on the floor. The phone keeps ringing, shrill and merciless. I scramble to my feet, heart pounding, eyes barely open.
Where the hell is it?
My apartment is the size of a shoebox—shouldn’t be this hard to find one goddamn phone.
I stumble through the dim pre-dawn light, following the sound. Not the nightstand. Not the kitchen counter.
The bathroom.
Of course.
I shove the door open and spot it on the edge of the sink, screen lit up like a beacon. Unknown number.
My stomach drops.
Unknown numbers are usually from burners from my crew, someone’s dead.
I swipe to answer. “Hello?”
“Ayla Smith?”
The voice is deep, accented. Russian.
My blood goes cold.
“Who is this?”
“Ivan. Smash and Sugar.”
I blink, trying to force my brain to catch up. The big guy. The manager who turned me down flat.
“Oh, hi.”
“We have an opening,” he says. “Can you start today?”
I freeze, phone pressed to my ear, staring at my reflection in the mirror. Dark circles under my eyes. Hair a mess. Dried blood under my fingernails that I definitely need to scrub out.
Yesterday I patched up the Pakhan of the Bratva.
Now his bakery wants to hire me.
This is a trap. Has to be.
“Today?” My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
“Eight AM. Training shift. You come, you work, we see if you fit.”
I glance at my phone. 5:47 AM.
“Okay, thank—”
The line goes dead.
***
The drive takes twelve minutes. My car miraculously still works. I park across the street—same spot as yesterday, which feels like tempting fate, and kill the engine.
My hands are shaking.
I grip the steering wheel harder, force myself to breathe.
This is what Gabriel wanted. What he threatened my crew over. What he’ll kill Santi for if I don’t deliver. I get out.
The bakery lights glow warm through the windows. Safe. Inviting. A lie.
Inside, the smell hits me—butter, sugar, yeast. Something baking. My stomach twists with hunger I’ve been ignoring for days.
Behind the counter stands a blonde girl, all smiles and curves and far too awake for dawn.
“Hi,” she chirps. “I’m Cara. I’ll be training you today.”
Cara talks fast.
Names of pastries. Registers. Timers. What burns if you don’t watch it. What Ivan hates. What Ivan hates more. Where not to stand when the ovens open.
I nod. Smile. Memorize.
My hands learn the rhythm before my brain does.
Aprons. Gloves. Heat. Sugar dusting my knuckles. The bell over the door chiming, over and over, until it starts to blur together.
Hours pass.
I don’t ask questions I don’t need answered. I don’t touch anything that isn’t handed to me. I keep my head down and my mouth shut.
By noon, Cara stops hovering.
By the end of the shift, Ivan barely looks at me.
Which means I did fine.
The problem is—there’s nothing to see.
No back office traffic. No locked doors being opened. No whispered conversations. No Vaska. No men lingering longer than they should.
Just customers. Cash drawers. Pastries going in, pastries going out.
A bakery.
I scrub counters. I smile. I clock out.
Day two looks the same.
Day three.
Different apron. Same routine.
I learn faces. Regulars. Who tips. Who doesn’t. Who complains for fun.
I learn which shelves get restocked by who—and that everything important stays out of reach.
Whatever Gabriel thinks is hidden here, it isn’t sitting in plain sight.
The doorbell chimes.
Every head in the bakery lifts at once.
The air in the room is suffocating.
I freeze mid-wipe, cloth pressed against the counter, and follow everyone’s gaze to the door.
Blue.
That’s the first thing I see. Blue hair catching the afternoon light streaming through the windows, almost glowing.
Then the rest of him comes into focus.
Tall. Broad shoulders under a leather jacket. Ink crawling up his neck, disappearing into his collar. Silver glinting at his lip—snake bites catching the light as he moves.
And his eyes.
Blue. Same shade as his hair. Sharp and cold and searching the room like he’s cataloging every face, every exit, every potential threat.
Fuck.
Maksim Korsakov.
His gaze sweeps across the bakery.
Don’t look at me. Don’t look at me. Don’t—
“Ayla.”
Damn it.
Those eyes lock onto mine, his mouth curves into a smirk. The snake bites glint as his lips pull wider.
My hand tightens on the cloth. I force myself to breathe. To not run. To not do anything that screams guilty.
I straighten and face him as he walks up to the counter.
“Maks,” Ivan’s voice cuts through the silence. He steps out from behind the espresso machine, shoulders squared, but there’s something deferential in the way he moves. “Didn’t expect you today.”
“Go away, Ivan,” Maksim says, eyes still locked on me.
Ivan’s jaw tightens. For a second, I think he might argue. But he doesn’t. Just gives a curt nod and disappears through the back door.
The other staff scatter like roaches when the lights come on. Cara grabs a tray of dirty dishes and practically runs to the kitchen.
And then it’s just us.
Me and Maksim Korsakov.
My heart hammers against my ribs, but I keep my face neutral. Professional. Like I didn’t dig a bullet out of his side four days ago. Like I don’t know exactly what his blood smells like mixed with antiseptic.
“You’re working here now,” he says. Not a question.
“Yeah.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Started a few days ago.”
“You’re welcome. How’s the job?” he asks.
He did this?
“It’s fine. Pays the bills.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Does it?”
There’s something in his tone. Something that makes my skin prickle with warning.
“Tips are decent,” I add.
“Hmm.” He drums his fingers on the counter—once, twice. The sound echoes in the now half empty bakery. “You know what I think?”
“No.”
“I think you’re lying.”
My throat goes dry. “About what?”
“Everything.” He leans forward, close enough that I catch the scent of spice and smoke. “Who you are. Why you’re here. What you want.”
I hold his gaze. Don’t flinch. Don’t blink.
“I’m just a girl who needs a job,” I say.
“You said that before.” His smile is sharp. Dangerous. “Still don’t believe you.”
“That sounds like a you problem.”
The smile widens. “You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that.”
“Is there something you actually want? Or are you just here to accuse me of... what, exactly?”
He straightens, slides his hands into his pockets. “I want to know why you told me not to look for you. Yet take an offer to work in my shop.”
Shit.
“Because I don’t need complications in my life.”
“Too late for that, Beda.”
“I patched you up. You’re welcome. You got me a job. We’re even. End of story.”
“No.” He shakes his head slowly. “We’re not even close to even.”
The way he says it sends a chill down my spine. Like there’s a clock ticking somewhere I can’t see.
“What do you want from me?”
He pulls out his phone, sets it on the counter. “Give me your number.”
I stare at him. “Absolutely not.”
“Ayla.” His voice drops lower, and suddenly the casual mask slips. There’s something dangerous underneath—something that reminds me exactly who I’m dealing with. “Give me your number.”
My throat tightens. Every instinct screams at me to run. To get as far away from this man as possible.
But I can’t.
Because Gabriel’s watching. Because my crew’s lives depend on me playing this right.
I hesitate.
Big mistake.
Maksim reaches across the counter—smooth, fast—and dips his hand into my apron pocket. His fingers brush against my hip through the fabric, and my heart stops.
He pulls out my phone, waves it at me with that same infuriating smirk.
What if he sees Gabriel’s messages? What if—
His phone buzzes a second later.
“Now I have your number,” he says, sliding my phone back across the counter. “I’m picking you up at eight.”
“My shift doesn’t end until ten.”
“Today it ends at eight.”
Then he turns and walks out, the bell chiming cheerfully behind him.
I stand there, frozen, staring at the door.
What the hell just happened?
My phone buzzes on the counter.
I glance at it.
Unknown Number
Be ready Beda.
Fuck.
***
The rest of my shift drags like nails on concrete.
Every time the door chimes, my heart stops. Every time someone walks past the window, I expect to see blue hair and cold eyes.
But Maksim doesn’t come back.
At 7:45, Cara corners me by the sink.
“So,” she says, voice pitched low. “You and Maks, huh?”
I scrub a baking sheet harder than necessary. “There is no me and Maksim.”
“That’s not what it looked like.”
“Well, that’s what it is.”
She leans against the counter, arms crossed, studying me with those too-bright eyes. “You know he doesn’t date, right?”
“Good for him.”
“I’m serious.” She drops her voice even lower. “He fucks around, sure. But he doesn’t do relationships. Doesn’t do feelings. He’s like an actual psychopath. So whatever you think is happening—”
“Nothing is happening,” I snap.
She holds up her hands. “Okay, okay. I was just trying to help you.”
I meet her eyes. “Then help me by dropping it.”
She hesitates, then nods. “Your funeral.”
At 7:58, Ivan appears in the kitchen doorway.
“Go,” he says. “He’s waiting for you.”
Of course he is.
I grab my jacket and backpack and head out front. The street is dim now, but there he is leaning against a motorcycle. Black. Chrome gleaming under the streetlights.
Guess he got a new one.
He straightens when he sees me, and hands me a helmet.
“Let’s go, hop on,” he says.
I stop a few feet away, cross my arms. “I can just drive myself. Tell me where we’re going, and I’ll follow you.”
His eyebrow lifts. “No.”
“My car—”
“I’m not going to ask you again.”
My jaw clenches. “You didn’t ask the first time.”
Something flickers in his eyes—amusement, maybe. Or irritation. Hard to tell with him.
He shakes the helmet.
I don’t take it.
“Put it on, Ayla.”