Innocently Arranged for the Bratva (Zolotov Bratva #15)

Chapter 1 - Katya

The bell over the door chimes twice this morning—first when Ilariy squeezes in, ducking his head as if he still thinks he’s too big for my little shop, and then again when Tatiana slips in right behind him, juggling paper bags from a boutique downtown.

I don’t even look up from the tray of cupcakes cooling on the steel counter.

I’m wrist-deep in a bowl of Swiss meringue buttercream, trying to decide whether the new raspberry-rose swirl needs more petal dust or if I should just scrap the whole batch and start over.

The air is thick with sugar and warm vanilla, the kind of scent that makes people slow down on the sidewalk outside just to breathe it in.

“You’re going to give yourself an ulcer staring at those like they owe you money,” Ilariy says, his voice low and amused. He leans in the doorway, arms crossed, those dark caramel eyes scanning the room as if he’s counting exits—even here, in my pastry shop.

Tatiana nudges him with her hip as she passes. “Leave her alone. She’s in the zone.” She drops her bags on the only clear corner of the counter and peeks into my bowl. “Rose again? I swear the last batch was perfect.”

“It was too sweet,” I mumble, scraping the spatula along the edge. “Cloying, like perfume you can taste.”

Ilariy snorts. “You say that about everything the first three tries.”

“Because I want it to be right,” I shoot back, finally glancing up. My hair is twisted into a messy knot on top of my head, and flour streaks my cheek like war paint. I catch my reflection in the steel backsplash and wince. “I look like I lost a fight with a bag of powdered sugar.”

“You look like you belong here,” Tatiana says, softer now. She reaches out and brushes the flour away with her thumb. “Which is exactly why we helped you keep this place secret from the rest of them.”

My chest tightens at that. I love my brothers—all seven of them, impossible and overbearing as they are—but I can’t stand the thought of them storming in here with their opinions, their security details, and their endless lectures on profit margins and risk.

No. This shop is mine. Three days a week, I’m behind the counter; the rest of the time, I scribble recipes in my apartment or haggle with suppliers who have no idea I’m a Bratva princess.

It’s the closest thing to freedom I’ve ever had.

Ilariy pushes off the doorframe and walks over to the display case, eyeing the neat rows of pistachio macarons and glossy chocolate-hazelnut tarts. “Business good?”

“Steady,” I say. “We’re turning people away on Saturdays now. I might need to hire another part-timer.”

Tatiana grins. “Look at you. All grown up and employing people.”

“Don’t jinx it,” I warn, but I’m smiling too. I grab a clean spoon, scoop up some buttercream, and hold it out to her. “Taste. Tell me if I’m nuts.”

Tatiana takes the spoon, closes her eyes like she’s on a cooking show, and hums. “Heaven. You’re not nuts. You’re just a perfectionist.”

Ilariy sneaks a swipe from the bowl before I can smack his hand away. “She’s right. It’s good. Stop fussing.”

They hang around for another twenty minutes—Tatiana clowning in the spare apron, pretending to take orders, Ilariy testing the rolling pins for balance like he’s choosing weapons. With them, everything feels easy. Safe. They don’t treat me like I’m breakable; they act as if I can handle myself.

Eventually, Ilariy checks his watch and sighs. “Meeting in an hour. Agafon’s already blowing up my phone.”

Tatiana rolls her eyes. “Tell him you were busy doing something important. Supporting local business, maybe.”

“I’ll tell him I was eating cupcakes,” Ilariy says dryly. He leans down and kisses the top of my head. “Lock up tight tonight, yeah?”

“I always do.”

Tatiana hugs me next, longer this time, like she knows exactly how much this place means to me. “Call if you need anything. Even if it’s just to complain about rosewater.”

Then they’re gone, the bell chiming again, and the shop falls quiet, save for the soft hum of the cooler and the faint jazz drifting from the speakers overhead.

I turn back to my cupcakes. I pipe a delicate swirl onto the first one, frown, then scrape it off with the offset spatula. Try again. Better, but still not quite there. I lose track of time—pipe, scrape, pipe, adjust—until the light outside shifts and the afternoon crowd thins.

I’m so deep in it that I don’t even hear the bell when it rings again.

“Didn’t expect to find the artist herself sulking over frosting,” a deep voice says, way too close.

I jump, nearly dropping the piping bag. Buttercream shoots across the counter in a messy streak. I spin around, heart hammering, and there’s a man standing just inside the kitchen doorway.

He’s tall. Dark brown hair, a little too long, as if he’s missed his last few haircuts.

Eyes deep green and sharp, amused—like pine trees after rain.

Charcoal coat over a black shirt, sleeves pushed up to reveal strong forearms, and he’s looking at me like he’s walked straight into his favorite dream.

I know that face. Not the name, not the details—just the face. He’s been in here three or four times over the past couple of weeks. Always orders something different. Always lingers longer than necessary. Always leaves tips that make my staff blush.

“You’re not supposed to be back here,” I say, but there’s no real bite in it. Breathing suddenly feels complicated.

He tilts his head, lips curving. “Sign out front says, ‘employees only.’ Doesn’t say anything about devoted fans.”

“Devoted?” I raise an eyebrow, wiping my hands on my apron. “You’ve been in, what, four times?”

“Five,” he corrects, stepping closer. His voice is low, rough around the edges, as if he saves words for when they matter. “Every time I tell myself I’ll just grab something and go, I end up staying until you run out of whatever I ordered.”

Heat crawls up my neck. I turn back to the counter—mostly to hide it. “Flattery doesn’t get you free samples.”

“Didn’t expect it to.” He moves in beside me, close enough that I catch cedar and something darker—coffee, maybe. “But curiosity might. What’s the artist sulking over?”

“I’m not sulking,” I mutter, piping another swirl. This one actually looks decent. “I’m iterating.”

He watches my hands as if nothing else in the world exists. “Looks perfect to me.”

“It’s not.” I scrape it off again. “Too much rose. Not enough bite.”

He hums, leaning against the counter. “Let me try the reject.”

I glance sideways at him. “You want the failure?”

“I want whatever you made,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing.

Something warm sparks low in my stomach. I shouldn’t. Customers don’t come back here, and I don’t hand out half-finished messes. But the way he asks—not demanding, just certain—makes me want to say yes.

I pick up one of the scraped-off cupcakes, its frosting a little smeared now, and hold it out. “Fine. But if you hate it, no complaining. You asked.”

He takes it carefully, fingers brushing mine for half a second. The contact zings straight through me like electricity. If he feels it too, he doesn’t let on.

He peels back the liner and takes a bite.

I watch his face. I always watch faces when people try something new. They tell me everything.

His eyes close for a moment. A low sound rumbles in his throat—approval, surprise, something more. When he opens them again, they’re locked on mine.

“Jesus,” he says quietly. “That’s…”

“Too sweet?” I guess.

“Perfect,” he counters. He licks a bit of frosting from his thumb, and I absolutely do not stare. “You’re wrong about the rose. It’s exactly enough.”

I snort, turning back to the bowl so he won’t see my pulse racing. “You’re just saying that because you want another one.”

“No,” he says, and the way he says it makes me look up again. “I’m saying it because it’s true, and because I’ve been coming here for weeks trying to figure out who made me forget every other dessert I’ve ever had.”

The kitchen suddenly feels smaller. Warmer.

I set the piping bag down. “I’m Katya,” I tell him. “Owner. Baker. Perfectionist.”

“Tikhon,” he says. No last name. Just that steady, unblinking gaze. “And apparently your newest regular.”

I smile before I can stop myself. “You already were.”

He smiles back—slow, devastating. “Good.”

Outside, the city keeps moving. Inside, the buttercream sits forgotten, and I realize I haven’t felt this alive in ages.

***

My bedroom’s quiet, except for the radiator’s hum beneath the window and the old house creaking now and then as it settles in for the night. Moonlight spills across the floor in thin silver stripes, catching on the edge of my vanity mirror and my half-finished sketchbook, still open on the desk.

I’m sitting on the bed, cross-legged in one of Ilariy’s old hockey jerseys—oversized and soft—knees tucked up, arms wrapped around them.

The air smells like lavender from the candle I lit earlier, and there’s that faint hint of vanilla that always lingers on my skin, no matter how many showers I take.

I should be asleep by now. It’s after one. Tomorrow—well, today, really—is going to be another long day at the shop: early flour delivery, a wedding cake consult at ten, and three dozen pistachio-rose macarons to pipe before lunch.

But my brain won’t turn off.

I lean back against the headboard and close my eyes.

Darkness behind my eyelids, but I see it again—the little shop on the corner of Woodward and Alexandrine. The gold letters I painted myself: Sweet Haven.

That bell over the door, the one that chimes like a tiny song every time someone steps inside. The marble counter I worked half a year to afford.

The display case is packed with perfect macarons, glossy fruit tarts, and buttery shortbread that melts just right.

And the back kitchen, where I lose track of time—flour dusting my cheeks, sleeves rolled up, music playing low from that old speaker, the world shrinking to just me, the dough, the oven timer, and the promise of something good rising in the oven.

I smile in the dark. It’s small, but it’s real. The kind of smile only the mirror usually catches.

Honestly, I haven’t felt this happy in ages.

It’s not because everything’s perfect. Far from it. My brothers still hover—especially Agafon—always asking when I’ll stop “playing baker” and come home to take my place in the family business.

Sometimes I still hear Dad’s voice in my head: “You’re a Letvin, Katyusha. Act like it.” That name still weighs on me, especially when I catch certain looks from people on the street, the ones who notice the resemblance.

The fear’s always there, too—quiet, steady—that one day someone’s going to decide my shop should be something uglier than pastries. A drop point. A meeting spot. A front.

But every morning, when I unlock the door, flip the sign to Open, and hear that bell ring out, it’s all mine. No one can take that away.

Not my brothers. Not my father’s ghost.

Not the life I was born into. I built it myself—testing recipes until my hands cramped, piping late into the night even as my eyes burned, serving every customer who came back and said, “These are the best macarons I’ve ever had.

” That’s mine. It’s honest. It’s good. It’s the only thing in my life that truly feels like it belongs to me.

I open my eyes. Moonlight’s shifted, painting a silver stripe across the foot of the bed. I stretch my legs and feel that familiar ache in my shoulders from yesterday’s twelve hours on my feet.

My phone lights up on the nightstand—probably Tatiana, texting goodnight with way too many heart emojis and a photo of her cat. I smile again and reach for it.

Then I remember the man from earlier today.

He walked in just after the lunch crowd had disappeared.

Tall, a little wild around the edges—his dark hair curled at the ends, almost like he’d forgotten to cut it.

His eyes were green, sharp, taking in every detail: the smudge of flour on my apron, the way I kept swiping my hair out of my face with my wrist, the stupid grin I couldn’t hide when Mrs. Zolotov gushed about the lemon tarts.

He ordered his usual—a pistachio-rose macaron—and didn’t leave right away.

He leaned on the counter, just watching.

And yeah, I noticed. Hard not to.

But not in that uncomfortable way—the way some men stare too long because they know my last name and think it gets them somewhere. No, he watched me like he was trying to memorize everything. Like he was starving for something he didn’t even understand.

And, honestly, I watched him right back.

The way his mouth curved when he took a bite and told me “Perfect”—like he’d never tasted anything better. The way his voice dropped, almost conspiratorial, when he asked if I ever got tired of being this good.

The brush of his fingers against mine when I handed him his pastry bag—probably an accident, but it zinged straight through me. My pulse jumped. I felt it all the way down my back.

I told myself it was nothing. Just a regular customer. Just a flirt. Just a guy who knew how to pick a pastry.

But all afternoon, I kept glancing at the door. Waiting for him. Hoping he’d show up again. Hating how much I wanted that.

I put my phone down without checking it.

I stand up, wander over to the window, and pull the curtain aside. The garden below glows silver and shadowy—perfect, tidy, empty. I rest my forehead on the cool glass.

I think about tomorrow. About the shop. About the man with the green eyes and that slow, secretive smile. Maybe he’ll come back. Maybe he won’t.

It hits me how long it’s been since I felt this awake. This curious. Actually interested in something.

It’s dangerous, sure. But honestly, I don’t care.

I let myself smile. Small, secret, a little reckless.

Tomorrow, I’ll open the shop at six. I’ll bake. I’ll wait.

And if he comes back—

If he comes back—

I close my eyes.

God, I hope he does.