Chapter 2 - Tikhon
I hang around outside the shop longer than makes sense, just staring at those faded gold letters on the window.
Sweet Haven.
Someone must’ve thought they were clever naming it that. Every time I show up, the smell hits me—warm sugar, vanilla, and something floral that hits before I even open the door. My mouth waters, no matter what.
The first time I found this place, I was just cutting through the alley. Running late, headed somewhere else, and then the scent wrapped around me and dragged me in.
One pistachio macaron later, I was hooked. I’ve got a thing for sweets—kind of embarrassing, honestly, but I don’t really care. Everything here tastes like the person making it actually cares about what ends up on the plate.
Today, though, it’s different.
I walk in like I always do, ready to grab whatever new thing she’s dreamed up and maybe catch a glimpse of her through the kitchen window. Usually, that’s enough.
Today, she’s not just a shadow in the back—she’s there, elbows deep in frosting, completely lost in her own world.
Her hair’s twisted up, messy and perfect, with flour on her cheek, caramel eyes narrowed as she works.
Plain white apron, jeans, and an old tee.
Somehow, she looks better than anyone I’ve ever seen, all dressed up.
Then she introduces herself.
Katya.
Katya Letvin.
Our families have circled each other for years—shaky truces, deals, blood, all the usual. My cousin went too far once, so we took control.
Now my sister Arina’s married to her brother, Ilariy, which just makes this whole thing even weirder.
As far as I can remember, Katya never attended my sister's wedding. Her father, Mikhail, kept Katya hidden. She was never allowed to attend many public gatherings and was rarely seen at family events.
She has no idea who I am. Doesn’t recognize me. Doesn’t connect Tikhon to Sokolov. I can see it—she’s curious, amused, maybe a little interested, but no suspicion. Not yet.
It feels like I just got dealt the winning hand in a game I didn’t even realize I was playing.
I bite into the cupcake, mostly to buy myself a second to think.
Raspberry and rose—light, tart, not too sweet. It’s unreal, but honestly, I barely taste it.
I can’t stop watching her watch me. She chews her bottom lip, waiting for my reaction.
When I tell her it’s perfect, her shoulders drop, her whole face lights up.
I admit I’ve been coming in for weeks because nothing else comes close, and she grins like I just paid her the highest compliment in the world.
We talk for a while. Turns out she owns the place, bakes everything, runs it all.
She teases me for being a regular before I even tell her my name.
I tease her for being a perfectionist. There’s this spark, right from the start.
Every time our eyes meet, it’s there. When our hands brush as she takes the cupcake back, she doesn’t pull away. She blushes, but she holds my gaze.
I leave with two extra pastries I don’t need, and her smile is stuck in my head.
That night, forget about sleep. I pace my apartment, replaying every little thing.
The Letvin princess, secretly running a bakery. Hiding it from her family—Agafon, all those brothers watching her every move.
Toward the end, she mentions only two siblings know—Ilariy (which nearly makes me laugh) and Tatiana. The rest think she’s just some spoiled socialite, floating through life.
That’s not her at all.
She’s sharp. Ambitious. More independent than anyone I’ve met in our world. And she really loves what she does—not for show. She talks about flavors like she’s planning a war, thinking five moves ahead. I’ve never met anyone who gets it the way I do.
So I go back the next day. And the next.
Every time I pick a quiet moment, just so she’ll come out front. I try something new on each visit—lemon-thyme shortbread, dark chocolate-hazelnut tart, honey-lavender madeleines—just to have a reason to talk. She starts saving her latest experiments for me. We fall into a rhythm.
She jokes about how I always pick the richest thing on the menu.
I tease her for giving death glares to perfectly good frosting.
“Your standards are terrifying,” I tell her one afternoon as she boxes up a salted caramel éclair.
“Good,” she says, snapping the box shut like a challenge. “Means you’ll keep coming back.”
I meet her eyes. “That’s not why I keep coming back.”
She flushes, looks down, but she can’t stop smiling.
Another day, she lets me taste a cardamom-orange custard straight from her spoon. I take it, meet her gaze, and lick it clean.
Her breath catches. Mine, too.
You could light a match with the air between us. I want to kiss her right then, not caring who sees. But I hold back. I’m in this for the long game.
The more I get to know her, the more I want her. Not just in my bed—though, honestly, I can’t stop thinking about that. It’s right there, pressed into every part of my day. I’ve always been careful. Calculated. I don’t jump before I look. But with Katya, all that caution just falls away.
“You want to marry a Letvin. Katya Letvin. The one who barely knows you exist except for buying cupcakes.”
“She knows I exist,” I say. “She just doesn’t know the rest yet.”
Andrei leans back, arms folded. “So, how are you going to convince her? Or her brothers?”
“I’ll deal with Katya. You take care of the politics.”
Alexey just stares at me for a while. “You’re serious.”
“Dead serious.”
He nods. “Alright. We’ll back you. But if this goes sideways—”
“It won’t.”
First thing, I call in favors. Old friends, back channels—people who remember what they owe me.
I want details: her schedule, which of her brothers might be willing to talk, the shop’s money—all clean, which, I’ll admit, actually surprises me.
Ilariy’s familiar with the place, which helps.
He’s with Arina now, so he’s not looking for a fight any more than I am.
Then I start sketching out offers—not for Katya, but for her family.
All the perks of a real alliance. What ground we’d give up. Shared businesses. I lay it out so it looks smart, obvious, like it’s the only move that makes sense for everyone.
But all that planning means nothing if she turns me down.
So I brace for that, too.
I dig into everything tied to the shop—permits, suppliers, the lease. Nothing dirty, just insurance. If she digs in her heels, I need something to convince her. Not to hurt her. Never that. I just need her to understand there’s no other way.
Because for me, there isn’t.
Three weeks without her feel like hell. Like withdrawal. I see her in my sleep. The sound of her laugh, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s concentrating, the softness in her eyes when she talks about a new recipe. I wake up angry and hollow, pissed that I’m not with her.
I check the security cameras by the shop—just to make sure she’s safe. I tell myself it’s not stalking. It’s just being careful.
Finally, everything’s ready. Proposals finished. Allies in position. Pressure points lined up; even though I pray I won’t have to use them.
Tomorrow, I walk back in.
I stand in front of the mirror, fixing my coat, and it hits me—I’m nervous.
Me. Nervous about a woman.
But not just any woman.
Katya.
She’s going to be my wife. She just doesn’t know it yet.
I grab my keys and head out into the cold. One way or another, she’s going to be mine.
I’ll do whatever I have to.
***
The casino down by the river is ours. People call it a private club, but everyone knows who’s really in charge.
The Sokolovs handle security—nobody starts trouble, nobody cheats, and if you need a quiet spot for a shady deal, the house just takes its silent cut and looks the other way.
I don’t show up here much. Too many people are watching, and too many ghosts from the days when Viktor called the shots and the whole place stank of fear instead of money.
But tonight I needed out of the house. I needed the noise, the chaos—just some space to think without the walls pressing in.
So here I am, leaning on the mezzanine railing, watching everything below. Roulette wheels spinning, slot machines chiming, dealers dealing in that bored, flat voice.
The crowd’s the usual mess—tourists in knockoff suits, regulars in sharp black, high rollers tucked away behind ropes.
Cash moves everywhere, chips and cards, and booze flows like water.
I’m not here to play. I’m here to watch.
Then I spot him.
He’s at the baccarat table, back to me, but I know that shape—tall, thin, the scar trailing down his neck. When he turns to talk to the dealer, I see him as clear as day.
Fadir Klem.
Ice hits my veins.
He was supposed to be gone—run out, exiled. Last I heard, he was in Toronto. After that, nothing. I figured we’d gotten rid of him for good.
But he’s here. In my city. In my casino. Laughing, playing, acting like he owns the place.
I can feel the rage build up—slow, cold, steady.
I don’t move. Don’t show a thing. But inside, I’m already thinking three steps ahead.
I grab my phone. Text Viktor.
Casino. Baccarat table 7. Fadir. Here. Now.
Wait for the reply. Three dots. On my way. Two men with me.
I pocket the phone and keep watching.
Fadir plays like he’s got all the time in the world—chips stacked in perfect piles, fingers drumming the table. He wins a hand and lets out that low, wet laugh. The same one that haunts my sleep.
Every part of me wants to walk down there and drag him out by the throat. Just end it. Right now.
But I wait.
Five minutes later, Viktor shows up—dark coat, two guys behind him, moving through the crowd like they’re made of smoke. I meet them by the side stairs.
“He’s still there,” I tell him. “Table 7. Don’t move on him. Just confirm it’s him. Then dig. Everything—where he’s sleeping, who he’s seeing, what he’s up to.”
Viktor nods. “Alive?”
“For now.”
They slip away, all business. I climb the stairs and stay on the mezzanine, watching Fadir win again, cash out, and head toward the private elevators. Alone.
My fists clench.
He’s taunting me—putting himself right in my line of sight, making sure I know he’s back.
He probably thinks I’m soft now. Settled. Distracted.
He’s got no idea.
I think about Katya—her smile when she gets it just right. The way she laughs when she messes something up. The way she tilts her head just right as she's frosting a cupcake in her shop.
How her tongue slips between her lips, begging and torturing me when she's hyper-focused on what delicious treat she's working on behind the shop's counter.
Fadir doesn’t get to touch any of that. He doesn’t get to steal her light.
I turn away and head for the door.
He wants a war?
Fine.
This time, I’ll burn him to ash.