Chapter 9 - Katya
The bell over the door rings—sharp, bright, familiar. It cuts right through the mixer’s steady hum. I look up from the counter, hands deep in brioche dough. It’s soft and messy, almost clinging to my fingers.
The air’s heavy with yeast and butter, that warm, rich smell you can’t help but breathe in.
It feels like comfort, or maybe a hug I didn’t know I needed.
Flour floats everywhere, catching the morning light from the windows.
I can already see the loaves in my head—golden, crisp on the outside, soft and cloudlike inside.
Tatiana pushes through the door, her coat dusted with snow that’s already melting into dark wet spots. She stomps her boots on the mat and gives me this look—brows crunched, mouth tight.
She’s worried. She’s holding a paper bag from her favorite café, probably lattes and those almond croissants she always brings when she wants to cheer me up or say something hard. Today, it feels more like a peace offering.
“Hey,” she says, voice quiet, hanging her coat on the rack. “Busy morning?”
“Not really.” I wipe my hands on my apron, smearing dough across the front. The mixer finally winds down, and suddenly it’s just faint jazz from the speakers, filling the silence. “Just getting ready for tomorrow’s rush. What’s up? You look like you barely slept.”
She sets the bag on the counter and pulls out two cups, steam curling up, espresso smell curling right into the kitchen. “I couldn’t stop thinking about what you told me. About Tikhon. The threats, the marriage, all of it. Are you really okay? Like, actually okay?”
I take the latte she hands me, letting the heat seep into my palms. I sip, and the bittersweet foam settles on my tongue. “I’m handling it. He’s… not as bad as I thought. We talked last night. He apologized, even.”
She blinks. “Apologized? For blackmailing you?”
“Yeah.” I set the cup down and go back to the dough, folding it over itself, feeling the gluten stretch and tighten under my hands.
The rhythm calms me, that sticky pull between my fingers.
“He said he panicked, that he wanted me so much he couldn’t think straight.
It’s messed up, but… I believe him. Sort of. ”
Tatiana climbs onto a stool across from me, peels open a croissant, and steam puffs out. She tears off a piece, buttery flakes everywhere. “Katya, this is insane. You married him to save the shop, and now you’re what—just forgiving him?”
“Not forgiving,” I say, punching the dough a little harder, the sound dull in the quiet.
“Just… understanding. Maybe. I know how it sounds. But living with him isn’t the nightmare I expected.
He gives me space. He even came by yesterday and washed dishes without so much as a complaint. It’s weird, but it’s not awful.”
She chews, eyes on me. “And the shop? You’re sure he won’t touch it?”
“I made it clear. If he does, I’m gone.” I toss more flour onto the dough, powder floating like new snow.
Then my mind drifts—can’t help it.
I think about our family. Agafon would lose his mind if he found out. He’s always been the one who decides what’s best for everyone. Remember when I wanted to study in Paris? He shut that down in five minutes, raving about risks and enemies.
Bogdan and Faddey would back him up, nodding along, while Ilariy would grumble but go along with whatever Agafon wants. Melor and Rurik—honestly, they’d probably just shrug, too busy with their own messes.
Nikandr? He’s gone, turned his back on all of it, but even he might show up if it meant “protecting the family legacy.” And Tatiana—well, she’s all I really have, besides Ilariy. She’s always the one caught in the middle, trying to calm everyone down without getting burned.
“Promise you won’t say anything,” I say, meeting her gaze. “To anyone. Especially Agafon. He’d storm in here and turn this place into a bunker, or worse, shut it down ‘for my safety.’ You know how he is—he sees threats in every shadow.”
She nods, but her face gets even tighter. “I know. He’s been tense lately. There’s talk—old rivals showing up again. Remember the Sokolov cousins? The ones Tikhon’s family pushed out? Word is one of them—Fadir Klem, I think—has been around. Asking about alliances, territories… and people.”
A chill runs through me, colder than the snow outside. I freeze, hands pressing into the warm dough. “People? Who?”
She hesitates, tearing another bite of croissant.
“You. Arina mentioned it—said Ilariy overheard something at a meeting. Fadir’s got this thing about you.
Calls you the ‘Letvin jewel’ or something equally creepy.
Thinks grabbing you would get back at both families, now that you’re married to Tikhon. ”
My stomach knots. The kitchen’s usually my safe place, but right now it’s all too much—sticky dough clinging to my fingers, that stubborn taste of espresso on my tongue, the oven humming louder than ever.
Fadir Klem.
People whisper his name like he’s a curse: ruthless, unpredictable, the guy who doesn’t just want power—he wants you to know it hurts.
If he’s interested in me... hell, it’s like being shoved back inside a gilded cage, only this time the bars draw blood.
“Why me? I’m not even mixed up in all of this.”
“You’re the symbol now. The truce, walking around in an apron.” She leans over and squeezes my arm. Her hand’s warm and sticky from a croissant. “Please be careful, okay? Don’t go anywhere alone. And when Tikhon hears—”
“He probably has.” I push back into the dough, kneading harder, working my nerves right into it. The dough starts to come together, turning smooth under my hands, the smell of yeast filling the air, earthy and alive. “Let’s not jump ahead. I’ve got enough to deal with—orders are already piling up.”
Right then, my phone buzzes. Another online order. I glance at the tablet on the shelf—three more boxes of pastries, all headed downtown. I scroll through the queue, frowning.
That’s five big orders in one hour, all to the same address. Not exactly normal for a weekday.
Tatiana peeks over my shoulder. “Guess it’s busier than you thought, huh?”
“Yeah. Weirdly busy.” I punch the address into my maps app, and a polished office building pops up in the financial district.
Sokolov Enterprises. My pulse kicks up.
“Tikhon’s office. Of course.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “He’s ordering from you?”
“Looks like it.” I set the tablet down a little too hard, dough forgotten. The mixer bowl rattles. “Probably thinks a few bulk orders will win me over. Like pastries fix everything.”
She smirks. “Or maybe he just likes your baking.”
“Either way, he’s not getting to me that easily.” I dust off my hands and grab my coat from the hook. “Watch the shop for me? I’ll be back in an hour.”
She’s already tying on her apron. “Go get him.”
The drive downtown is a blur—slush splashing, taxis honking, heater blowing vanilla-scented air. Sokolov Enterprises stands out: all glass and steel, sharp lines, nothing like the shady warehouses I pictured for Bratva business.
I park in a visitor spot and head inside, boots echoing on marble. The receptionist barely gets a word out before I wave her off.
“I’m here for Tikhon Sokolov. Tell him his wife’s waiting.”
Her eyes go wide, but she buzzes me through.
The elevator doors open on the top floor, and I step into a hive of desks and suited people. Phones ring, keyboards clack. No guns, no shadows—just business. Behind a glass wall, I spot Tikhon at a conference table, gesturing at a screen.
He looks up, and for a second, something flickers in his eyes. Surprise, maybe. Then he’s back to his cool, calm self. “Katya.”
The room goes quiet. Heads turn.
I cross my arms. “We need to talk. Now.”
He stands up, smoothing his jacket. “Everyone, this is my wife, Katya. Katya, meet the team—Elena, CFO; Mark, head of operations; Sarah, marketing.”
They all say hi, eyes darting between us. Elena smiles. “Nice to meet you. We haven’t heard much—Tikhon’s personal life is pretty locked down.”
Mark grins. “We’ve been destroying those pastries he brings in. If that’s you, you’re a genius.”
Sarah chimes in, practically glowing. “Those raspberry tarts? Total game-changer. We keep begging him for more.”
I pause, caught off guard. These aren’t gangsters. They’re just... coworkers. And they love my pastries? “You all know about the orders?”
Elena laughs. “Know about them? We’re the ones pestering him for more. Office morale’s never been higher.”
Tikhon clears his throat. “Let’s talk in my office.”
He leads me down a hall to a corner suite—huge windows, a spotless desk, not a speck of clutter. He shuts the door, and the sound hangs in the air.
I whirl around. “You think buying out half my shop wins you forgiveness? That pastries will fix this?”
He leans back on the desk, crossing his arms. “I ordered once. Anonymously. The team went wild for them and started ordering on their own. I had nothing to do with the rest.”
I hesitate. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not.” He pulls out his phone and flashes an email thread—coworkers raving about the pastries, asking for the bakery link. “See? It’s all above board, Katya. Tech, real estate, legal money. No fronts. No dirty cash.”
I scroll through the emails, the praise rolling in, and honestly, it feels pretty damn good. “I... didn’t see that coming.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You seriously thought I was running a cartel from a cubicle?”
I shrug, sinking into the chair across from him. The leather sighs under my weight. “Maybe. Whatever. I overreacted. Again.”
His mouth quirks in that way that always gets to me. “Again? You really like making this a thing, huh?”
I can’t help it—my eyes roll, but I’m grinning. “Don’t get cocky.”
He pushes off the desk and comes closer. “Wouldn’t dream of it. But since you’re here, want a tour? Or are you too busy dreaming up my secret agenda?”
The back-and-forth feels easy, like when he was just another customer. “A tour? Of this place? You mean your thrilling office?”
He clutches his chest, pretending to be wounded. “Excuse you. Our coffee machine is top-tier.”
I stand up, a little closer to him than I meant. “Alright then. Knock my socks off.”
He does. He shows off the break room with its impressive espresso machine and the conference room with those dizzying city views.
We keep up the teasing—me calling him a “corporate overlord,” him insisting my frosting skills could outshine any PowerPoint.
The tension from last night slips away, replaced by laughter that comes too easily.
When we get back to his office, he shuts the door behind us. “See? Not so bad.”
I turn to face him, feeling bold. “Not bad at all.” Our eyes meet, and everything else drops away.
He steps in, crowding me against the edge of the desk, his hands braced on either side but not touching. “Katya…”
I don’t move. “Yeah?”
His voice drops, rough and honest. “I don’t deserve this. But I want it anyway.”
Then he kisses me—soft at first, like he’s giving me a chance to back out. I don’t. I grab a fistful of his shirt and pull him closer. He groans, deepening the kiss. One hand slips to my waist, the other cradles my jaw.
Everything sharpens—his taste, his scent, the heat between us. I forgive him right then, not with words, just with the way I kiss him back.
We break apart, both of us a little breathless. He leans his forehead against mine.
“So, am I forgiven?” he asks, half-laughing, half-gasping.
I smile, letting him sweat just a little. “For now.”