Chapter 13 - Katya
The bell over the door gives a half-hearted chime as the last customer slips out.
The sound is swallowed almost instantly by the hush that settles over the shop, thick as dust after a storm.
I flip the sign to CLOSED with fingers that barely feel like mine, lock up, and press my forehead to the cold glass for a moment.
Out on the street, the lamps start to glow, making the snow outside sparkle as if it’s throwing tiny diamonds back at me.
Inside, the kitchen still holds its warmth, heavy with the smell of cinnamon and browned butter from the snickerdoodle blondies I baked maybe twenty minutes ago.
The air itself tastes sweet and thick, usually enough to smooth out whatever’s gnawing at me.
Not tonight.
I turn away from the window and head back to the prep table.
Only one blondie is left, cooling on the rack—golden brown, the top cracked like dry earth in summer.
I break off a piece and toss it in my mouth.
Sugar melts right away, cinnamon hits sharp and warm, and butter leaves that rich, almost slick feeling behind. It’s perfect.
Just like Mom made them when I was a kid—same recipe, same heavy dose of cinnamon, same way she’d press the tops with a fork so the cracks looked just right.
I chew slowly, eyes closed, letting the memory come up.
She’d be at that old counter in our tiny apartment above the dry cleaners, sleeves pushed up, hair slipping out of her bun in wild dark curls—curls just like mine. The radio always played low, some Russian ballad she loved, the kind that made her sway a little while she worked.
I’d sit on a stool, chin in my hands, watching her measure flour with a chipped cup because we never had real measuring spoons. “Precision is for people who don’t trust their hands,” she’d say, tapping the cup against the bowl. Then she’d wink, dab some flour on my nose, and laugh when I sneezed.
Those afternoons were the only times our apartment felt safe. No shouting from the street, no heavy footsteps on the stairs—those meant one of Dad’s “associates” was coming up. Just the clatter of a wooden spoon, the hiss of butter in the pan, and her humming along to the music.
When the blondies came out, she’d cut them while they were still burning hot, not caring if she burned her fingers, and hand me the first piece. “For my little baker,” she’d say, kissing my forehead, cinnamon dust on her lips when she smiled.
But even those good moments had his shadow—my father, Agafon Letvin Sr. He built our family name on fear and favors, ruled our house like he ruled the streets. He never hit us, not once.
Not the way some fathers do. But he was a storm cloud, always there, always heavy.
He’d come in late, stinking of cigar smoke and whiskey, voice booming through the thin walls as he barked into the phone.
“No loose ends,” he’d say over and over.
I learned quick what that meant: people disappeared when Dad decided they were a problem.
One memory stays sharpest. I was seven, hiding under the kitchen table while Mom baked pirozhki—dough puffing golden in the oven, the air thick with onion and meat.
Dad burst in early that night, blood on his shirt cuff, eyes wild.
“Elena, pack a bag. We’re leaving. Now.” Mom didn’t argue.
She just shut off the oven, wrapped me in a blanket, and we ran to a safe house in the countryside for a week.
No explanations. Just Dad’s hand heavy on my shoulder as we drove through the night.
“Family first, Katyusha,” he said. “Always protect what’s yours. ”
He did love us, in his own way. He’d bring back trinkets from his “trips”—a doll from Moscow, chocolate from Switzerland. But his love felt like a cage. He made every decision: my school, my friends, even what Mom wore to his business dinners.
When she got sick, he threw money at doctors, flew in specialists, but he couldn’t buy his way out of cancer.
It took her anyway. After she died, he just hardened.
Buried himself in work. Left me with nannies and tutors.
“You’re a Letvin,” he’d remind me. “Act like it.” No room for weakness. No room for baking dreams.
I used to carry so much anger toward him—for shutting me down before I even knew what I wanted.
Now, with Tikhon around, I see the same patterns.
Dad was a wall, always keeping us safe, but it felt like being locked up.
Tikhon’s no different—his endless “security,” the way he’s always watching.
Is that love? Or just a prettier kind of prison?
I chew another bite. It tastes like ash.
Grief grabs me hard and fast. I miss her so much it’s like the wound just split open again, her name scraped out of me all over. Twelve years since cancer took her—slow, mean, stealing her in little pieces until all that was left was a hospital bed, antiseptic, and silence.
I was eleven. Old enough to know she was gone for good, still young enough to think maybe, if I baked just right, she’d walk in and smile and say I finally got it.
I haven’t cried for her in months. Maybe longer. But tonight, the grief is loud. It fills my chest and burns behind my eyes. And it’s not just about her. It’s Dad, too—all that messy love tangled up with everything I never said.
He died five years later from a heart attack during a meeting. Agafon took over. I mourned him, but it was complicated—relief mixed with sorrow, guilt tangled with freedom. Without him, I never would’ve opened the shop.
With him, I learned how to hide. And now, with Tikhon drawing me deeper into his world, I can’t help but wonder if I’m falling into the same trap. Maybe loving him is just another way of locking myself up, just like Mom tried to protect me from.
I set the blondie aside, wipe my hands, and head to the back. The mirror above the sink shows someone I barely know—hair slipping from its tie, flour on my face, eyes red and glassy. I look like her. Same mouth, same freckles across the nose.
People used to say it all the time. “You’re your mother’s daughter.” I hated hearing it—it felt like proof I’d never measure up. Now I hate it because it’s true, and she’s not here to see any of this.
I splash cold water on my face, press my palms to my eyes until I can breathe again. When I finally look, I see someone steadier. Not fine. Not happy. Just steady.
Back in the kitchen, I clean. Wipe the marble, stack the trays, sweep the floor. The routine is soothing. Each swipe is a tiny bit of control in a life that’s mostly out of my hands.
Then the bell rings.
I freeze. The closed sign is up. The lights are low. It’s almost seven—no deliveries tonight.
I go out front, towel in hand.
He’s standing just inside the door. Tall, slim, dark coat buttoned tight. He smiles, polite, hands folded like he’s just another customer. But he’s too still, too sharp. Sets me on edge right away.
“Shop’s closed,” I say, keeping my voice flat.
He nods. “I know. I was hoping you’d make an exception. I’ve heard your blondies are extraordinary.”
My stomach drops. Nobody asks for blondies by name unless they’ve been here or someone sent them. “We’re out. Come back tomorrow.”
He doesn’t budge. Just tilts his head, smile stretching wider. “I’m not in a hurry. I can wait.”
I step back. “I said we’re closed.”
His eyes scan me, slow and careful, like he’s memorizing everything. “You’re Katya Letvin. Or Sokolov now, right? Congratulations on the marriage.”
I go cold. I know who he is before he even says it.
“Fadir Klem,” I say.
He grins, almost pleased. “You know my name. I’m flattered.”
I make my voice hard. “Get out.”
He steps closer, just one step, but it feels like the whole shop shrinks around us.
“I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time.
The Letvin princess who bakes. The one who thinks she can keep her hands clean in a world like this.
” He glances around—display cases, a chalkboard menu, rows of cookies cooling on their racks.
“Charming place. Really. Makes me almost believe in fairy tales.”
My hand inches toward the phone on the counter. He sees.
“Don’t,” he says, voice soft but sharp. “I’m not here to hurt you. Not right now.”
The threat hangs there, casual and cold.
I swallow hard. “What do you want?”
“Information, mostly.” He wanders to the display case, studies the blondies through the glass. “Your husband’s been stirring things up. Chasing shadows, making threats. I wanted to see the woman worth all that trouble.”
“He told you to stay away.”
“He did.” Fadir lets out a low chuckle, amused. “He’s protective. Almost sweet, really. But you can’t protect someone if you don’t know where the danger is.”
He taps the glass—once, twice. Sharp sound in the quiet.
I force myself to stay still. “Leave.”
He turns back to me. “Tell me, Katya—does he know how much you miss your mother?”
All the air leaves my lungs.
His smile widens. “I’ve done my homework. Elena Letvin. Died when you were eleven. Cancer. Slow, ugly kind. You were there at the end, right? Holding her hand while she went. Baking was the last thing she taught you. The only thing she left you that your father didn’t ruin.”
My vision goes blurry. The grief I’d shoved down all morning claws its way up, raw and vicious. “Don’t.”
He just keeps going, almost gentle now. “I wonder if she’d be proud of you. Married to a Sokolov. Part of the same machine that destroyed your family. Or maybe she’d be heartbroken. Maybe she’d hate that her little girl ended up right where she tried so hard to keep you out of.”
Tears burn behind my eyes. I blink fast. “You don’t know anything about her.”
“I know enough.” He moves closer. “Grief makes people reckless. Makes them trust the wrong ones. Makes them reach for comfort wherever they can find it.”
My grip tightens on the counter. “Get out.”
He studies me, as if making up his mind. Then he nods, polite as anything. “I will. For now. But think about this, Katya: your mother couldn’t keep you out of this life. What makes you think your husband can?”
He heads for the door. Pauses, hand on the knob.
“Those blondies smell incredible, by the way. Almost like home.”
The bell rings as he leaves.
For a minute, I just stand there, frozen. I can’t breathe right. Tears spill over. I slide down behind the counter, knees to my chest, and let the sobs come—quiet, shaking, tasting like cinnamon and loss.
I miss her so much it hurts. I miss her hands guiding mine over the rolling pin. I miss her laugh when dough stuck to the ceiling. I miss the way she used to look at me, like I was her masterpiece.
And Dad—God, it all floods back. Him scooping me up after work, spinning me around until I squealed, his laugh rumbling in his chest. “My Katyusha, my light.” Then the darker stuff: him yelling at Mom for letting me play outside, “It’s not safe, Elena! You know what’s out there.”
Those nights he’d come home with bloody knuckles, washing them clean like it was nothing, never saying a word. The way he’d hug me too tight after those nights, like he was terrified I’d disappear. He kept us safe, but what did it cost?
Mom’s joy faded under his shadow. Mine, too—twisted by his rules and his fear. Is that what I’m doing with Tikhon now? Letting myself fall for someone who chains me up, just in a different way?
That’s the truth I keep dodging: I want him. It’s not just attraction anymore—it’s deeper, scarier. Every touch, every look, it drags me in. Last night in his arms, I felt safe for the first time since Mom. I can’t pretend it’s just lust. It’s more. The kind of more that could ruin me if I’m wrong.
I don’t know how long I sit there. Long enough for the shop to go cold. Long enough for the blondies to harden on the racks. Long enough for the grief to burn down to something dull and aching.
When the tears finally stop, I wipe my face on my sleeve, force myself to stand. I head to the back, grab the leftover dough, and start rolling it out. I don’t even think about it—flour, roll, cut. Press the fork into the tops, sprinkle cinnamon sugar, and slide the tray into the oven.
While they bake, I call Tikhon.
He answers right away. “Katya?”
“He was here,” I say, my voice rough. “Fadir. In the shop.”
Silence, then, “I’m coming.”
I hang up, lean against the counter, and wait for the timer to go off.
The blondies come out perfect—golden, cracked, filling the air with that smell I love. I cut one before it cools, burn my fingers, don’t care. Take a bite.
It tastes like her.
And for the first time in years, it doesn’t break me. Not completely.
It just aches.