Chapter 16 - Tikhon
The house feels extra still tonight, the sort of hush that sinks in after a long day.
I’m in the kitchen again, sleeves shoved up, garlic and rosemary cutting through the air as I chop.
The knife keeps a steady rhythm—thunk, thunk—mincing cloves until they cling to the blade. I always come back to this.
Cooking’s where I find some peace. No games, no threats, no blood. Just food, coming together in my hands.
I started early. Mom—God, I miss her—used to pull me into the kitchen on those rare, good nights.
Dad gone, Viktor not storming around. Mom was wiry, never seemed to tire, her hands strong from kneading dough.
“Come, Tikhon,” she’d say, accent thick as ever.
“Men who cook don’t starve. And they keep their women happy. ”
I was ten the first time she showed me how to make borscht—peeling beets until my fingers stained purple, stirring while she added dill and a dollop of sour cream.
The steam would fill our little place, driving out the cold leaking in through the windows.
She’d hum songs from home and laugh when I burned the onions.
“Patience, malysh. Food knows when you rush it.”
Those nights, I could forget the bruises Dad left, Viktor’s jabs about being “soft.” Mom made the family feel gentle, even in our world.
I toss the garlic into hot oil—sizzle, pop—the smell explodes, sharp and warm. In goes the rosemary, crushed between my fingers, then diced onions. I watch them go translucent, caramelizing just right.
Steak hits the pan with a hiss, crusting up fast, still rare inside. It’s simple. It’s enough.
Then I hear footsteps—soft, bare, coming down the stairs.
Katya.
She stands in the doorway, hair messy, wearing one of my old shirts that barely covers her thighs. Her eyes are heavy, but curious. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“Needed to unwind.” I flip the steak, letting the smell fill the room—charred meat, herbs, garlic butter pooling in the pan.
She comes closer, leaning on the island. “Smells amazing.”
“Ribeye with herb butter. Want some?”
She nods, grinning a little. “Yeah.”
I plate hers first—medium-rare, just how she likes it, with a pat of butter melting into the juices. She takes a bite, closes her eyes, and lets out a soft “God. This is... wow.”
“Old family recipe.” I watch her eat, the way her lips part around the fork, the quiet sound she makes. There’s something intimate in sharing food like this.
She sets the fork down, comes around the island to stand beside me. She’s close—her arm brushes mine as she looks into the pan. “Teach me?”
I raise an eyebrow. “You? The master baker wants a lesson?”
She bumps my hip. “Baking’s sweet. This is different.”
“Fair.” I hand her the spatula. “Baste it. Tilt the pan, spoon the butter over.”
She tries, careful at first, hot butter dripping over the steak. I guide her hand—my fingers over hers, the stove’s heat meeting the warmth between us. She leans in, shoulder to shoulder, her shirt riding up as she stretches.
“Like this?” she asks, voice quiet.
“Perfect.” I bend down and kiss her temple. Her lavender shampoo mixes with the garlic, and somehow that feels right. Her free hand finds my waist, fingers slipping under my shirt, tracing along my skin.
We finish the steak together—she slices mushrooms, I sear them. We move around each other, in sync, like we’ve done this a hundred times. She laughs when oil splatters her arm.
I wipe it off, thumb lingering, turning the touch into something more. She turns, presses close, and we kiss. Slow, with a hint of herbs and heat. My hands slide to her hips, pulling her in. She moans softly as I lift her onto the counter, stepping between her legs.
“Tikhon…” She says my name, a little breathless, and something shifts inside me. I kiss her neck, my hands sliding under her shirt. “Tell me to stop,” I murmur.
“Don’t,” she says.
We take our time. No rush. Just slow touches, hands exploring, breathing each other in. Afterward, we end up tangled on the rug by the kitchen island. She curls into me and whispers, “Tell me a story. About your mom.”
So I do. I tell her about pelmeni nights, how Mom always sneaked extra filling for Arina. Katya listens, head on my chest, the kitchen glow wrapping around us. Our connection just settles in deeper.
And suddenly, I’m right back in that old kitchen. Mom’s there, flour smudged on her apron, the knot loose at her waist. She’d let me crack the eggs, yolk slipping bright gold into the bowl. “See the color, Tikhon? Happy chickens. Good hearts make good food.”
We’d fold dough over the meat, her fingers pinching the edges so quickly and neatly, with me fumbling right beside her. When the dumplings boiled, white foam bubbled up, and she’d fish one out for me.
Hot, savory, juicy inside that soft wrapper.
“Family is in the sharing,” she’d say, feeding Arina a bite too.
On those nights, I was just a kid again—not Viktor’s future soldier.
Sometimes Dad came home, sniffed the air, and actually smiled.
“Irina’s magic,” he’d grumble, sitting with us. The peace was rare, but real.
Katya shifts, drawing lazy circles on my chest. “She really loved you, didn’t she?”
“She did.” I hold her closer. “Like you, when you bake. It’s all in the details.”
She smiles and kisses my collarbone, soft and slow. My hand slides down her back, skin warm under my palm. She arches into me, breath catching.
Later, we cook more—just pasta this time. I salt the water heavily, and she tears fresh basil by hand. Green bruises on her fingers, that peppery scent in the air. I watch her, focused, lips pressed together.
When she stirs the pot, I slip behind her, arms around her waist, chin on her shoulder. “Smells good,” I say, nuzzling her neck.
She laughs, leaning back. “The pasta or me?”
“Both.” My hands find her hips, pulling her close. Heat from the stove, heat from us. She turns and kisses me, deep and hungry, the wooden spoon left behind.
We eat right there on the floor, plates balanced on our knees, sharing wine straight from the glass. The pasta’s slick with oil and basil. She feeds me a bite, sauce dripping. I lick it off, and her eyes darken. “Tell me more,” she says.
So I do. I tell her about Mom’s blini on Maslenitsa—golden pancakes stacked high, slathered in jam and sour cream. She’d flip them in the pan, no spatula, just wrist and luck. “If it lands right, good year ahead.”
I was thirteen, Viktor lurking in the doorway, sneering. “Women’s work.” Mom just cut him a look that would sour milk. “Real men know the hearth, Viktor. It keeps the home strong.” That shut him up. We ate until we were stuffed, laughing at the burnt ones.
Katya’s eyes shine. “I wish I could’ve met her.”
“Me too.” I set my plate down and pull her into my lap. She straddles me, hands on my shoulders. We kiss—tasting of wine and basil, slow and deep. Her fingers undo my buttons, tracing over old scars. She touches them so gently, almost reverently.
We make love right there on the kitchen floor, moonlight streaming through the window. Slow, close, her moving above me, eyes locked on mine. When she comes, whispering my name, it feels like forgiveness. I follow, holding her tight.
After, we lie tangled together. Her head on my chest. “Your turn,” I say. “Tell me a baking story.”
She smiles and touches my jaw. “Mom’s pirozhki. In summer, we filled them with cherries—so tart, the juice stained our fingers red. She’d say, ‘Sweet and sour, like life.’ We’d eat them hot, tongues burning, laughing anyway.”
Our stories twist together, just like we do. The kitchen feels different now—sacred, somehow. Ours.
When dawn peeks in, she yawns. I carry her upstairs and tuck her into bed. She curls up against me, out like a light. I stay awake a while, just holding her. Stories shared, bodies shared.
She’s mine.
For the first time, it really feels like I’m hers too.
***
I wait. I listen to her breathing—slow and steady, that deep, soft rhythm she only has when she’s really gone. Katya’s head rests on my chest, her arm draped over my waist, her fingers curled against my ribs.
The lamp on the nightstand glows low and gold, painting her face, lighting up those stray hairs that slipped out of her braid. She looks peaceful. Safe. Like she belongs right here.
I don’t want to move.
Still, the day’s weight won’t let me go. It hangs on my chest, heavy and cold—Fadir’s name, the warehouse leads that keep slipping through my fingers, the gut-deep certainty he’s still out there, still scheming. I told her I’d walk away. I meant it when I said it.
But promises made in the dark rarely survive the morning.
So, I slide out from under her, careful, slow. She mumbles something, her brow creasing for a second before she settles again.
I hold still, wait until she’s quiet, then slip out of bed. The floor bites at my bare feet. I pull on sweatpants, a T-shirt, grab my phone, and sneak out without a sound.
The hallway’s dark. I don’t flip any switches. I know every creak, every shadow in this house. The study door’s already open a crack—just enough. I push it wider and step inside.
The room smells of old books and leather, with a faint ghost of whiskey from two nights ago. I don’t bother with the overhead light. The desk lamp casts the same soft amber as the bedroom. It’s enough. I drop into the chair, let out a long breath, and let the quiet close in around me.
My mind goes straight back to her.
Katya, asleep in my bed—our bed—curled on her side now, hand tucked under her cheek.
The way she looked at me tonight, the way she whispered I love you—no walls, no second thoughts.
The way she held me after, like I was someone worth keeping.
I’ve spent years building walls so high that I forgot what it was like to be touched for no reason.
She just walked right through them, like they were nothing.
And now, I’m scared—not of her, but of what it’ll cost if I can’t protect her.
I open the laptop. Screen lights up—shop camera feeds, encrypted emails, a map covered in red pins: last known spots, informant tips, burner-phone pings. Fadir’s name is everywhere and nowhere all at once.
I lean back, rub my face. The night replays—her laugh when she ruined the first batch of shortbread, the way she pressed into me when I told her about Mom’s pelmeni, the sharp gasp she made when I pulled her close on the kitchen floor. Every word, every touch, every look—it all proves this is real.
That she’s real, and I’ll do anything to keep it.
The door opens—no knock.
Viktor slips in, quiet, like he knows I’m strung tight. He’s still in yesterday’s clothes, with dark circles under his eyes, but his back is as straight as ever. Always is.
“Boss.”
I don’t bother looking up. “Talk.”
He shuts the door. “We got movement. Three hours ago. One of his sisters, Anya Klem, was spotted at a private airstrip outside the city. Private jet, no flight plan. She boarded with two bodyguards and a crate. It appeared heavy. Ground crew says it was marked as medical equipment. We know it wasn’t. ”
My jaw tightens. “Destination?”
“Flight filed for Toronto, then diverted. Last ping was over Lake Huron. They’re dark now. Probably switched planes in Canada.”
I close my eyes. “And the brothers?”
“Still in play. Dmitri and Sergei were seen at a warehouse on the east side last night. Moving weapons. Small arms, grenades, and a couple of RPGs. Not enough for a war, but enough to make noise. Leonid’s unaccounted for. Sisters are quiet, except Anya. They’re circling the wagons.”
I open my eyes. “Fadir?”
Viktor hesitates. “We think he’s with Anya. Or he’s already ahead. There’s chatter—encrypted, bouncing through proxies—he’s planning to hit soft targets. Businesses. Families. Not us directly. He wants to make us bleed, bit by bit. Force us to spread thin.”
I lean forward. “He’s baiting us.”
“Yeah.” Viktor rubs his jaw. “And he’s good at it. Always has been.”
I stare at the map. Fadir’s pin sits in the center—a red circle, empty, grinning back at me.
He’s been a splinter since the day Viktor died.
When we first took over, he was just a name—distant cousin, hired muscle, the guy who handled the messes no one else wanted.
I remember the first time we really met.
I was twenty-three, still green, still thinking loyalty meant following orders.
Viktor sent me to collect debt from a mid-level dealer.
Fadir was already there—waiting. The dealer was zip-tied to a chair, missing three fingers, still breathing.
Fadir was humming, like he was enjoying the music of the man’s pain.
He looked up at me—eyes flat and black—and said, “You’re late, little Sokolov. I started without you.”
I left. Told Viktor to clean up his own mess. Viktor laughed.
He’s always hung around the edges, just out of sight, picking up the work nobody else wanted.
Always waiting. Always watching. When we forced out Viktor’s old crew and tried to clean things up, Fadir didn’t pack up and leave like the rest. He stuck around.
Stayed quiet. Waited. Started recruiting.
Every guy who missed the old days, who missed that old fear, he turned them into soldiers for his side.
Now he’s coming after everything—our truce, our peace, Katya.
I shut the laptop. “Double the watch on the house. On Bloom. On every Letvin property. Call in every favor we’ve got. I want eyes at every airport, train station, and bus depot within two hundred miles. If Anya shows up, I want to know before her plane even lands.”
Viktor nods. “Already happening.”
I get up. “And Fadir. When we find him…”
Viktor looks me straight in the eye. “We finish it.”
I nod. “We finish it.”
He walks out. The door shuts behind him.
I stand there in the dark, staring at the map. The red circle in the middle is still empty. Not for much longer.
I think about Katya—sleeping upstairs, safe for now. The way she looked at me tonight when she said she loved me. The way she held me, like maybe I was worth saving.
I can’t let her down.
No way.
I grab my coat and slip out the side door. The night’s cold, rain just starting up again, but I don’t care.
Fadir’s out there.
I’m going after him.