Chapter 17 - Katya
The shop smells off this morning. Not the usual warm mix of butter, vanilla, and rising yeast—there’s something sharp in the air, metallic, wrong. Gun oil, probably. Or maybe it’s just the sour edge of fear-sweat from the four guys who’ve turned my kitchen into a checkpoint.
They showed up at dawn, didn’t say much, and moved like they were setting up a bunker instead of a pastry counter. One leans against the back door now, arms folded, watching the alley through a slit of the window.
Another sits at my prep table, rifle case resting beside him like it belongs there. The other two drift between the front and back, pretending to be customers whenever anyone walks in.
I hate every bit of it.
The bell over the door makes me jump every time it rings. The air feels heavy, like someone’s squeezed the oxygen out of it. I reach for a tray of croissants, and my hand shakes—just enough for the guy at the table to notice. He doesn’t say a word, just stares. They all do.
My first customer is Mrs. Zolotova, one of my regulars. Seventy-something, always wants an almond croissant and black coffee. She smiles at me, then freezes when she spots the guy by the door.
“Katya, dear... is everything all right?”
I force a smile. I can feel how fake it looks. “Just some... maintenance work. Nothing to worry about.”
She nods, slow and uncertain, grabs her bag, and leaves without her usual chat. The door closes, and the silence presses in even harder.
I go to the back, lean against the cooler, and try to breathe. My chest aches. This stakeout’s only been going on for three days, but it already feels permanent. Every bowl I wash, every tray I fill, I can feel their eyes.
My sanctuary’s gone. The place where I’d get lost in the rhythm of measuring and kneading and piping—now it’s just another outpost. My brothers did this. They decided I needed safety more than I needed freedom, and they didn’t even bother to ask.
I text Tatiana first: They took over the shop. I’m losing my mind.
Her reply comes back right away: I’m coming.
She shows up twenty minutes later, snow on her coat, eyes full of fire. She doesn’t even say hi, just marches straight to the guy at the prep table and points at the door. “Out. All of you. Now.”
He stays seated. “Orders are from Agafon.”
“Then call Agafon,” she snaps.
I try to step in. “Tatiana—”
“No.” She looks at me, softer, but she’s still furious. “This is bullshit, Katya. This is your place. They don’t get to turn it into a fortress.”
Finally, the guy stands up and speaks into his radio. A minute later, my phone rings. Agafon.
I put it on speaker. “What the hell, Agafon?”
His voice is calm, like he’s reading a script. “We’re protecting you.”
“I don’t need protection here. I need my kitchen back.”
“You had a direct threat from Fadir Klem in your shop. You think we’re just going to leave you exposed?”
“I think you should leave me alone.” My voice breaks. “This is mine. The only thing I’ve ever had that was really mine. And you’re taking it.”
He goes quiet. Then, “It’s temporary. Until we neutralize the threat.”
“Temporary?” I can’t help but laugh—a sharp, ugly sound. “You said everything was ‘temporary’ when I was a kid. ‘Temporary’ curfews. ‘Temporary’ escorts. ‘Temporary’ rules. It never ends.”
“Katya—”
“No. Listen to me. I built this place with my own money. My own hands. No family money. No favors. No strings. And now your guys stand here watching me pipe buttercream, like I’m the criminal. It’s humiliating. It’s suffocating. And it’s not about protecting me—it’s about control.”
Tatiana jumps in. “She’s right, Agafon. Pull them out.”
He sighs, the sound crackling through the speaker. “We can’t. Not until Fadir’s handled.”
“Then handle him,” I snap. “Don’t handle me.”
“Katya, this isn’t up for debate.”
Those words hit hard. Same tone he used when I was sixteen and wanted to go to art school instead of business classes. “This isn’t up for debate.” Same line when Mom was dying, and he wouldn’t let me stay home from school because “life goes on.”
I hang up.
Tatiana looks at me. “You okay?”
“No.” My voice shakes. “I'm not.”
I turn to the man still standing there. “Get out. All of you.”
He doesn't move. “Ma'am—”
“Out!” I shout. The word echoes off the stainless steel. My hands tremble. Tears burn hot behind my eyes. “This is my shop. My rules. Get the fuck out.”
He looks at his partner, then back at me. Finally, he nods once. “We'll be outside.”
They file out—slow, reluctant, like they're doing me a favor by leaving. The door closes behind the last one. The bell chimes—soft, mocking.
Silence.
I stand in the middle of my kitchen—my kitchen—and all I feel is rage, grief, and bone-deep exhaustion.
The counters are spotless, trays lined up, dough rising just where I left it.
Nothing’s out of place, yet it still feels wrong.
Like someone else has touched everything, left their mark on what’s mine.
Tatiana comes up behind me and wraps her arms around my waist. “We’ll fix this.”
“How?” My voice breaks. “They won’t listen. They never do.”
She rests her chin on my shoulder. “Then we make them listen.”
I shake my head. “I can’t fight them all. Not anymore.”
She turns me around, hands firm on my shoulders. “You don’t have to. Not alone.”
I look at her, really look. She’s just as tired—dark circles, tight mouth. She’s been stuck in the middle since this mess started. Keeping my secrets, covering for me, now caught between the brothers and me. Guilt twists inside me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this.”
“Don’t.” She squeezes my shoulders. “I chose this. I chose you.”
Tears spill over. I hug her, pressing my face into her neck. She smells like coffee and that old floral perfume she’s worn since high school. We stand there, holding on to each other, refusing to let the world pull us apart.
When we finally let go, she brushes my cheeks dry. “Go home. I’ll close up.”
“I can’t leave you here alone.”
“I’ll be fine. The men are outside. I can handle a locked door.”
I hesitate, then nod. “Call me if anything feels off.”
“I will.”
I grab my coat, turn off the lights, and lock the back door. I step out into the alley. Snow’s falling again, soft and silent, melting on my cheeks like the tears I haven’t cried yet. The black SUV waits at the curb—my brothers’ men. One nods at me. I don’t bother to respond.
The drive home is quiet. No music, just the wipers and my own breathing. When I pull into the garage, Tikhon’s car is already there. Relief hits first, then that old mix of wanting him and bracing myself.
He’s in the living room when I walk in, coat off, sleeves rolled up, nursing a glass of whiskey. He looks up and sees my face, sets the glass down.
“Bad day?”
I drop my bag by the door. “They won’t leave.”
He stands and crosses the room. “I know.”
“You knew?”
“I fought with Agafon. Lost.”
I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Of course you did.”
He reaches for me. I step back.
“Don’t.”
“Katya—”
“I said don’t.” My voice cracks. “I can’t... not right now.”
He stops, lets his hands fall. “Okay.”
I turn away and head upstairs. Shower. I let the hot water pound over me until my skin goes pink, scrubbing away flour, tension, tears I wouldn’t let fall in the shop. When I finally come out, wrapped in a towel, Tikhon’s sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting.
I pause in the doorway. “I told you not to.”
“I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m not.” The words scrape out of me. “They took my shop. My safe place. And you couldn’t stop them.”
He flinches. “I tried.”
“Not hard enough.”
He stands, slow. “What do you want me to do? Start a war with your brothers?”
“Maybe.” I laugh, bitter. “Maybe that’s what it takes.”
He steps closer, careful. “Katya...”
I shake my head. “Don’t. Just—don’t.”
He stops. We stand there, two feet between us, all the things we’re not saying filling the space.
I break first.
I grab his shirt, pull him down, and kiss him hard. Angry, desperate. He groans, hands at my waist, lifting me. We fall onto the bed, towels left behind. It’s rough, hungry. My nails rake his back.
His mouth is everywhere—my neck, my chest, lower. I arch into him, gasping, pull him up, and guide him inside. He thrusts hard and deep, each one a word we’re not speaking.
When it’s over, we’re tangled together, shaking, out of breath. He holds me close, like he’s scared I’ll disappear.
“I don’t regret this,” I murmur against his skin.
“Good.”
“But it doesn’t fix anything.”
He sighs. “I know.”
I roll away, pull the sheet around me. “I need space.”
He doesn’t argue, just presses a soft kiss to my shoulder. “I’ll be here when you’re ready.”
He leaves quietly, the door clicking shut.
I lie there, body spent, heart aching. The shop’s lost to me, even if I’m still allowed inside. My brothers took it. Took my freedom. My sanctuary.
And Tikhon—God help me—I want him. Want him so much it scares me. But wanting him means accepting this life. Accepting the protection, the control, the cage.
I can't.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
I curl into the pillow that smells like him, and let the tears come—quiet, hot, endless.
***
The house is eerie, almost like a mausoleum. Cold, with the air seeming as if it had been sucked out of it.
I knew it as soon as I woke up—alone. The other side of the bed lay cold, sheets barely creased, like Tikhon slipped out ages ago and didn’t want to wake me.
No note on the nightstand. No text lighting up my phone. Just silence.
I tried calling him first. Straight to voicemail. His deep, steady voice—Leave a message—hit me harder than I expected. I hung up without saying anything.
Where are you? I texted.
He read it. Didn’t answer.
Call me when you can. Delivered. He didn’t even open it.
I stared at my screen until the words blurred, then tossed the phone onto the comforter and started pacing.
Kitchen. Living room. Hallway. Back to the bedroom. Still nothing. His coat wasn’t on the rack. Keys are missing from the bowl by the door. His car is gone from the garage. He left without a word.
I tell myself it’s nothing. He does this—vanishes for hours, sometimes a whole day, chasing leads on Fadir. He always comes back. Bruised, tired, smelling like gun oil and rain, but alive. Always alive.
But today, the silence feels heavier somehow, like the whole house is holding its breath.
I wrap my arms around myself and pace the bedroom again. The robe I grabbed is too thin, silk brushing skin still sore from last night, but I hardly notice. I just need to move, do something, anything.
The clock on the nightstand ticks too loudly: 11:47 a.m. He’s been gone since before dawn.
I grab my phone again. Refresh my messages. Nothing. I open the call log—his name sits at the top, six missed calls, all ignored. My thumb hovers, then I hit redial. Voicemail. Again.
“Tikhon,” I say after the beep, my voice cracking. “It’s me. I just… I need to know you’re okay. Please call me back. Please.”
I hang up and sink onto the edge of the bed. My hands won’t stop shaking.
I keep thinking about the way he looked at me last night—soft eyes, open, like he was seeing me for the first time again. The way he whispered I love you against my throat when he thought I was asleep. How his arms tightened around me like if he let go, I’d disappear.
I press my palm to my chest. My heart’s racing.
I love him.
It lands quietly, no big moment, no music. Just the truth, solid and simple.
I love him.
Not the idea of him. Not just the man who saved me from my brothers or patched up my dreams. Him. The guy who burns toast every time he tries to make breakfast.
The one who traces my scars with careful fingers and never asks where they came from. The one who holds me when I cry about the shop and never tries to fix it—just stays. The man who looks at me like I’m the only light he’s ever found in the dark.
And now he’s out there. Alone. Chasing a monster who already torched one piece of my life.
What if he doesn’t come back?
What if this time Fadir wins?
I stand up fast and march to the window. The garden outside looks perfect, all neat hedges and sunlight sparkling on the fountain. It’s peaceful. Or maybe just indifferent. It almost feels like it’s mocking me.
I scold myself, sharp and mean inside my head.
You’re being ridiculous. Weak. You survived before him. Built a life before him. You don’t need him just to breathe.
But that’s a lie, and I know it.
Because I do.
Not in some helpless, desperate way. Not because he owns me or cages me or anything like that. Because he sees me. All of me—the stubborn, broken, baking-obsessed mess nobody else ever bothered to see. Because when he’s here, the world shrinks. It feels safer. Brighter.
When he’s gone, it’s like something’s missing.
I hug myself tighter. The robe slips off one shoulder. I let it.
For a second, I think about calling my brothers. Agafon would pick up. He’d send people. He’d take over, turn this into another job, another power play. I don’t want that. I want Tikhon. Just Tikhon.
I walk back to the bed. Pick up my phone. Stare at his name.
“Come home,” I whisper into the empty room. “Please come home.”
I sit on the edge of the mattress. Pull my knees up. Rest my forehead on them.
And wait.
And pray.
And love him.
Even if he never really knows how much.