Chapter 18 - Tikhon
The warehouse stands in the middle of the industrial district, hulking and silent, its metal walls eaten up by rust after too many years of rain. Inside, it smells like old diesel and gunpowder—the kind of scent that clings to your clothes.
Viktor’s crew is all business, gliding through the shadows, stacking crates from a Baltic shipment. Top-shelf electronics, nothing bloody, which is about as clean as Bratva work ever gets.
No one dies, no one screams, just a bunch of high-end gear getting shuffled through fake companies and vanishing into the black market. Still, every minute here feels like time stolen from her.
I scroll through the manifests on my tablet, matching codes to the inventory. Everything lines up. I tell Viktor, “Seal it up.” My voice echoes way too loudly in the empty space. He nods, the scar on his cheek twisting, and signals the others.
That’s three runs this week. Bratva life never lets up—meetings, turf, and rivals like Fadir breathing down our necks.
Lately, I hate it more than ever. Every hour here is an hour I don’t get with Katya, away from the world we’re trying to build.
I think about mornings with her—her hair a mess, stealing bites of dough in the kitchen.
Nights with her curled against me, her breath soft on my neck. Since the gala, since that wild, desperate moment in the conference room, something’s shifted. She keeps her distance, still insists on “name only,” but there are cracks now—a touch that lingers, a look that makes the air spark.
We’re sinking roots, sharing quiet talks about everything and nothing. She tells me about her mother; I give her pieces of my past. It’s real, it’s raw, it’s fragile. And it makes this underworld grind feel like a set of shackles.
“Done,” Viktor says, wiping sweat from his forehead. “You heading out?”
“Yeah. Wrap up the logs. I’ll check them tomorrow.”
He gives me a look. “You seem… lighter lately.”
I slip the tablet into my coat. “Focused.”
He grins. “The wife, huh?”
I don’t argue. “Something like that.”
I push myself harder, knock out the inspections fast, and hand off the paperwork to a guy I trust. By early afternoon, I’m already driving home, the city smudging past the window.
I expect Katya at the shop, probably up to her elbows in flour. But when I pull in, her car’s in the garage.
She’s home early.
The kitchen light glows. I slip inside and hang up my coat. She’s at the counter, forearms buried in a bowl of dough, flour streaking her skin, her hair tied back with a piece already falling loose. There’s a white smudge across her cheek, like war paint.
She’s kneading hard, the dough slamming against the marble. The whole place smells warm—yeast and vanilla. But there’s tension in her shoulders, every movement sharp. She’s not baking at the shop. She’s baking here.
My stomach twists. The stakeout—her brothers’ guys turning her bakery into a surveillance den—it’s eating at her. I figured it would wear her down, but seeing her like this, the joy sucked out of her, it burns.
“Smells good,” I say, leaning in the doorway.
She jumps, hands pausing. Then she sees me, and something eases in her face. “You’re home early.”
“Wrapped up quick.” I move in, peek at the bowl. Sticky dough, cinnamon flecks. “What is it?”
“Braided bread. Cinnamon swirl.” She keeps kneading but slower, like she’s finally running out of fight. “Comfort bake.”
“Why here?” I ask, quiet. “Not the shop?”
She lets out a breath and throws more flour onto the counter. “It’s not the same. The men are always there, watching everything. I can’t relax. Can’t think. It feels like baking in a cage.”
Her words hit hard. I come up behind her, rest my hands on her shoulders, and work out the knots. She stiffens, then leans back into me. “I’m sorry.”
She turns her head, eyes catching mine. “Are you? You think the stakeout’s necessary, too.”
I don’t dodge it. “For your safety? Yeah. But not like this. Not if it’s breaking you.”
She turns all the way, presses her floury hands to my chest, leaving white prints. “Then what? I can’t keep doing this. The shop was my escape. Now it’s just another lock I can’t pick.”
Her voice wavers. I pull her close, chin on her head, arms tight. She fits against me perfectly, warm and soft, her hair smelling faintly of sugar.
“I’ll fix it.”
“How?”
I kiss her forehead. “Trust me.”
She nods against my chest. We just stand there for a minute—her breathing slows down, my hand tracing slow circles on her back.
There’s something about this closeness that anchors me. She’s letting me in, letting me hold her when everything else is closing in. Her trust is fragile, but it’s real, and I can feel it growing.
Eventually, I step back and grab my phone. I call Agafon.
He picks up, voice clipped. “Sokolov.”
“The stakeout at the shop. Pull your guys back.”
There’s a pause. “Why?”
“It’s killing her. She’s baking at home now because your men are all over the place. Move them to the building next door. Or across the street. Still close, just… enough space so she can breathe.”
He laughs—cold, almost mocking. “You think we’re running security just because she’s uncomfortable? Fadir’s still out there. She’s still a target.”
“I know.” My voice goes cold. “But if she’s distracted, she’s vulnerable. If she’s miserable, she’ll ditch the protection and go it alone. You know her. Move your guys, or I’m pulling out of the joint op next week. The arms coming through our ports? Forget it.”
Katya’s eyes go wide, but she doesn’t say a word.
Agafon curses in Russian. “You’re serious.”
“Dead serious.”
I hear Bogdan in the background, loud and angry. Agafon cuts him off, then comes back to me. “This is bullshit, Tikhon. You’re threatening the whole alliance over her feelings?”
“It’s not about feelings. It’s her life. She’s your sister. Act like it.”
Silence stretches out between us, thick and tense. Katya squeezes my hand.
Finally, he gives in. “Fine. We’ll move them. But they’re staying close. If Fadir gets near—”
“He won’t.” I hang up.
Katya’s staring at me. “Did you just… blackmail my brothers?”
I shrug. “For you? I’d do it a hundred times.”
She steps into me, arms around my neck. “Thank you.”
I hold her tight, relief sinking in. This is how we’ve grown—through moments like this, when I fight for her freedom as much as I fight for her safety.
Trust builds slowly, brick by brick: her telling me about her mother, me opening up about my past. Laughter over dinner, quiet nights where she falls asleep with her head in my lap. At this point, it’s real. Solid.
By evening, the men are gone. She texts me a photo of her empty kitchen: “Breathing again. Thanks to you.”
I don’t take credit. Don’t need it.
I work out the new setup with her brothers—hidden cameras in the empty storefront next door, men in unmarked cars across the street, rotating every few hours.
Agafon grumbles through the calls, “This better not come back to bite us,”—but he listens.
We need each other to handle Fadir. Fighting among ourselves is pointless.
Still, with everything going on—the Bratva runs stacking up, leads on Fadir going cold—I keep checking on her. Just short calls so that I can hear her voice. “How’s the tart coming?” I ask one afternoon, leaning back in my chair.
“Lemon-basil. Tangy, herbaceous. Finally got it—acidity cuts the sweet just right.” She sounds lighter. Happy again. “Save room for dinner. I’m testing it on you tonight.”
I grin, picturing her with that stubborn, focused frown while she tastes. “Wouldn’t miss it. Be safe.”
“Always.” She pauses. “I miss you.”
Her words hit like a shot of good whiskey—warm, deep. “Miss you too. Home soon.”
I hang up, but my phone buzzes almost immediately—Viktor’s text: Fadir spotted. Headed to the shop. Armed. Ten minutes out.
My stomach drops. I’m on my feet, coat and gun in hand, before my brain even catches up. “Mobilize,” I snap into the comms. The trap’s ready—planned it all with her brothers, covered every angle. Snipers up top, blockers in the alleys, her brothers moving in from the east.
I tear through traffic—horns blaring, lights ignored, heart pounding out of my chest. Fadir’s going after her. Ballsy move. Stupid, too. After the stunt he pulled in the garage, I knew he’d push back, but this? A straight-up assault on her shop? Desperate or just cocky?
I get there first. Park a block away, go in through the back alley, gun drawn, every sense on edge. Rain on pavement, city noise in the distance. I slip in the back, punch in the code, silent.
Kitchen’s empty, but I hear her up front—steady, calm, taking an order like nothing’s wrong. Relief floods me, but it doesn’t last.
Tires screech outside. Doors slam. Shouting.
I rush out front—Fadir’s men pouring in, five of them, guns up.
“Get down!” I yell. Katya dives behind the counter.
Gunfire cracks—sharp, loud, glass exploding, pastries going up in clouds of sugar and flour.
I shoot, hit one in the leg. He drops, screaming, blood everywhere.
Viktor bursts in from the side, takes another down with a shot to the head—blood and brains in the air.
Then it’s chaos—bullets pinging off ovens, ricocheting.
A customer screams, cowering in the corner.
Her brothers burst in—Agafon shouting orders, Bogdan laying down cover.
I duck and roll behind a table, return fire.
One of Fadir’s thugs clips my shoulder—burns like hell, blood soaking my shirt.
I ignore it, shoot back, drop him. He’s done.
Fadir shows up in the doorway—grinning like a devil, gun raised. “Sokolov! Time to pay!”
I charge him. We crash out into the street, rain slick on the pavement, grit scraping my skin. We roll, fists flying, his knife slicing at me. He catches my arm—pain flares, blood runs—but I grab his wrist, wrench it until something cracks.
The knife skitters away. “You don’t touch her,” I snarl, kneeing him hard.