Chapter 19 - Katya
The afternoon sun spills through the shop windows, making the pastry cases glow. Everything looks warm and golden—rows of macarons lined up just so, tarts shining in the light. It’s been steady all day. People come in for their regular treats.
The office guy grabs his pistachio eclairs. The mom with the stroller wants the raspberry thumbprints. The smell in here is unreal—fresh brioche, still warm, with that hint of lemon curd I whipped together earlier.
It’s got that zing, cuts through all the sugar in the air. I wipe the counter again, not because it needs it, but because I need something to do with my hands.
The stakeout guys are gone now—Tikhon did something, I don’t even know what, and they packed up and moved across the street. Still, the place feels off. Like their eyes stayed behind, tucked into the corners.
My phone buzzes on the prep table. Tikhon. I can’t help but smile, even as I wipe flour off my hands and pick up. “Hey. You’re early.”
“Just wanted to hear your voice.” He sounds easy, but there’s something sharp under the words, like he’s got one eye on the door. “How’s work?”
“Good. Busy enough to keep me distracted.” I lean back, twisting a bit of hair around my finger. “Made those lemon-basil tarts. They’re killing it. Saved you one.”
“Looking forward to it.” He goes quiet. Then, “Katya, listen. Stay inside. Lock up. Don’t—”
The line fizzles and dies. Just static. Then nothing. I stare at my phone, thumb hovering over the redial button. The call drops. I try again—straight to voicemail. Again. Same thing.
My stomach knots. His voice—so tense at the end. “Stay inside.” Why? What’s going on? I walk to the window, trying to see what he saw.
The street looks normal—cars, a few people hurrying by, snow swirling in the wind. Still, the air feels weird. Too still. Like the world’s holding its breath.
Then tires squeal, doors slam. Somebody yells. My heart leaps. I stumble back from the window, grab the rolling pin—like that’s going to help. It’s heavy, at least. Feels real in my hand.
Gunfire cracks down the block. Loud, fast, echoing off brick. Glass shatters. I hit the floor behind the counter, heart hammering in my throat. More shouting, footsteps, another burst of shots.
Screams.
People outside—customers, maybe. God.
But all I can think about is Tikhon. The call. “Stay inside.” Was he warning me? Is he out there? Fear grips my chest, icy and tight. I picture him hurt, bleeding, those green eyes going blank. No. I can’t. Not him.
I crawl to the edge of the counter and peek out.
The front window’s cracked but still holding.
Outside is chaos—men darting behind cars, muzzle flashes strobing in the dusk.
Bodies on the ground. Blood on the snow.
I spot our people—Tikhon’s guys, my brothers.
Fadir’s crew, too, firing back and scrambling.
The shooting slows, then stops. The silence rings in my ears. I’m gasping, my chest tight. Is it over? Is Tikhon okay?
I can’t stay put. The fear’s too much. I drop the rolling pin and push myself up, legs shaking. I run to the door, hands fumbling with the lock, and bolt outside.
The cold hits me hard. Snowflakes sting my face, melt on my skin. The street’s wrecked—cars full of holes, shattered glass everywhere, the snow streaked red. Bodies lie sprawled, eyes open, lifeless.
Fadir’s men, by the looks. Our side moves in fast—Tikhon’s crew, my brothers—hauling bodies, working with grim focus, like this is just another job.
Tarps cover the worst of it, bleach splashing out of bottles, turning red into pale, streaky puddles. One guy sweeps up brass casings with a broom, like he’s cleaning after some wild party. Another hoses down a car door, wiping at the blood until his rag goes scarlet.
They’re good at this—disturbingly good. There’s no panic, no wasted motion, and by morning, you’d never guess anything happened here. Just another quiet street.
My eyes dart everywhere, searching—where is he?
There. Tikhon. He looks beat up—shirt torn, blood on his face, arm hanging weird—but he’s on his feet. He’s talking to Agafon, gesturing tight and sharply. He’s alive.
Relief hits so hard my knees nearly give out. I stumble forward, breath coming out in white clouds. “Tikhon!”
He spins around, eyes wide. “Katya? What the hell—get back inside!”
I don’t listen. I run to him, throw my arms around his neck. He grunts but holds me tight, even though it hurts. He’s solid, warm, alive—his heart pounding against my chest. Blood smears my apron, but I don’t care. He’s here. He’s safe.
“What were you thinking?” he mutters into my hair, voice rough. “It’s not safe out here.”
“I couldn’t—” I pull back, hands on his face, checking him over. Split lip, purple bruise blooming on his cheek, a gash on his forehead that’s still bleeding. “The call dropped. Then the shots. I thought—God, I thought you were—”
He looks at me, something soft flickering through the pain. “You were scared for me.”
I shake my head, stepping back. “No. Yes. Not just you. Everyone. It was chaos. Anybody could’ve been hurt.”
He gives me a faint, knowing smile. “Right. Totally normal.”
Agafon comes over, scowling. “Katya—inside. Now.”
I ignore him, fussing over Tikhon instead. “You’re bleeding. Sit down. Let me see your arm.”
“It’s fine,” he says, but he flinches when I touch it.
“It’s not.” I steer him to the shop steps and make him sit, even though he grumbles.
The stone’s freezing, but I don’t care. I rip a strip from my apron—clean enough—and press it to his forehead.
He hisses, but lets me. My hands shake a little as I dab at the blood, the metallic smell sharp in the cold air. “Hold this.”
He does. His eyes stay on me—soft, searching. “You didn’t have to come out.”
“I did.” My voice goes quiet. “I couldn’t stay inside and do nothing.”
All around us, the cleanup grinds on—bodies hauled into vans, bleach turning the blood into frothy pink foam, glass swept into bags, bullet holes patched with filler.
These people work like ghosts—fast, efficient, erasing every sign of what happened. Tomorrow, nobody will even know.
Tikhon just watches me, lets me fuss. I adjust the cloth, check his knuckles—split and raw. He covers my hand with his. “Katya…”
“Don’t.” I look up at him. “Just let me help.”
He nods. The moment hangs there—gentle, almost peaceful, right in the middle of the mess. His thumb circles my wrist, slow and steady, warming me up inside. I lean in, rest my forehead against his, careful of the cut.
Our breath mingles, fogging together in the cold. “I’m glad you’re okay,” I whisper.
“Me too.” He kisses me—soft, lingering. “Let’s go home.”
I help him up, slide my arm around his waist, even though he tries to wave me off. The vans pull away, street spotless, bodies gone. We drive home slowly, his head resting on my shoulder. At the house, I lead him upstairs and run a bath—hot water, lavender oil swirling in the steam.
I help him undress, careful over every bruise, kissing each one. He lowers himself into the tub with a groan. I kneel beside him, sponge away the blood—gentle, slow. The water goes pink, spirals down the drain.
He catches my hand. “Thank you.”
I smile. “Always.”
We talk, voices low—about nothing, about everything. The fear fades away, replaced with relief.
I help him out of the tub and wrap him in a towel, careful not to press on the bruises or cuts. The water swirls pink down the drain, washing away the last of the night. I lead him to the bedroom, sit him on the bed, and grab the first-aid kit.
The room glows, warm and gold from the lamp, turning the bloodstains on his shirt into shadows instead of proof.
I kneel between his knees, open the kit. He watches me, eyes heavy and soft, as I dab antiseptic on the cut above his eyebrow. He winces but stays still. “Sorry,” I whisper, blowing gently to cool the sting.
“Don’t be.” His voice is rough, worn out. “Feels better when it’s you.”
I give him a crooked smile and press a butterfly bandage onto the wound. “Flatterer.”
“Just the truth.” His hand finds my cheek, thumb brushing away a tear I didn’t notice. “You scared me, running out there.”
“I was more scared for you.” I move to his split lip, dabbing ointment with a Q-tip. The blood smell lingers, mixed with antiseptic and faint lavender. “When the call dropped…I thought—”
I can’t do it.
The memory just slams into me—gunshots, then nothing but silence, and that raw panic that he was gone. My hands shake. He catches them and presses them to his chest, right over his heart.
“Feel that?” His voice is gentle. “It’s still going. Because of you. Because I had something to come home for.”
Tears spill down my cheeks again, hot and quiet. I lean in, forehead pressed to his. “Don’t do that again. Don’t scare me like that.”
“I’ll try,” he says, and then he kisses me—soft, careful around his split lip. Slow, not hungry, just gentle and comforting. His hands find my waist and pull me into his lap. I move carefully, not wanting to hurt him, wrapping my arms around his neck.
We just stay like that, foreheads touching, breathing the same air. His heartbeat thuds steadily under my hand, and I match my breath to his. The room feels smaller, tucked in around us, just ours.
“I love you,” I whisper. It comes out softer than I meant, but I mean every bit of it. The words have been waiting.
His arms pull me closer. “I love you too.” His voice breaks a little. “More than anything.”
We kiss again, deeper now, but still slow. His hands glide up and down my back, grounding me. I pull back just enough to really look at him—his bruised cheek, the cut on his lip, the tired lines in his face. He’s beaten up, yeah, but he’s alive. He’s here. He’s mine.
I trace the bruise on his cheek, barely touching. “Does it hurt?”
He tries a crooked smile. “Only when I smile.” He smiles anyway. “Worth it.”