Chapter 21 - Katya
By the time we pull up, the fire’s out, but the smell gets you before anything else—wet ash, burnt sugar, old wood cooked to charcoal, and that sharp, fake tang from the fire foam.
It’s everywhere, soaking into my clothes and skin and hair, right down into my lungs. I step out of the car and just stop.
For a second, I can’t move. I’m looking at the skeleton of my shop.
The front is scorched black, windows shattered, shards of glass glittering on the pavement. Where the gold letters used to spell out Sweet Haven, there’s nothing but ugly streaks.
The roof is caved in, beams poking out like broken bones. Smoke still drifts from the wreck, orange from the embers and the strobe of fire trucks. Water pools in the gutter, dark and slick, catching the red and blue lights.
At first, I don’t feel anything. Just empty.
Then the grief comes in slow and heavy, like a wave you see coming but can’t get away from. My knees give out, and Tikhon catches me, arms strong, pulling me in.
“Easy,” he murmurs into my hair. “I’ve got you.”
I can’t say a word. My throat’s locked up. Everything’s gone. The marble counters I scrimped for. The display cases I painted by hand. The old recipe notebook with my mom’s handwriting—her faded letters on the first page.
The chalkboard with the specials in my messy cursive. The kitchen, where I could disappear for hours, where I actually felt like myself. All of it—just ash and splinters.
Firefighters move through the mess—hoses looped over shoulders, axes at their sides, faces smeared with soot. One comes over, helmet off, looking tired.
“Ma’am? This your place?”
I nod. I can’t get anything out.
“I’m sorry. Someone set it. Used gasoline. Started in the back. Spread fast. Roof’s a loss. We’ll know more about the structure in daylight, but... It’s gone.”
A total loss.
The words just echo, empty.
Tikhon squeezes me tighter. “Arson?”
“Definitely.” The firefighter glances at him, then me. “We’ll look into it, but yeah. Someone wanted this place gone.”
Fadir.
His name blazes in my mind, as bright as the fire itself. He slipped out during the shootout, vanished into the chaos, and now this.
Revenge. A warning.
He couldn’t get to me, so he took what I loved.
The tears come, hot and quiet. I don’t sob. I just stand there, letting them fall, soaking into Tikhon’s shirt. He doesn’t say anything like “it’s just a building” or “you’ll rebuild.” He just holds me, lets me stand there and feel it.
Tatiana’s the first to arrive. She runs up, coat flapping, eyes huge. She sees the shop, sees me, and just freezes. Then she’s wrapping her arms around both of us.
“Oh, Katya...”
I hold on to her, too. The three of us pressed together while the world smolders behind.
My brothers show up next—Agafon, Bogdan, Faddey, Ilariy. They don’t say much, just stand in a rough circle, faces hard.
Agafon steps forward and touches my shoulder.
“We’re sorry,” he says, voice rough. “We should have—”
“Don’t.” I shake my head. “Not now.”
He nods.
They get to work—helping the cleanup crews, talking to the police, working with Tikhon’s guys to lock everything down. No one argues or tries to take over. For once, they just help.
The fire marshal confirms it: arson. Gasoline at the back door, matches in the alley. Fadir’s style—too precise, too clean. He didn’t just want to hurt me. He wanted to wipe me out.
Eventually, Tikhon leads me away. The shop is roped off, yellow tape snapping in the wind. Firefighters packing up. I don’t look back.
Home is hollow. I curl up on the couch, knees drawn in, staring at nothing. Tikhon brings me tea—chamomile, always my go-to when I’m wrecked. He sits next to me, close but not smothering.
“Talk to me,” he says, gentle.
I try. The words come slowly, broken.
“It was mine,” I whisper. “The only thing I ever had that was just mine. No family money, no favors, none of the strings. I built it from nothing—every recipe, every late night, every customer who came back. And now it’s gone. Because of me. Because I married you. Because Fadir wanted to hurt us.”
Tikhon takes my hand. “It’s not your fault. It’s him. He’s a monster. Monsters do this.”
“I know,” I say, and the tears just start up again. “But it feels like I’m being punished. Like I was stupid to think I could have anything good or pure in this world.”
He pulls me into his lap and wraps his arms around me tight. I curl up, small and shaking, and he strokes my hair—slow, steady, never rushing.
“You’re not stupid,” he says quietly. “You’re brave. You fought for that place. You fought for yourself. And you’ll fight again. We’ll rebuild. We’ll make it better and safer. Whatever you want.”
I look up at him, my eyes all red and blurred. “You’d really do that?”
“Anything,” he says, and kisses my forehead. “Everything.”
For once, I believe him.
Really believe him.
We just sit there, hours slipping by—me in his lap, his arms around me, the house silent except for our breathing. He doesn’t try to fix it. He doesn’t say I should cheer up or move on. He just holds me, lets me feel it, lets the grief run through me.
Eventually, I shift and rest my head on his shoulder. “Tell me something good.”
He thinks for a second. “When I was a kid, my mom would bake these honey cakes—medovik. Thin layers, sour cream frosting, walnuts on top. She always made them for birthdays. When I turned twelve, she let me help. I dropped the bowl of frosting. It went everywhere—walls, floor, all over me. She didn’t yell.
She just laughed and said, ‘Accidents make the best stories.’ We cleaned it up together, and she made a new batch.
Gave me the first piece. She said, ‘See? Even mistakes can be sweet.’”
I can’t help it—I smile. Really smile, even if it’s just a little.
“She sounds amazing.”
“She was.” He kisses my hair. “And you’re going to make something even better. Because you’re you.”
The tears finally slow. I wipe my face and sit up a bit straighter.
The grief is still there—sharp, raw—but underneath, something starts to spark.
Resolve. The shop is gone, but the idea isn’t.
The recipes are still in my head. My hands still remember the work.
My stubborn, relentless need to create—yeah, that’s still burning.
“Okay,” I say, my voice steadier. “We rebuild.”
Tikhon nods, his eyes shining with pride. “Tell me what you want.”
I breathe in.
“Bigger kitchen. More ovens—double-wall units, so I don’t have to wait between batches.
Better ventilation, so no more smoke alarms whenever I caramelize sugar.
A walk-in cooler for dough. Space—a long marble island for rolling dough and a decorating station, so I’m not running trays all over the place.
Open shelves with jars so I can see everything.
And windows. Big ones. I want natural light.
I want to see the street, watch people go by. I want it to feel alive.”
He listens, really listens, nodding along, already piecing it together in his head.
“Location?” he asks.
“Same neighborhood, if we can swing it. I like the foot traffic. I like the regulars. But safer. Reinforced doors and bulletproof glass, if we have to. Security—cameras, alarms, panic button behind the counter. And no more hiding. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.
Open. Proud. Let them see the name—Letvin-Sokolov or whatever. I don’t care. It’s mine. Ours.”
He smiles, slow and warm. “Ours.”
I keep going. Once I start, I can’t stop.
“A little café area. Four, maybe five tables. Nothing huge—just enough for people to sit and enjoy. Specialty drinks—lavender lattes, honey-cardamom chai. Seasonal menus. Collaborations—local florists for edible flowers, chocolatiers for the fancy fillings. Classes, too. I want to teach. Kids on weekends—teach them cookies. Adults—advanced stuff. I want the shop to be a community, not just a business. A real place.”
Tikhon’s eyes light up. “You’re thinking big.”
“I have to.” I lean into him. “If I don’t, it’ll feel like giving up. And I won’t. Not after all this.”
He kisses me—soft, lingering. “Then we build big. I’ll find architects, engineers, and security people. Whatever you need.”
I nod.
“And the name. I want to change it. Sweet Haven was… safe. Small. I want something stronger. Something that says I’m still here. Maybe just ‘Katya’s’—simple. Or ‘Bloom’—because that’s what I want to do. Bloom. Grow. Even after the fire.”
He cups my face. “I like ‘Bloom.’”
We sit with it for a minute—the name, the plans, the future taking shape in the ashes of the past.
“I'll call people tomorrow,” he says. “Start the process.”
I lean my head on his shoulder. “Thank you.”
“Don't thank me.” He kisses my temple. “This is what we do now. Together.”
The grief is still there—sharp, aching—but it's not alone anymore. It's shared. And beneath it, something new is growing.
Hope.
Resolve.
The spark of something bigger.
Tomorrow we'll start.
***
I wake up in the dark, everything too quiet. The clock says 3:47 a.m. Tikhon's side of the bed feels empty and cold—sheets messy, pillow untouched. My heart starts pounding; I sit up way too fast.
“Tikhon?” I call out.
Nothing.
I reach for the lamp, fumble, and knock it off the table. It crashes, glass everywhere. Still dark. I grope for the door and finally hit the overhead switch. Light stabs at me, too bright.
His clothes are gone from the chair. Shoes missing. The charger’s still in the wall, but his phone’s gone.
Panic punches me in the chest. I bolt downstairs—bare feet smacking the wood, my robe half on, half dragging. Living room? Empty. Kitchen? Dark.
I fling open the garage door—his car’s gone. Just gone.
No note. No text. Nothing at all.
My breathing turns tight and shallow. I snatch up my phone, hands shaking so bad I drop it. No calls, no messages. The screen just blares back at me: 3:52 a.m.
Where is he?
I call him—straight to voicemail.
I leave a message, my voice breaking: “Tikhon, call me. Please. Where are you?”
I call again. Voicemail. Again. Still voicemail.
The house feels enormous now, every room echoing. I pace the kitchen, back and forth, cold tile under my feet. Every sound makes me flinch. Every shadow looks dangerous. I see Fadir’s face in my mind—his grin, his threats. He got away. He’s out there. And Tikhon went after him. Alone.
My stomach knots up. I cover my mouth, fighting nausea.
What if he’s hurt? What if he’s bleeding somewhere? What if—
No. I can’t let myself think like that. I won’t.
I slide down to the floor, pressing my back against the cabinets, knees pulled to my chest. Tears come hard and fast. I pray, desperate, the way I haven’t since Mom died. Not real prayers—just scattered pleas.
Please let him be safe. Don’t take him from me.
I can’t lose him, too.
Please.
The words spin through my head on repeat. I rock back and forth, arms wrapped tight around myself. The kitchen clock ticks, loud and merciless. Time crawls: 4:01. 4:12. 4:28.
I think about him. All of it—the first time he walked into the shop, teasing me about my terrible frosting. The way he tasted my baking experiments, his eyes closing as if nothing else mattered.
The night he just held me while I cried for Mom. How he stood up for me, threatened my brothers, so I could keep my shop. The way he looked at me tonight—like I was the only thing in the world.
I love him.
It hits me, sharp and clear. I love him.
Not just want or need. Love, the kind that’s huge and scary and hurts when he’s gone. The kind that makes losing him feel like the end of everything.
I hide my face in my knees and sob. “Please come home,” I whisper. “Please be okay. I love you. I love you so much.”
The house stays silent.
I wait.
And I keep praying.