28. Delilah
DELILAH
You never fully get used to it, I’ve learned. No matter how many years I’ve spent getting up at the witching hour to shovel grumpy piles of dough into my oven, I almost always still long for the sweet embrace of my bed.
Not today, though.
Today, I sprang up like I’d been electrocuted. Eyes pinged open. Every nerve ending was up and at ‘em.
Because today is Bratva Christmas.
That’s what I’m calling it, at least. I doubt Kane would appreciate the title.
It’s kinda accurate, though. Technically, it’s Russian Orthodox Christmas, but since I’ll be celebrating it with the kingpin of the Brooklyn Bratva and (presumably) all his many friends and followers, I think my name works well.
Why am I up at 4:00 A.M. for a party that starts in, let’s see… sixteen hours from now?
“Anxiety” is the first answer.
“A metric fuck-ton of food” is the second.
I’d never, ever, not in a million years show up empty-handed to a dinner.
But I’m especially not gonna show up empty-handed to a dinner attended by a bunch of people who break kneecaps for a living.
Therefore, I’ve prepared a feast that will likely inflict diabetes or at least severe carb-induced sleepiness on every person within a ten-block radius.
We’ve got:
A twelve-layer honey cake tall enough that the local architectural and zoning committees would probably require that I file for a permit
Four sheet pans of poppy seed and orange rolls
Nine dozen spiced honey cookies
Trays upon trays upon trays of cheese-and-potato pirozhki
A tub of prepared dough and filling roughly the size and shape of a beefy toddler
Is it too much?
Yes.
But Kane himself said that I am not too much. And you know what? I believe him.
So I’m sorta just extending his wisdom to encompass my food offerings as well.
It’s not like it matters that much in the end. This is just debt service.
Very elaborate debt service, sure. Debt service with a sprinkling of orange zest.
But debt service nonetheless.
“You know,” Priya says from behind, scaring the ever-living shit out of me, “when I said I’d come in early to help, I didn’t realize it was because we were feeding every human being in the tri-state area.”
I press a hand over my racing heart. “I’m gonna revoke your key privileges if you keep sneaking up on me like that, you little wench.”
She leans over to peck me on the cheek. “You can pry this key out of my cold, dead fingers, darling.”
She sets a coffee down next to me and is instantly forgiven.
Curse her—she really does know the way to my heart.
This is why she’s head baker.
Talent matters, but anticipating my preventable suffering is what really earns a person the title.
I finish the last curl of cream piping I’m working on and step back to admire my craft. The honey cake stands nearly ten inches high, twelve amber layers alternating with tangy filling. Crushed scraps cling to the sides. Candied honeycomb crowns the top.
Priya sips her coffee and eyes the chaos surrounding me. “Okay, but for real, how many people are you feeding?”
“I don’t actually know. Kane wouldn’t say.”
Her eyes move toward the boxes stacked beneath the prep table. “So you just assumed the answer was ‘the entire Russian army’?”
“I don’t know how many people are in a Bratva. Nobody puts useful headcounts online.”
“I feel like there’s a reason for that.”
“Well, that’s dumb. This is 2027. The Bratva needs a social media presence just like everyone else.”
I did do my research.
For six days, my browser history has been a fascinating journey through Orthodox Christmas customs, Russian holiday menus, a few helpful forum posts under the heading So You’ve Been Invited to a Criminal’s Holiday Feast…
There are articles about kutya. Recipes for baked fish. Cabbage, cabbage, and more cabbage. Who knew that cabbage offered so many possibilities? I could spend the rest of my life doing nothing but preparing cabbage and I still wouldn’t exhaust the bank of recipes.
But in the end, I decided not to insult Kane and his forebears by butchering their cuisine.
So I stick with what I know.
And what I know is baking.
Honey. Poppy seeds. Yeast dough.
The way they feel about cabbage is the way I feel about sugar and butter. If some is good, more is better, and if more is better, then “all of it” is best.
I notice Priya fixing me with a concerned look. “Might this be a wee bit of overkill?” she ponders.
“No.” I shake my head firmly. “I just don’t want to seem like I’m not fulfilling my end of the bargain.”
“Delilah, darling, you don’t have to pay admission in labor every time you walk into a room,” she says. “You’re worthy all on your own.”
She sounds suspiciously like Kane when she talks like that.
I look toward the walk-in and sigh.
Shit.
Maybe they’re right.
Maybe I am doing the thing I always do.
I just can’t ever accept that good things happen to me without bad things arriving right afterward.
That probably explains why I’ve spent every night this week acting like a guest in my own house.
Connor’s gone—his clothes, his stuff, the bed he defiled—and the locks have all been changed, but I still wander through all the rooms and feel like a stranger.
The only room that feels somewhat like mine is the bedroom.
And I know why that is.
Because that’s where Kane sat on the floor next to me and told me my sister’s cruel words were nothing but a nasty lie designed to hurt.
Oh, God.
Is he becoming my safe space?
I cannot allow that.
But the evidence is not in my favor.
The photograph of us kissing in the coat closet has found a home on my bedside table. Do I check it every night before I fall asleep?
Does it make me feel safe? Cherished? Wanted?
… Maybe.
“I’m not testing that theory tonight,” I tell Priya.
Her mouth twists. “Which theory?”
“That people might want me without getting something first.”
She sighs. “You’re a tough cookie, Delilah Dorsey. One day, you’ll believe me when I tell you you’re good enough just as you are.” Then she reaches for an apron and joins me at the stainless steel counter. “But fine. If we’re feeding the Russian army, I’m frying.”
Stepan arrives at 6:30 P.M., dressed in black with his eyebrow ring catching the light.
He looks at me.
He looks at the boxes.
Then he takes out his phone.
“You’re calling for help, aren’t you?” I ask suspiciously.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Shortly thereafter, a second car arrives. I change into my dress for the evening, then we form a very small pastry motorcade to Manhattan.
Kane’s brownstone glows against the dark evening. There are no velvet ropes outside. No ice eagle is slowly dying in a ballroom.
This already feels different from New Year’s Eve.
I expected a level of pomp and circumstance equal to the banquet hall again. But this feels almost… cozy?
Like, families are here. Men and women with their arms looped around each other’s waists, children skittering around underfoot, laughter and conversation in every corner.
Yes, there are more tattoos and piercings than most Hallmark movies.
Sure, I notice some questionable facial scars.
And okay, fine, yeah, there are bulges underneath some of the men’s jackets that are definitely gun-shaped.
But even if it’s an armed affair, it’s a family-friendly one.
Then Kane appears at the end of the hall, and my thoughts become very family-unfriendly indeed.
Downright filthy, if we’re being honest.
Kane is wearing black, which goes without saying.
The shirt fits close across his chest, open at the throat, with his sleeves shoved to his forearms. Tattoos disappear beneath the cuffs.
His chain flashes when he bends to listen to an elderly woman who pinches his cheek playfully, like he isn’t capable of having a man disassembled before dessert.
He belongs here in a way he never belongs in my bakery.
People orbit him, always looking to see what he’s doing, where he’s going.
A child barrels into his thigh; Kane steadies him with one huge hand without interrupting his conversation.
Someone calls, “Pakhan,” and he answers with a slight turn of his head.
Minimal effort.
Maximum terrifying competence.
I have a sudden and powerful urge to climb him like a tree.
Then his gaze finds me.
And he smiles.
It’s subtle, like he only wants me to see it. His shoulders loosen, and the severe line of his mouth softens.
That’s all really terrible news for me.
A sexy mob boss is manageable.
A sexy mob boss who looks happy to see me? That’s an OSHA violation. That’s a five-alarm fire. That’s a nuclear meltdown in the making.
Then he looks over my shoulder and sees Stepan and Anton struggling under the weight of everything I’ve brought.
“Before you say anything,” I call out, “baked goods are traditional.”
His eyes brighten with something that looks suspiciously like delight. “You brought… twenty-four boxes.”
“Of course not! I would never.” I blush and grin. “I only brought twenty-three. The tub, technically speaking, is not a box.”
Niko comes around him, spots the stack in Anton’s arms, and opens the top box.
“Hey!” I protest.
But he already has a poppy seed roll in his mouth. He chews, swallows, and sighs like he’s halfway to an orgasm.
Then he points the remaining roll at Kane. “If you ruin this, I’m taking her in the divorce.”
“There is no divorce,” Kane says.
“There will be when she realizes what you’re like.”
“I know what he’s like,” I butt in.
Niko nods solemnly. “Good. My case strengthens.”
Kane comes closer. He touches my waist and bends down to press a light kiss to my cheek. If it were anyone else, it would seem like a friendly greeting.
Coming from him, it’s like foreplay.
The man just drips sex. It’s very close to medically concerning.
“You didn’t need to bring anything,” he murmurs.
“So I’ve been informed,” I answer. “Repeatedly.”
His fingers touch the buttons of my coat. “May I?”
I swallow.
It’s a coat. He’s taking my coat, not actually undressing me in a hallway full of Russian children and armed men. My nervous system needs to get a grip.
I nod.