Chapter 6 #2
The name slams into my chest like a bullet. My spine stiffens. “That’s Korsakov’s.”
“Exactly,” he says, tapping his finger on the desk. “I need you to get in. Get hired. Get intel.”
“You want me to do what? Grab some files? He launders money through there, what else is there to know?”
“I got intel that that is where his Obshchak Vaska haunts,” he says like it’s nothing. “Get close to Vaska, you’ll get closer to the information I need.”
“Vaska is his Sovetnik, his right hand, not his book keeper.”
“He’s both,” Gabriel snaps. “And I need to know where Korsakov stashes his inventory and cash.”
“Why?” I ask my chest pounding at the thought.
Vaska Moronov’s a knife artist. Always flipping one in his hand like it’s an extension of his damn fingers. He’s dangerous. A Bratva executioner.
Gabriel’s eyes flash. “Because I’m done playing nice with the Russians. They’ve been fucking with my shipments for months. Took out three of my runners last week. Now they’re moving in on my territory.”
“You’re insane,” I mutter. “Do you even know how big the Bratva is? You’re not taking them down, Gabriel.
They’re not just muscle. They’ve got alliances—Italians, remember them?
Oh, and rumor has it, the Don just married into the fucking cartel.
You think you can take them down with a few bakery shifts and a fucking clipboard? ”
“Shut the fuck up.” He slams his fist on the desk hard enough to rattle the lamp. “I know exactly what I’m doing. And I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.”
My chest rises, falls. My ribs feel too tight.
“You’re going tonight,” he says. “You’re gonna walk in, smile real nice, and get the job. Or you’re done.”
I shake my head. “That’s a death sentence.”
“You’re smart,” he says, leaning forward. “You’ll figure it out. Besides, you’re nobody. Just some girl looking for work. They won’t suspect you.”
Nobody.
The word settles in my chest like a stone.
He’s right, though. I am nobody. That’s always been my advantage.
“And if I say no?” I ask.
His smile disappears. “Then that little apartment you have will burn down and I’ll make sure you never leave this house again.
That closet downstairs? It’ll be your permanent residence.
And those little friends of yours—Ricky, Kay, Jace, Santi?
” He pauses, lets the names hang in the air like nooses. “Accidents happen.”
My blood runs cold.
He can’t know.
There’s no way.
“Don’t bring them into this,” I say softer than I mean to.
He smirks, cruel. “That little found family of yours will hang from the rafters of this house if you don’t comply Ayla. Do you got that?”
I stare up at him, hatred burning so hot in my chest I can barely breathe.
I want to spit in his face. Want to grab the letter opener on his desk and drive it through his eye.
But I can’t.
Because he’s got me.
I nod slowly, trying to breathe through the fire crawling up my throat. “Fine.”
He watches me for a beat too long, then leans back.
“I don’t believe you,” he says, cool as ever. “So I’m sending my men with you.”
“I don’t need babysitters, Gabe.”
He pulls out his gun. Points it right at me. The click of the safety disengaging is louder than it should be.
“I told you not to call me that.”
My hands clench in my lap. I grind my teeth together and make myself speak. “I’m sorry.”
It burns all the way out of my throat. Tastes like acid. Like weakness.
He smirks. “Good. You do good, you don’t die.”
I stand. My legs feel heavy, but I move. I always move.
“Okay.”
I turn for the door.
“One more thing,” Gabriel calls, like it’s an afterthought.
My shoulders tense. I don’t turn around.
“If you don’t show up tonight… I’ll start with your favorite one, Santi.”
My blood goes cold. “You can’t hurt Santi,” I snap. “You and Arsen have a truce.”
He chuckles—low and sharp, like a knife dragged across a whetstone.
“Yeah,” he says, “and Arsen doesn’t give a fuck about Santi. He’s a half-sibling. Just. Like. You.”
I clench my fists so hard my nails bite into my palms.
“You’re not untouchable, Ayla,” he murmurs, almost tender. “None of you are.”
***
Deniz and Adem trail behind me like shadows, their SUV creeping along the dark in my rearview mirror. Two baby soldiers in Gabriel’s syndicate, sent to make sure I stay in line.
I’d laugh if I wasn’t so goddamn tired.
They park across the street when I do, both pretending to scroll on their phones while glancing at the bakery like it’s a war zone instead of a dessert shop. They’re scared shitless of Gabriel. Would snitch in a heartbeat if I turned around and went home.
So I don’t.
I climb out of the car, resume in hand, straighten my spine, and cross the street like this isn’t the worst idea.
Smash and Sugar is... cute.
Too cute.
Bright pastel signage, big glass windows lined with displays of croissants and cookies that look like they were crafted by angels on Adderall. The air smells like vanilla and butter and something warm I haven’t felt in years.
It throws me off balance.
I blink in the doorway for half a second too long before the girl behind the counter looks up.
“Hi there!” she chirps, all sunshine and perfect eyeliner. “We close in ten minutes, but I can still make you a drink.”
I force a smile, walk up to the counter. “Actually... I was wondering if I could speak to the manager?”
Her smile doesn’t falter. “Sure thing.” She disappears through the swinging door behind her.
I fidget. Try not to look out the window at Deniz and Adem. Try not to look like I’m here for something other than a job.
Then he walks out.
Tall. Broad. Buzzcut. Not a flour stain in sight. Not a smile either.
Definitely not a baker.
I straighten. “Hi. I was just wondering if you had any openings. I’m looking for work.”
He looks at me like I’m asking for a kidney.
“No,” he says flatly.
I blink. “Nothing? Not even for cleanup? I don’t mind back-of-house. I can mop, do dishes—whatever you need.”
He doesn’t answer. Just stares at me with those cold, pale eyes like he’s already forgotten I spoke.
I shift on my feet.
I hold my resume out to him, like an idiot trying to be polite.
“I’ve got experience,” I add. “Food service, cleaning, front of house. I can work flexible hours—”
He snatches the paper from my hand. Doesn’t look at it. Doesn’t even glance down.
“No openings,” he repeats.
Final.
I swallow hard. Nod like that doesn’t sting.
“Right. Okay.” I step back. “Thanks anyway.”
I walk out with my fists clenched and a curse on the tip of my tongue.
Of course they’re not hiring. Of course this whole thing was a waste of time and pride. Now I have to go back and explain that to Gabriel. Like it’s my fault they’ve got a full damn staff.
I slide into my car, hands trembling just a little from the crash of nerves and humiliation. I stare at the wheel for a second too long.
Then I pull out my phone.
Text Gabriel:
No openings. Not hiring. Walked in, asked, manager said no.
I hesitate. My fingers hover.
Then I add:
I tried.
Send.
And then I just sit there, in the silence, staring through the windshield at a world that keeps spinning no matter how much it tries to bury me.