Stranded with the Pakhan (Sins of the Bratva #3)

Chapter 1

ARIA

The phone feels slick against my palm, and I realize I'm gripping it hard enough to leave marks on my skin. I press it tighter to my ear, certain I've misheard the man on the other end.

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel, years of customer service training kicking in automatically.

"A private yacht party, Miss Levin. Fifty guests.

The client requests a menu entirely at your discretion, showcasing your signature coastal cuisine.

" The man's accent is faint but unmistakable, each word measured and precise, like he's reading from a script he's memorized.

"The budget is thirty thousand dollars."

My hand trembles as I reach for the nearest surface to steady myself, finding only the edge of a stainless steel prep table.

Thirty thousand dollars. That's more than I typically make in two months.

Maybe three, if I'm being honest about the lean weeks when clients cancel or decide to go with someone cheaper.

"That's… that's very generous," I manage, my mind already spinning through the logistics. Fifty guests on a yacht means limited galley space, no room for error, and everything prepped in advance. "When will this event take place?"

"The yacht departs in four days. We'll provide you with the galley specifications and any equipment limitations by end of business today."

Four days. My stomach does a complicated flip that has nothing to do with excitement and everything to do with the mountain of work that timeline represents.

But this is exactly the kind of job that could transform Thyme & Tide from a modest catering operation into something people actually talk about.

The kind of client who throws thirty-thousand-dollar yacht parties has friends who throw similar parties. This could be my break.

"I'll need a deposit," I say, forcing my voice into something resembling professional confidence. "Fifty percent upfront to secure the date and cover initial ingredient costs."

"Of course. I'll have the contract and deposit sent over within the hour." There's a pause, and I hear papers rustling on his end. "The client's name is Alekseev. Nikolai Alekseev."

My phone buzzes against my cheek. Once. Twice. Three times. I look at the caller ID and see my sister Maya's name. I ignore it, scribbling the client's name on the back of an invoice with a Sharpie that's running dry. The letters come out uneven, foreign-looking.

"And your name, sir?"

"Cyril Komarov. I'm Mr. Alekseev's executive assistant. You'll be dealing primarily with me for the arrangements."

Something about the way he says "executive assistant" makes the title sound like a euphemism for something else entirely. I shake off the thought. Rich people have assistants. That's normal. The knot in my stomach is just nerves about the size of the job, nothing more.

We spend another ten minutes going over details.

Dietary restrictions (none), preferred cuisine style (my choice), arrival time (two hours before departure), and a dozen other logistics that I frantically scribble down.

By the time we hang up, my hand is cramping, and my head is spinning with mental calculations about ingredient sourcing and prep schedules.

My phone immediately lights up with Maya's messages. I swipe through them, that familiar weight settling on my shoulders like a lead blanket.

Just got out of my NA meeting! Feeling really good today.

Sarah says hi. She asked about you.

Hey, can I borrow $200? Need to stock up on groceries before the weekend.

I close my eyes and count to ten, then twenty.

Eight months clean. Maya's been doing so well, attending her meetings religiously, working her shifts at the coffee shop without complaint.

But groceries don't cost two hundred dollars, and her rent isn't due for another week.

I know because I paid it myself two weeks ago when she called crying about being short.

The rational part of my brain catalogs the possibilities. Maybe she really does need groceries. Maybe she's planning to meal prep for the whole month. Maybe I'm being paranoid and unfair, projecting past relapses onto present behavior.

The part of me that's been cleaning up Maya's messes since I was seventeen knows better.

I type out a response, deleting and rewriting it three times before settling on something that won't trigger a defensive spiral.

Come by the kitchen tomorrow. We'll talk.

Her reply comes instantly.

Can't you just Venmo it? I'm really busy tomorrow.

Of course she is. I shove my phone into my back pocket and return to my notes, trying to recapture the excitement I should be feeling.

This yacht job could change everything. I could finally stop living invoice to invoice, stop lying awake at night calculating whether I can afford to replace the ancient mixer that sounds like it's dying.

I could maybe even hire proper help instead of doing everything myself.

The name stares up at me from the invoice. Nikolai Alekseev. It sounds Russian, which makes sense given Cyril's accent. Probably some tech mogul or finance guy with more money than sense, the kind who thinks nothing of dropping thirty grand on a party.

I pull out my phone and open a browser, typing the name into the search bar more out of curiosity than anything else. Maybe I can get a sense of his taste, figure out what kind of menu would impress him and his guests.

The first result loads, and my blood turns to ice in my veins.

Nikolai Alekseev: Alleged Crime Boss Expands Territory

My thumb hovers over the link, frozen. The preview text mentions organized crime, territorial disputes, and a laundry list of allegations that make my stomach churn. I click through anyway, unable to stop myself.

The article is from a reputable news source, not some tabloid.

There's a photo, slightly grainy, of a man in an expensive suit leaving what looks like a courthouse.

He's tall, imposing even in the distance, with dirty blond hair and a presence that seems to fill the frame despite the photographer clearly shooting from far away.

The caption identifies him as Nikolai Alekseev, alleged Pakhan of a major organized crime family.

Pakhan. I don't know what that means, but the context makes it clear enough. Boss. Leader. The kind of man who doesn't just break laws but operates entirely outside them.

I scroll through more results. Each one is worse than the last. Suspected money laundering. Alleged connections to drug trafficking. Rumors of violence that the articles dance around with careful legal language. Nothing proven, nothing that's stuck in court, but the pattern is unmistakable.

My hands shake as I set the phone down on the prep table. Thirty thousand dollars. A contract that's probably already being drawn up. A deposit that will hit my account within the hour.

I should call Cyril back right now and decline. Thank him politely and make up some excuse about a scheduling conflict. This is exactly the kind of client I should run from, the kind whose money comes with strings attached that could strangle everything I've built.

Except I can't afford to run. Thyme & Tide is barely breaking even most months.

I've got three catering jobs lined up for the next two weeks, and two of them are small dinner parties that will barely cover my commercial kitchen rent.

The mixer is dying. My insurance premium is due next month.

And Maya needs help that I can't afford to give her if I can't even keep my own business afloat.

I pick up my phone again and stare at the photo of Nikolai Alekseev.

Even in the grainy courthouse shot, there's something about him that makes my pulse quicken in a way that has nothing to do with fear.

It's the way he holds himself, maybe. That absolute confidence, the set of his shoulders that suggests he's never doubted his right to take up space in the world.

I zoom in on the image, trying to make out details the photographer couldn't quite capture. Is that a tattoo on his neck? The resolution is too poor to tell for sure, but there's definitely something dark against his skin, partially hidden by his collar.

This is insane. I'm seriously considering catering a party for an alleged crime boss because I need the money. Because turning down thirty thousand dollars feels impossible when I'm one bad month away from losing everything I've worked for.

My phone buzzes with an email notification. The contract from Cyril, right on schedule. I open it with trembling fingers, scanning through pages of standard catering agreement language. Nothing in here mentions organized crime or illegal activity. It's just a party. Just food. Just one job.

I could do this and walk away. Take the money, deliver excellent service, and never look back. Rich people hire caterers all the time without the caterers becoming complicit in their business dealings. I'd just be making food. That's all.

The rationalization sounds hollow even in my own head.

But I open my banking app anyway and check my balance. Three thousand dollars. That's what stands between me and disaster.

I return to the search results and click on another article, this one with a better photo.

Nikolai Alekseev at some charity gala, looking devastating in a tuxedo that probably cost more than my car.

His face is clearer here, all sharp angles and ice-blue eyes that seem to look through the camera rather than at it.

There's a woman on his arm, blonde and elegant, but his expression is detached, even bored.

Like he's playing a role he's perfected but doesn't particularly enjoy.

Something about that disconnect makes him seem almost human, almost relatable, which is a dangerous thought to have about a man who allegedly runs a criminal empire.

I close the browser and pull up the contract again. My finger hovers over the signature line.

This is a mistake. Every instinct I have is screaming that this is a mistake.

But I sign it anyway.