29. Chapter 29
Addy
Ididn’t exactly plan on wreaking havoc on a criminal operation. In my defense, though, I was bored and I did bring muffins.
The compound was significantly larger than I’d originally assumed.
From the villa’s terrace, it had looked scenic and well-maintained — palm trees, winding gravel paths and the ocean shimmering beyond the hills like a screensaver — but once you stepped outside, it was clear ‘private estate’ didn’t do it justice.
It was more like a discreet island kingdom than an estate.
The landscaping alone could have hidden a small militia.
Bougainvillea climbed stone walls in violent bursts of pink and orange; tropical birds darted between mango trees as though late for appointments; and somewhere to the left, I could hear generators humming in the distance, pretending not to power something illegal.
Scattered across the lower half of the property were several large buildings — not rustic sheds or charming guesthouses, but broad, low warehouses built from concrete and corrugated steel.
They were painted a sun-faded neutral color suggesting there was nothing to see but actually meaning the opposite.
Naturally, I was going to investigate.
Distracting Sasha and the rotating lineup of extremely large men assigned to “casually exist near me at all times” was easier than expected. Once I told them I was planning to bake, which wasn’t technically a lie, they left me to my own devices.
I baked a batch of muffins — I couldn’t show up empty-handed, after all — and slipped out of the side terrace as though I were starring in the world’s least athletic spy movie.
Escaping was easier than it should have been, probably because I wasn’t even leaving the compound.
I had made it about halfway down the winding path when I heard it.
The low electric whir of a golf cart.
I froze in my tracks, the muffin box wobbling dangerously as a golf cart occupied by four of Sasha’s men in dark shirts and sunglasses rounded the corner ahead.
I dove behind a hibiscus bush.
In hindsight, I should have picked something with more structural integrity. I quickly learned that hibiscus is decorative, not tactical.
I crouched there, muffins pressed to my chest, while the golf cart rolled past at a leisurely pace. One of them glanced vaguely in my direction and probably noticed the suspicious rustling of leaves, but then — blessedly — they kept going.
I remained frozen for five full seconds after they passed, then stood up, brushed the petals out of my hair and continued my mission.
As I approached, the warehouse smelled of oil and something vaguely metallic, which I decided not to ask about.
The building itself loomed larger up close, its steel doors half open to reveal a cavernous interior bathed in filtered daylight spilling through high, rectangular windows near the ceiling.
Inside, the sound was low and steady: distant clanking, the scrape of something heavy being moved and a murmur of voices in Russian. Sasha had said he had “meetings”, which in his world meant men in fitted shirts discussing logistics with the intensity of a small war council.
It didn’t look like a drug den. It looked organized and almost clean.
Metal shelving lined the walls and was stacked with sealed crates and neatly labeled containers. The worktables were arranged with almost surgical precision. Even the forklifts parked along the far wall appeared disciplined.
I stepped inside carefully, balancing the muffins like a peace offering. The scent of chocolate and sugar was out of place amidst the oil and steel, to say the least. Whatever my behavior might have suggested, I wasn’t a complete idiot. I was painfully aware these men were dangerous.
But even dangerous men had to eat, and it couldn’t hurt to win their allegiance in the long run. Sasha might think I didn’t know what I was doing but when you’re a pretty defenseless woman among a group of hardened gangsters, I decided to try killing them with kindness.
I’d gotten the impression this was an important meeting, which naturally meant it probably needed snacks.
The space was enormous, with sunlight cutting through the high windows in sharp, industrial beams. A long steel table had been dragged into the center and was covered in blueprints, printed manifestos and a map looking far more international than I was expecting.
Men stood around it in a loose semicircle, shoulders squared and attention fixed on one person.
Sasha.
Standing at the head of the table, he looked as though he had been carved there. One tattooed hand was braced against the steel surface and the other rested near a stack of documents. He spoke in calm, measured Russian, his voice carrying without ever rising.
I stood there for approximately three seconds, taking in the whole intimidating criminal-mastermind tableau.
Then I cleared my throat.
No one reacted. They probably hadn’t heard me. I held up the box slightly, like it was a universal sign for please don’t shoot me.
“I brought muffins!” I announced excitedly.
Every head in the warehouse whipped around.
Sasha didn’t move at first, just stared at me like I was some kind of apparition.
He never finished his sentence, the words trailing off into the deafening silence.
Oh no. Did they not like muffins?
A very specific, deeply restrained form of exasperation spread across Sasha’s features.
“Addy,” he said evenly.
I gave him a bright smile. “Yes?”
There was a beat. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“I know,” I said cheerfully, walking toward the table anyway. “But you skipped lunch.”
A muscle in his jaw flexed and he gestured around. “We’re in a meeting.”
“I can see that,” I replied, setting the box directly on top of a shipping manifest. “It looked intense. Can’t hurt to get your blood sugar up.”
One of the younger men blinked at me like I had just phased through a wall. Another glanced at Sasha, clearly trying to assess whether I was about to be escorted out.
“Chocolate chip,” I added helpfully, opening the lid. “I wasn’t sure which ones to make, but then I thought, no one hates chocolate, am I right?”
Sasha’s gaze dropped to the box, then back to me.
“You walked here?” He scrubbed a hand over his face.
“Yeah.”
“Alone.”
“Well, there was a golf cart at some point, so I did know I wasn’t lost or anything.” I shrugged.
A flicker passed through the room, and I could see one or two of them were trying to stifle their laughter.
“Did they see you?”
My cheeks heated. “I, um … weeeeell, I might have hidden in a bush.”
Sasha closed his eyes for one restrained second. When he opened them again, they were darker.
“You hid from security.”
“It was more of a shrub-based pause.”
A long silence settled over the table. One of the men near the corner shifted slightly closer to the muffins.
Sasha clocked it immediately.
“Don’t,” he said calmly, without looking away from me.
The man froze mid-reach, and I tilted my head. “Oh come on, you’re not gonna let them eat the muffins? I made them for you guys! You can’t ban muffins, Sasha. That’s authoritarian.”
“This,” Sasha said slowly, “is not a café.”
“It could be.”
“It’s not.”
I slid the box a few inches toward the center of the table anyway.
“Says who?” I challenged, raising one brow and folding my arms across my chest.
He threw his hands up in exasperation. “Me!”
I peered around. “Who here wants muffins? Show of hands.”
There was a charged second where I could feel at least six grown men calculating whether accepting baked goods from the boss’s … whatever I was … counted as insubordination.
“This is not a fucking democracy, Addy. It’s a dictatorship and guess who calls the shots?”
Meanwhile, the oldest man — with his thick shoulders, scar along his jaw and imposing presence — had reached forward deliberately.
He took a muffin just as Sasha finished his sentence, turning to look at him guiltily.
The entire warehouse fell silent, and Sasha’s posture shifted almost imperceptibly. The man examined the muffin as though it might be poisoned, then took a bite and chewed obnoxiously.
“This good,” he said flatly, his voice heavily accented.
That was it — the fracture line.
Within seconds, two more hands reached in. Someone carefully moved a blueprint to avoid crumbs, muttering something in Russian sounding suspiciously approving. Sasha stared at the table as though he were witnessing a hostile takeover executed via baked goods.
I smiled at him brightly. “See? Morale.”
With his gaze fixed on me like a predator regarding its prey, he stalked up to me. He lowered his voice just enough to ensure it wouldn’t carry. “You just walked into a live operational briefing.”
“Oh, is that what it was?”
“Yes,” he ground out. “You distracted half my command structure.”
“They seem happy.” I gestured at the men merrily munching along.
His eyes moved slowly over me, lingering on the flour on my hip, the streak of chocolate near my thumb and my slightly wind-tousled hair, which I had acquired by crossing the compound like an unsupervised Disney princess in a cartel drama.
“You’re impossible.” He looked up at the ceiling as though he was praying for some higher power to grant him strength.
“That’s a bit dramatic, honey.”
Sasha froze. “Honey?”
Did he sound pleased or was I imagining things?
Behind him, one of the men cleared his throat and tried to redirect the meeting back to shipping routes, but the edge was gone now. The tension had shifted and there were crumbs on international logistics.
Sasha watched it happen, watching his men soften towards me, albeit only slightly.
Then he exhaled once and held a hand up. “Enough.”
The single word cut cleanly through the room, bringing conversations to an instant halt.
“We will reconvene tonight.”
No one argued or even questioned his decree. He truly was the top dog here.