He moves around the table, and I back away slowly.
“You think I’m going to hurt you in broad daylight? Your friend is out front.”
“I don’t know what you’re capable of, but my impression of you is shot, Mr. Volkov. Find a new bakery. Go harass someone else. This is the last time you and I will be in the same room.”
“I’m afraid that’s no longer possible, but I promise to never hurt you unless you betray me. Then, it’ll?—”
“Who are youto doanythingto me?” I spit out. “I don’t like you. I don’t know what kind of sick game you’re playing, but I want out.”
“I’m not trying to date you, Miss Graves.”
“ThankGod.”
Benedikt smiles. “My name is Benedikt Volkov, and I’m head of the Volkov Bratva. I’m themob, Sienna. And now that you know my little secret, I’ll kill you if you run to the police under the pretense that I’m stalking you.
“And now that that’s out of the way, I’ll send Artem over sporadically to collect records of our orders and where they go. Meanwhile, I’ll handle your grandmother’s rent. Your debt will be paid in the next month if you comply with what I’m asking.”
“No.”
“Yes, Miss Graves. Like it or not, you’re mine.”
8
Sienna
The lock sticks. Because, of course, it does.
I jiggle the key, cursing under my breath when it won’t budge, and give it a frustrated yank before it finally turns.
The bakery is dark, but it still smells like sugar and warm dough. The cozy scent should be comforting, but it’s not.
Nothing is comforting right now.
Not when my brain is still looping through the insanity of my surprise visit with Benedikt Volkov today.
Your father owed me a lot of money.
More than he could ever pay back.
And when he ran out of options… he gave me you.
No, that’s not real life. That’s a plotline from a bad crime drama.
Stuff like that doesn’t happen to people like me—people who wake up at four in the morning to roll dough and go to bed smelling like powdered sugar. My biggest problem before todaywas keeping the lights on at my place while secretly covering my grandma’s rent at the assisted living center.
And now?
Now I have a mobster claiming ownership of me like I’m a damn houseplant.
He’s out of his damn mind.
If this is his idea of flirting, he lost the plot. I’m not flattered; I’m extremely disturbed. And if this is what it’s like to have a stalker—no matter how attractivehe is—count me out.
I clutch my bag a little tighter and pull my jacket closer around me as I step outside. The night air is cold, and my skin is crawling. My stomach is doing flips, something that has nothing to do with the late hour and everything to do with the feeling that I’m being watched.
Because he put this in your head.
Regardless, it’s there. He won. I’ve tried to convince myself all day that this was a joke and there was no way that orders coming into the bakery were secret, coded messages for corrupt politicians.
