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 laundrylist 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 mixeris 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.
2
NIKOLAI
The Tsaritsa cuts through the water like the blade she's named for, all sleek lines and understated power. I stand on the upper deck, champagne flute in hand, watching my guests pretend they're here for the view and the food rather than to assess my strength. Every conversation happening below me is a negotiation, every laugh a calculation. This is how power works in my world. You don't just hold it. You display it, remind everyone why they should think twice before testing you.
But I'm not watching my guests.
My attention keeps drifting to the galley entrance, where the caterer has been moving in and out for the past hour with the focused intensity of someone who doesn't have time for distractions. Aria Levin. The name sits in my mind like something I should remember but don't, though Cyril's background check was thorough enough that I know more about her than she'd be comfortable with.
Twenty-five. Self-employed for three years. A business that's barely staying afloat despite what the online reviews suggest isgenuine talent. A sister with a history of addiction and poor choices. No criminal record, not even a parking ticket. The kind of person who follows rules because she believes in them, not because she fears the consequences of breaking them.
The kind of person who has no business being on my yacht.
She emerges from the galley carrying a large platter, and I find myself straightening, tracking her movement with an attention I usually reserve for potential threats. Her chef's whites are still pristine despite the chaos that must be happening in that cramped kitchen space. Dark hair pulled back in a bun so tight it must hurt, though her face shows no discomfort. Just concentration, that absolute focus that suggests the rest of the world has ceased to exist.
I've seen that look before, usually on the faces of men about to do something violent. On her, it's different. There's no malice in it, no calculation. Just pure, undiluted purpose.
