"There has to be another way to resolve this without bloodshed." I step into the room, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. "You're planning to kill people, Nikolai. Multiple people. Can't you just talk to him? Negotiate?"
His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath his skin. "You don't understand."
"Then explain it to me." I move closer, close enough to catch the scent of his cologne mixed with something darker. "Make me understand why violence is the only answer."
He studies me for a long moment, his hands braced against the desk, and I watch the war happening behind those ice-blue eyes. Finally, he straightens and crosses to where I stand, his presence overwhelming in the spacious room.
"Matvey threatened you." His voice drops to something rough and intimate. "He threatened our child. In my world, that requires a response. Not negotiation. Not compromise. Blood."
"But you're working on something else too, aren't you?" I gesture to the folder with my name. "All those preparations. You have a backup plan."
Something that might be approval flickers across his features. "I'm always working multiple angles. But regardless of the outcome, Matvey must be taught a lesson. It is our way. If I show weakness now, if I let this threat go unanswered, every enemy I've ever made will see it as permission to come for me and mine."
The possessive way he says "mine" sends heat cascading through my body despite the circumstances. "So people have to die to prove a point?"
"Yes." No hesitation. No apology. Just brutal honesty that makes my stomach churn.
I want to argue, to tell him he's wrong, that there's always another way. But the finality in his tone, the cold certainty in his eyes, tells me the argument is over. This is who he is.
"I need to go." The words come out steadier than I feel. "I have work to do at Thyme and Tide."
His hand catches my elbow as I turn to leave, his touch sending electricity arcing through my nerve endings. "Your guard goes with you. No arguments."
"I wasn't going to argue." I pull free from his grip, needing distance before I do something stupid like lean into his touch. "I know the rules by now."
I make it to the door before his voice stops me. "Aria."
I glance back, and the expression on his face makes my breath catch. Not the cold Pakhan, but something rawer, more vulnerable.
"I'm trying to keep you safe. Both of you."
The admission costs him something. I can see it in the tension of his shoulders, the way his hands curl into fists at his sides. "I know."
Then I leave before the tears threatening to spill can betray me.
The commercial kitchen of Thyme and Tide feels like sanctuary when I arrive two hours later. My security guard positions himself near the door, his eyes scanning the space with mechanical precision, but I've learned to tune out his presence. The familiar scents of herbs and spices, the gleam of stainless steel, the organized chaos of my workspace, all of it grounds me in a way nothing else can.
Three of the Bratva wives are already here, part of the arrangement I'd negotiated with Nikolai weeks ago. It had been a calculated move on my part, offering jobs to women who wanted them, giving them purpose beyond being ornaments on their husbands' arms. What I hadn't expected was how well it would actually work.
Irina, married to one of the senior lieutenants, works at the prep station with methodical precision, her knife moving through a mountain of onions with the kind of efficiency that comes from years of cooking for a large family. Svetlana handles inventory and ordering, her sharp mind for numbers making her invaluable for tracking supplies and costs. And Mila, barely twenty and newly married, bustles between stations with infectious energy, eager to learn everything and help wherever needed.
"The Meyer lemon shipment came in," Svetlana calls out, checking something off on her tablet. "I put the invoice on your desk."
"Thank you." I move to inspect a tray of herbs Mila is washing, noting the care she's taking. "These look perfect."
She beams at the praise, and something in my chest loosens. This is working. Not just the practical aspect of having reliable help, but something deeper. Over shared work and casual conversations, I've learned that Irina makes the best pelmeni in Brooklyn, that Svetlana dreams of opening a bookstore, and that Mila is terrified of disappointing her new husband's family. They've stopped seeing me as the interloper who trapped their Pakhan, and I've stopped seeing them as extensions of the organization that owns my husband.
The whispers have changed too. Nikolai mentioned it last week, almost offhandedly, how the wives who work here have become my unexpected advocates. They go home and talk about the restaurant, about learning new skills, and about being treated with respect and paid fairly. It's harder to paint me as a manipulative outsider when their own women are choosing to work for me, when they come home energized instead of bored and restless.
It's a small victory in a war I didn't ask to fight, but I'll take it.
Katya arrives right on time, her dark hair pulled back in a practical bun, her chef's whites spotless. She's the girlfriend of one of Nikolai's captains, a young woman maybe twenty-three who approached me last week asking if I'd teach her. The eagerness in her eyes reminded me of myself at that age, hungry to learn and desperate to prove herself.
"Show me what you remember from last session," I say, gesturing to the prep station where I've laid out vegetables and a selection of knives.
She moves with more confidence than last week, her fingers finding the proper grip on the chef's knife, her stance balanced and ready. I watch her work through basic cuts, noting the improvement in her technique, the way she's internalized the corrections I gave her.
"Better." I step closer, adjusting the angle of her wrist slightly. "But keep your fingers curled back. You're getting sloppy."
