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-mastermindtableau.
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 forplease 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.