Page 156 of Sweet Ruin

Then he takes out his phone.

“You’re calling for help, aren’t you?” I ask suspiciously.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Shortly thereafter, a second car arrives. I change into my dress for the evening, then we form a very small pastry motorcade to Manhattan.

Kane’s brownstone glows against the dark evening. There are no velvet ropes outside. No ice eagle is slowly dying in a ballroom.

This already feels different from New Year’s Eve.

I expected a level of pomp and circumstance equal to the banquet hall again. But this feels almost… cozy?

Like, families are here. Men and women with their arms looped around each other’s waists, children skittering around underfoot, laughter and conversation in every corner.

Yes, there are more tattoos and piercings than most Hallmark movies.

Sure, I notice some questionable facial scars.

And okay, fine, yeah, there are bulges underneath some of the men’s jackets that are definitely gun-shaped.

But even if it’s an armed affair, it’s a family-friendly one.

Then Kane appears at the end of the hall, and my thoughts become very family-unfriendly indeed.

Downright filthy, if we’re being honest.

Kane is wearing black, which goes without saying. The shirt fits close across his chest, open at the throat, with his sleeves shoved to his forearms. Tattoos disappear beneath the cuffs. His chain flashes when he bends to listen to an elderly woman who pinches his cheek playfully, like he isn’t capable of having a man disassembled before dessert.

He belongs here in a way he never belongs in my bakery. People orbit him, always looking to see what he’s doing, where he’s going. A child barrels into his thigh; Kane steadies him with one huge hand without interrupting his conversation. Someone calls, “Pakhan,” and he answers with a slight turn of his head.

Minimal effort.

Maximum terrifying competence.

I have a sudden and powerful urge to climb him like a tree.

Then his gaze finds me.

And he smiles.

It’s subtle, like he only wants me to see it. His shoulders loosen, and the severe line of his mouth softens.

That’s all really terrible news for me.

A sexy mob boss is manageable.

A sexy mob boss who looks happy to see me? That’s an OSHA violation. That’s a five-alarm fire. That’s a nuclear meltdown in the making.

Then he looks over my shoulder and sees Stepan and Anton struggling under the weight of everything I’ve brought.

“Before you say anything,” I call out, “baked goods are traditional.”

His eyes brighten with something that looks suspiciously like delight. “You brought… twenty-four boxes.”

“Of course not! I would never.” I blush and grin. “I only brought twenty-three. The tub, technically speaking, is not a box.”

Niko comes around him, spots the stack in Anton’s arms, and opens the top box.