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There was a maintenance stairwell behind a service panel in the laundry wing that might—might—connect to the freight elevator, but it was sealed with a biometric lock that I would need to carve off someone’s body parts to bypass. The ventilation ducts were laughably small, and the balcony system was glass sealed, climate controlled, zero handholds. He’d built this place like a fortress or a vault.

Or a cage.

So, when I finally returned to the main living space, body sore and heart restless, I expected to find him in his office again or maybe not at all.

Instead, I smelled something cooking.

I froze in the hallway, one hand grazing the corner of the doorway as I peered inside the kitchen. He was standing at the stove.

Nikolai Morozov.

The Hammerhimself.

Cooking.

He was wearing a black long-sleeve shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, the same fitted jeans he’d worn all day, and he was stirring something that smelled like butter and onions and slow-simmered comfort food. He moved with a confident familiarity, like he’d done this many times before, and it was confusing. A man like him wouldn’t cook for himself or anyone else… Right?

There were cast-iron pots and pans on the range. A cutting board covered in herbs. The lights were low, the city behind him a wash of gold and blue.

I stepped into the kitchen slowly, my ballet flats quiet on the marble. He turned when he heard me, and that soft smile—that smile—spread across his face like he’d been waiting for me.

“Hungry?” he asked.

I nodded before I realized I was even doing it.

He gestured toward the wide island where two places had already been set: linen napkins, vintage silverware, crystal glasses of still water.

“You’re… cooking?”

He smirked. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“I don’t know. You just seem more like a ‘have someone else do it’ kind of guy.”

“I am,” he said. “But not tonight.”

He lifted the lid off one of the pots, fragrant steam rising. “It’spelmeni. My mother’s recipe.”

Something in his voice shifted when he said that. Just a little.

I slid onto the stool and watched him work, the gentle rhythm of it somehow settling the chaos still rattling around in my chest. I didn’t ask questions, at least not yet, but my curiosity was thick in the air between us.

He plated the dumplings gently, ladled broth over them, then set the dish in front of me. I took hold of my spoon and dipped into it, bringing it to my mouth. The first bite tasted like butter, dill, and warmth. I didn’t realize I’d closed my eyes until he spoke again.

“She used to make that for us on New Year’s Eve. Every year. Even when things got… bad.”

I looked up.

Nikolai was leaning against the counter now, arms folded, watching me like this mattered more than he was letting on.

“When we left Russia,” he said quietly, “it wasn’t because we wanted to. My father was Bratva. He was killed in a car bombing in Moscow. My mother died the same day. Same bomb.”

My heart stopped.

He continued, voice even.

“Sergei and Maxim were there when it happened. Ivan was just a kid. I was fifteen. We lost everything in one night—home, family, protection. The Volkovs moved in fast. Claimed the territory like they were trying to win a race.”

I swallowed hard, setting my spoon down gently.