Chapter Text
The cell was cold and smelled like mold. Ilya sat on the edge of the metal bench, staring at his feet. It was better than looking at the weird guy in front of him - he must have done something to be there. Not him. No, he didn’t do anything wrong.
“Ilya Rozanov," he raised his head at the sound of his name. At least that he could understand, different from everything that had been said in the last few hours. It was all a chaotic blur. At first, he thought everyone would notice that this was a misunderstanding and would let him go in no time. Then, when Ilya noticed that his nervousness was the culprit for his perfectly functional English abandonment, it was already too late for him. He already had handcuffs tight around his wrists.
It was over, and he would spend the rest of his life in a depressing grey cubicle with a disgusting toilet not more than a foot away from his bed.
Ilya was led to a small room with a simple wooden table and two chairs facing each other. It was different from the other one he went to some hours before - an aluminum table, with his handcuffs tied to it and an irritating fluorescent light. There was even a dark glass on the wall he knew from a TV series that people were behind. He sat down, waiting for whatever the fuck they would put him to now.
This day was a mess. The first time they took Ilya out of the cell, they put two detectives in front of him. “Ilya Rozanov, do you understand why you are here? You are under arrest for possession of cocaine,” one of them talked while the other was writing incessantly on a small notebook. They haven’t even said anything, what was this guy doing? “Inevitably, you are also suspected to have ties to organized crime, and you need to be proven innocent.” What? “It is my duty to inform you that you have the right to retain and instruct counsel without delay…”
Ilya blinked. None of those words made any sense. "Что? Мафия?,”"What? Organized crime?" the detective paused, looking almost offended that he spoke his mother tongue suddenly. “Why organized crime? I don’t understand.”
“As I was saying, you have the right to apply for legal assistance…”
Ilya shook his hands, making the metal of his cuffs crash against the table. “I don’t…”
“...without charge through the provincial legal aid program.” The detective continued like he was understanding every and each word he was saying. “Do you understand?”
His eyes burned. Not only because he was feeling deeply humiliated for not understanding everything they were saying to him, but for being fucking handcuffed, hurt and locked in a damn cell for something he didn’t do. And now they were talking about organized crime? What was wrong with these people, thinking he was from the fucking mafia?
“The powder is yours?” The other detective lifted his head from the little notebook, staring at Ilya.
That pissed him the fuck off. He took a deep breath. The detective raised an eyebrow, like he was challenged by the change of demeanor.
“Is it? Or it isn’t?” He paused and then slid his notebook from across the table, along with a cheap pen. “Look at this. I was writing it to help you out. It’s called a waiver. You sign this, tell us everything about the people and the place you got your powder and we can talk about going easy on the immigration consequences. You’re on a work visa, right?”
He looked at the paper. The problem there wasn’t even the legal terms - the guy had a shit handwriting, everything looked like a child scribble. Ilya was bad at English, but he wasn’t dumb. That right there was a fucking trap. He pushed the paper back across the table, masking his terrified stare with a glare. “I don’t sign nothing.”
The detective stared back. “I see. You’re choosing the hard path,” he ripped the page and crumpled it, throwing it at the wall. “If you don’t want to cooperate with us while you have no phone, no ID, I guess you have protection from someone very high rank in traffic, right?” he scoffed.
What the fuck.
“I want a lawyer,” was the only thing he could say in English before all the words evaporated from his mind.
This room was different. Less intimidating, less claustrophobic. It even had a window, where he could see a tree swaying slowly from the wind. He was there for less than 12 hours and he would give anything to feel a breeze on his face.
With a click, the door opened and a man walked in, looking like he was the one who spent the night locked in a cell. He was young, but had deep purplish bags under his brown eyes, covered with reading glasses, a messy thick black hair and a tragically crooked tie.
"Что это, блядь, за галстук?”“What the hell is this tie?” he mumbled, eyeing the tie looking disgusted, as the man sat in front of him. And then he took a good look at his face. Fuck. His brain short-circuited. Even exhausted, this man was absurdly handsome - no, not handsome. He was beautiful. Smooth skin, rosy cheeks covered with freckles, long eyelashes adorning two brown honey-colored eyes. ”Черт, этот парень просто красавчик,”“Damn, this guy is fucking hot,” he allowed himself to think out loud - nobody in that police station spoke his language anyway.
The defense attorney glared at him, stopping his movements for a second, before getting back to what he was doing - opening a folder, aligning some papers in front of them.
“My name is Shane Hollander. I’m your public defender,” he introduced himself. He clicked his pen and got ready to take notes. “Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov, Russian, 25, right?”
Ilya nodded.
“Did you speak to the police?” he went straight to the point.
“Ah, no,” he said, kind of embarrassed. “I don’t understand nothing.”
“Ok,” he wrote something. “Did you sign anything?”
“They give me paper, but I don’t sign.”
Shane’s lips raised a bit in a smile. “Good.”
Ilya frowned, confused. “Good?”
“Very good,” Shane said like it was a praise, like Ilya should be proud of himself. It was the nicest thing anyone had said to him in these last hours - gosh, the bar was low. “Rozanov-”
“Ilya,” he corrected.
“Ilya. I’m glad you choose to use your right to remain silent, but I must inform you that you also have the right to an interpreter at any time. Things can get worse if you don’t understand what is going on. Did anyone offer you an interpreter?” he got ready to write.
“No,” Ilya answered, and Shane took note.
“Ok. Are you following what I’m saying? Is this ok to you?”
Even though his English was only enough to basic living and to scream simple orders in a kitchen - definitely not enough to defend himself from the fucking police - he was not having trouble with Shane’s way of speaking. He was probably speaking slowly on purpose, modulating every word like robots do.
“Is ok. I understand.”
Shane didn’t look convinced, but turned his attention back to the paperwork.
“Last night, you were arrested for drug possession. The drug was yours?”
“No,” Ilya said too quickly.
“Was it from somebody you know?”
“No.”
“You bought it from someone?”
“It’s not mine! I don’t do this!” He sounded exasperated. Shane nodded and wrote something. “It was in my pocket but I didn’t put there. It was not mine, somebody put there.”
“Do you think someone put the drugs on you so you would be caught instead of them?”
Ilya nodded. “There was 5 men fighting with me there. One of them wanted to bother my friend and I told him to fuck off. That’s why he punched my face,” he explained, trying to recreate the bar scene. It was hard to find words to give more details. “He wanted… ебатьfuck... Her phone. She don’t give and he got mad.”
“She was there with you?”
“Yes. She run to the bathroom and then he punched me because I don’t let him go after her.”
“So she didn’t see the fight?”
“No.”
Shane nodded and wrote some more.
“I think they took my phone too,” Ilya added. “and my bag.”
“A bag?”
“Yes. My passport was there… I didn’t even had it to the police when they got there. I think it pissed them even more.”
“Oh,” he paused for a second. “So you didn’t have your documents with you when the police arrived,” Ilya nodded. “Any chance your friend took it to the bathroom? Maybe by accident?”
“No, I don’t think so,” he shrugged. “I think they picked it, and my phone too. I don’t have my phone.”
Shane was writing so much that Ilya started to get curious. Was he transcribing everything he was saying?
“When the police arrived, what did they tell you?”
“Ah. They separate the fight. Put everyone on the wall. That was when they picked the thing and only I got arrested.”
He wrote some more. That was about to become a fucking dissertation. Or a book.
“Did you know any of those men?” Shane asked.
“No.”
“Five men you don’t know, without his belongings. No document, no phone, no wallet, and drugs in his pocket when the police arrived. Well, that’s convenient.”
Ilya frowned. “What?”
“No, not for you. I meant convenient for them, because they didn’t look suspicious,” Shane explained briefly, cutting Ilya’s irritation immediately.
“I don’t do this. I don’t use it,” he said after some time in silence while Shane wrote.
“Ok,” Shane said. “Now, about your job. It’s been 2 months since you got your work visa, right?” Ilya nodded, sadly.
“And now I’m gonna lose it and I’ll have to go back to Russia,” covered his face with both his hands, breathing heavily. He wouldn’t cry, although he wanted to. It was just the worst fucking day of his life.
Shane gave him a little bit of time before getting back to the endless questionary. “Why did you come to Canada?”
“I cook,” he answered, dropping his hands on his lap. “My friend has a restaurant and offered chef position. I got the kitchen. Я шеф-повар”I'm a chef.”
“What is the name? Of the restaurant? It’s only one or is it a franchise?”
“Is only one. Is Ermitage Restaurant,” he answered. “My friend is Svetlana Vetrova-”
“Can you spell, please?”
Ilya spelled slowly, while Shane wrote.
“She is owner of the restaurant. Her father is hockey goalie Sergei Vetrov, he is famous in Russia, you can look in Google.”
Shane nodded, looking uninterested, but took notes anyway.
“Do you sign something?”
“I already told you no,” Ilya said, looking confused.
“No, not here. I mean… At your job, at the restaurant.”
“Ah! Трудовой договор!Employment contract! Yes, I sign.”
Shane took notes. Ilya kinda wanted to reach for the pen just to tease him, like a schoolboy. It would be fun to see that tight man looking a little bit silly.
“Aren’t you too young to be lawyer?” Ilya said. “Боже, они прислали стажёра... Мне конец.” "God, they sent a trainee... It's the end of me.”
Shane made a face.
“I’m 25.”
“Oh, me too!”
“I know.”
“But you look younger. Pretty, soft skin. I bet you use cream for face.”
“Moisturiser,” Shane blushed.
“Какая прелесть... даже марку назвал.”“How cute, he even told me the name of the brand.”
Shane tightened his grip on his pen, thinking about whether to address the Russian muttering or let him be. Staring at the bruised, exhausted man across the table, he felt a deeply inconvenient wave of pity. So, he let Ilya continue his bullshit. Despite how annoyed he was, he couldn’t help but think that he made Ilya feel comfortable. Logically, a relaxed client was easier to work with, it was the ideal, but in this case, it was more than just a professional relief. Maybe because he was so alone and Shane was the only one who could help him, maybe because they were the same age with so many problems that a light conversation made wonders.
That protective satisfaction sat really well in Shane’s chest.
But this situation was a time bomb, and he needed to move fast. Ilya was under the suspicion of a serious crime, not just drug possession, and if they pushed the conspiracy charges forward, Ilya’s temporary resident status would be revoked immediately. He would be deported to face Russia’s severe penal code.
“Ok,” he said out loud, breaking that weird atmosphere around them. “The first step is to request a bail hearing. We need to get you out of here so you can await trial in freedom. You shouldn’t have to stay in this situation.”
Ilya sat up straight, the cocky smirk leaving his lips giving space to his serious face.
“For bail, we will need to prove that you are not a danger to the public, and you are not a flight risk.”
“I don’t know how to fly.”
“No-” Shane furrowed his brow, feeling bad for his own lack of sensibility, but the face Ilya made told him he knew damn well what a ‘flight risk’ was. He wanted to tell him to shut up, but kept it professional. “I need to show him you won’t run away, and that you wish to stay in Canada. So, tell me, where do you live?”
“At the Westin Hotel,” Ilya answered.
Shane’s pen stopped mid air. He looked up. “What?”
Ilya shrugged. “I don’t found home yet.”
Fuck. That made things a little trickier.
Not having a permanent address could make Ilya look bad in court. Depending on the judge, he could be considered a flight risk right ahead. To get him bail, Shane would have to build a foolproof defense. He would have to reach Svetlana Vetrova to use the трудовой договорemployment contract in their favor, bring her in to vouch for him and prove that Ilya had a legitimate and stable reason to stay in Canada. Maybe this would keep Ilya out of the immigration officers' sight.
He finished his notes with a sigh, closing the folder as soon as he put the pen down. Ilya, who was trying to take a peek at the material, jumped a little in his seat.
“One last question before I go,” Shane said, voice flat and serious. “Are you involved in organized crime?”
Ilya stared at him for a second, right before exploding in a loud and genuine laugh. His bruised poor face transformed completely - that stereotypical slavic stare was gone, giving space to the personification of the fucking sun.
Shane was in shock.
Ilya didn’t notice, rubbing his face as he calmed down, looking devastatingly beautiful. He rested his chin on his hand, looking at Shane like he was the adorable one.
“Ты такой прикольный и милый,”“You are so funny and cute,” Ilya murmured in Russian. “No, Shane. I just cook.”
Shane nodded, face frozen to remain professional and indifferent. He gathered his files, thanked Ilya for his time like he did with every client, and left the room. In the hallway, one of the detectives was waiting for him.
“Hollander,” the detective called. “Did the guy feel more comfortable speaking in Russian with someone who actually understands him?”
Shane pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Yes, he had… a lot to say. I will send the paperwork for the bail hearing as soon as I can.”
The detective nodded and waved him off. Shane marched down the corridor, ready to leave that place like Shane didn’t spend the last hour playing dumb while a tall, blonde, hot russian man called him hot and cute right to his face. And that he understood every single word.
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Shane grabbed his phone as he got into the car, the door slamming shut a little harder than necessary. For a second, he just sat there, keys still in his hand, the quiet of the car pressing in around him.
He exhaled through his nose and forced himself to move. The engine turned over, low and steady, something grounding enough to keep his thoughts from spiraling too far ahead - he needed to move quickly. They had 48 hours to go through the bail hearing. He dialed a familiar number in a near-automatic motion.
“Luca,” he said as soon as the call connected, not bothering with any kind of buildup. “I need your help on a case. I’ll send you an address - meet me there, ok? We don’t have much time.”
There was a pause on the other end. “Now?”
Shane’s grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel, gaze fixed somewhere past the windshield, unfocused. “Yes. Now.”
Another pause - shorter this time.
“Ok - yeah, Mr. Hollander, I’ll be ready.”
That hesitation was gone now. Good.
“Thank you, Luca.” Shane said, already pulling the car into motion, hanging up before the conversation could stretch any further. The phone dropped onto the passenger seat, forgotten for the moment.
For a brief second, his mind flashed back to that damn cell - Rozanov looking at him, calling him hot like Shane couldn’t understand a word. Calling him cute. And then something about his fucking tie - what the hell was wrong with his tie, anyway?
Shane’s jaw tightened and took off the fucking tie.
Irrelevant.
He checked the rearview mirror, adjusted his grip on the wheel.
There’s work to do.
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Shane stared at the restaurant’s sign, “Ermitage”, wondering what the hell was waiting for him inside. He’d heard about the place before - even being relatively new, it had already built a reputation among people. Good food and a good place, they said.
At first glance, the restaurant looked surprisingly welcoming. Busy, loud in that comfortable, lunchtime kind of way, tables filled, people leaning into each other in rushed conversations. The lighting was warm, softening everything, and there was something almost homely in the way the food was served, as if the place existed more to host than to impress. Nothing felt empty, nothing felt distant. It was the kind of space where people stayed longer than they meant to.
Shane stepped inside and was immediately met by a pretty man with a polite smile that didn’t quite reach the eyes. He actually looked like he could be a model. Tension rolled off him in steady waves, like the tide against the shore. Poor guy.
He wondered, though, for a tiny little second, if he was on Grindr.
“Good evening, sir. Do you have a reservation?”
“I’m looking for Ms. Vetrova,” Shane said, keeping his tone neutral.
A brief hesitation. Shane didn’t miss the subtle twitch in his right eye.
“She’s not here at the moment.”
“When will she be?”
“About an hour,” the man replied. “Maybe a little less.”
Shane nodded once, like that was enough.
“I’ll wait.”
The host gestured toward the dining area. “Of course.”
Shane chose a table with a clear view of the room, instinctively placing himself somewhere he could observe without being in the way. Old habit. Hard to turn off.
A waiter approached not long after.
“Can I get you something to drink?”
“Water,” Shane said, then paused just long enough to reconsider. “And I’ll take whatever you recommend.”
The waiter seemed mildly surprised by that, but nodded. “Of course.”
Shane leaned back slightly in his chair, the noise of the restaurant settling into something distant as his eyes moved across the space. From now on, he wasn’t looking at it as a customer would. He was looking for… something. Structure. Order. Signs of disruption. Nothing obvious.
That, on its own, didn’t mean much. Places like this were built to keep running. People adapted. Covered gaps. Kept things moving. Even when something - or someone - was missing.
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Luca arrived just as a server set a plate down in front of Shane. He looked slightly out of breath, like he had rushed more than necessary, scanning the room quickly before locking onto Shane.
“Sorry, traffic,” he said, pulling the chair back and sitting down.
Shane gave him a brief look. “You came running?”
“Just felt like it,” Luca muttered, still catching his breath.
Shane didn’t comment on that. He reached for his glass instead, taking a small sip before setting it down again.
“Ilya Rozanov,” he said, getting straight to it. “Detained this morning.”
“What an odd name. Is he German?”
“Russian.”
“Detained on what?”
“Preliminary suspicion of involvement with organized crime.”
A pause.
“That’s… serious.”
“It is.”
Shane let his gaze drift briefly toward the kitchen doors, where movement came and went in quick, efficient bursts.
“He’s on a work visa,” he continued. “Which means this doesn’t stay contained for long. If this escalates, immigration gets involved.”
Luca nodded slowly, already shifting into work mode.
“So we’re here to…?”
“Establish context.” Shane’s tone stayed even. “I want to know what his role here actually looks like. Not what’s written down. What’s consistent. What holds up when you ask more than once.”
A server passed by again, placing cutlery on the table. Then the food came: heavy thick pieces of meat graciously displayed with an insane amount of carbs around it. Luca glanced at the plate in front of Shane, then back at him.
“…Are you going to eat that?”
Shane didn’t even look at it. “No.”
That was all the permission Luca needed. He pulled the plate slightly toward himself, already taking a bite.
Shane watched him for a second - quick, distracted, but observant even in small things. He bit back a smile. “Did you eat today?”
Luca didn’t answer and that was answer enough.
Shane looked away again, back to the restaurant. “I’m speaking to the owner,” he said. “Svetlana Vetrova. I need you in the kitchen.”
Luca paused mid-bite. “Kitchen?”
“Staff. You’ll get statements. Timelines. Anything that helps establish routine.”
Luca nodded, chewing quickly, already mentally reorganizing. Should be easy. “Ok. Yeah.”
“Don’t look for perfect answers,” Shane added. “Look for consistency.”
“Patterns,” Luca said, swallowing.
“Patterns,” Shane confirmed.
A brief silence settled between them. From the outside, the restaurant looked functional. Controlled. Normal enough. Which, in Shane’s experience, didn’t mean much. “And Luca-”
He looked up.
“Stick to what matters.”
A small nod. Firmer this time.
“Got it.”
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A stunning woman approached their table - like interruption wasn’t even a concept she believed in. Shane was already on his feet by the time she reached them.
“Ms. Vetrova-”
“Yes,” she cut in, slipping her coat off her shoulders with slow, deliberate movements. Her eyes landed on him. “And you are…?”
“Shane Hollander. Pleasure to meet you.” He extended his hand. “I’m a defense attorney. I’m here because I need to speak to you about a client.”
She didn’t take his hand right away. She looked at him first - properly looked, as though calculating exactly how much trouble he was about to bring. Then she shook it, brief and firm.
“Why are you here, Mr. Hollander?” she asked, her tone even. “I would hate to think one of my employees was stupid enough to bring a lawyer to my door.”
Shane exhaled quietly, forcing his shoulders to stay relaxed. He resisted the urge to react to that. “I’m here because your chef is at risk of deportation.”
Her expression didn’t change. Good for her. “And you came to my restaurant,” she said, “while my chef is being held in custody.”
Shane held her gaze, giving a single nod. “I came because of his work visa.”
There was a short pause. A blink.
“Explain.”
Shane made a small gesture with his hand, indicating behind him without turning. “My paralegal, Luca, will be speaking with your staff, if that’s alright with you. There are a few details we need to confirm. Could we speak somewhere more private?”
She watched him for another second, unreadable. “Fine.” She tilted her chin toward the back of the restaurant. “Office.”
Then she turned, already expecting him to follow. And, predictably, Shane did.
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The kitchen was loud. Not busy, no - just loud.
“Where the fuck is my fucking vegetables?” A man’s voice cut through the room, sharp and already irritated past the point of reason. “I told you fuckers I needed them ten minutes ago-”
“I put them right there-”
“Well, you idiot, they’re not there now, are they?”
“Fuck you, Cliff. Who would hide your vegetables?”
“I don’t fucking know, Bood, that’s why I fucking ask in the first fucking place!”
“Oh, fuck off! Use that oversized head of yours for something useful, Marlow, and look it up-”
“I swear to god, Bood, one more word and-”
“What, you’re gonna attack me with a zucchini now?”
“You fucking shit-”
“Can you two dumbasses shut up and focus?” Another brunette guy passed behind them, already mid-complaint, not even slowing down. The host, Luca remembered. “Who the hell thought it was a good idea to rearrange the reservations for tomorrow?” His voice went shrill as he jabbed at his iPad.
“Not you too, Barrett, I swear-” Cliff, apparently that was his name, muttered through gritted teeth.
“Half of my tables are wrong! This doesn't even make sense.”
“That’s not on me, buddy.”
“And whose is it?”
“Check the system!”
“The system alone doesn't just wake up and decide to ruin my night!”
“Well, maybe it does now!”
On the other side, next to the cellar, a blond man with curly hair was standing too still to be calm. “Who touched my bottles?” he asked to no one, voice low in a way that made it worse. “I had a system. There was a system. Really, I’m asking once.”
“Jesus, forget this system thing!”
“Wyatt-”
“Don’t ‘Wyatt’ me. I had them organized.”
“Yeah, boo-hoo. I had my things organized too and look where we are.”
Wyatt, although defeated, let out a slow breath through his nose, cleverly deciding not to start something he wouldn’t finish. “No one ‘just’ touches my wine’. But he whispers to himself, just on principle.
Luca was hearing plenty of chatter, but none of it seemed like a good enough explanation for why the hell the kitchen of a renowned restaurant looked like it had just been hit by a group of pixies.
Near the sink, a man kept cleaning like none of it had anything to do with him. Plates, glasses, anything within reach - like a man on a mission. Then, suddenly, he stopped. He took a breath, deeper than the others, set the towel down, and walked out without saying a word.
“Fucking Rozanov” Cliff snapped again, louder now, turning in a full circle and shouting to no one. “Where the hell is this fucker-”
“Hi,” Luca said carefully. It got completely ignored.
“Where’s Wiebe?” Someone yelled.
“Wasn’t he just there, doing dishes?” A woman’s voice replied.
“He was.”
“Why doing dishes? He’s managing a sink now?”
No answer for a minute.
“Cool. Love that.”
“Hi,” Luca tried again, a little louder.
Still nothing.
“Seriously?” he muttered, then cleared his throat. “Hi-”
“Not now, boy.” Cliff was already turning back around, more agitated now, looking for someone to blame. “WHERE THE FUCK IS ILYA?” he snapped, scanning the kitchen. “Because we clearly need the fucking chef right now!”
“Uh, about that,” Luca tried again, a little louder this time.
That did it. Not silence, exactly. But close enough.
“What do you mean ‘about that’?” Cliff asked. His face suddenly looked a lot more scary than it did when he was shouting at nothing.
“Yeah, what?” Barrett added.
Wyatt didn’t say anything. Just looked.
Luca felt trapped by a pack of wolves.
The only woman in the kitchen - who also seemed to be the only one not shaken by all the chaos around her - approached him. Offering a warm smile, she wiped her chocolate-stained hand on her apron and, as she got closer, gently squeezed Luca’s arm in greeting. “Hello, dear. I’m Cassie. Please ignore those idiots. How can we help you?”
Luca offered a small, polite smile that didn’t quite land.
“Oh, uh, it’s about Rozanov. Your chef, right?” He cleared his throat, loosening his tie, which had felt like it was trying to strangle him ever since Shane called asking for his help. “He’s… kind of in jail,” he said.
“What do you mean ‘kind of’?” Barrett asked.
“I mean… He’s in jail.”
“That's not funny, kid.”
“I’m not joking.” A dramatic pause, just because. “And I’m going to need to talk to all of you if you want to get him out.”
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Svetlana Vetrova’s office was spotless. Everything in the right place, minimalist, expensive and very much quiet, compared to the constant clicking of plates from outside.
She walked around a large wooden desk and sat, signing to the chair across her. He sat too, as she followed him with her sharp gaze. “Tell me exactly what is happening with Ilya,” she demanded, firm and direct.
“He was arrested after a bar fight. The police found drugs in his pocket. Now, they are threatening to revoke his work visa and deport him back to Russia,” he said, leaving out the ‘organized crime’ suspicions. He would share only the information she needed to know to vouch for him in the bail hearing.
“That’s absurd, Ilya doesn’t do drugs.”
“He said that,” Shane adjusted himself on the chair. “And I believe him. But to get him out of there, the judge needs to see not only that he doesn’t engage in criminal activity, but that he’s needed here. They need to see that he has strong ties to the community, that he’s not a flight risk. So I need to understand his background, Ms. Vetrova. Why did you bring him to Canada to work for you?”
She leaned back, studying Shane for a long moment. He couldn’t quite understand if she was analysing him or just processing everything he just said.
“Ilya and I have known each other since we were children. We grew up together. Well, for the most of our childhood. I moved to America when I was…” she looked up as if she were searching for the right answer on the roof. “Nine? I think?”
Shane nodded. That was not relevant at all, but whatever.
“My dad played for the Boston Bears for a long time-”
“Sergei Vetrov, goalie, right?” Shane interrupted. Svetlana tilted her head, looking surprised he already knew that.
“Yes. Are you a hockey fan, Mr. Hollander?”
“You could say that.”
It was a massive understatement. He absolutely was. In fact, he only got to study in an elite law school because of a hockey sports scholarship. He owed a lot to hockey, even if his path led him to the law instead of the ice. But not to the Bears - no fuck them - he was a true Ottawa Centaurs fan. But Svetlana didn’t have to know this.
“Right.” Svetlana seemed a little bit more relaxed now.
Good. Shane knew that, if a person sees a shared interest in you, they naturally relax. It was one of the many things he had learned over years of careful observation, and applying it successfully always brought a positive outcome. He always needed to use some of these strategies to develop trust faster. In his specialty, time could mean everything.
“Well, my father moved us to North America for his career, as you know,” she moved her hands around. “I used to go back to Russia to visit occasionally. But my father leaving the country and me bringing 'western ideas' back with me annoyed Ilya’s father.”
“He’s strict?” Shane asked.
“He’s sick,” she said.
“Sick? Sick like, dementia?”
“No, sick like crazy.”
He muttered a small ‘oh’ as she continued.
“You see, our fathers used to be very close friends. But Grigori was insufferable. I mean, he’s a полковник,”colonel,” Shane frowned. What? “Very strict, rigid, traditional military man. He and my dad ran in the same circles in Russia. But many years ago - Ilya and I were kids - they had a massive argument.” She sighed. “It was about politics. My father’s political opinions changed a lot when we moved out. Grigori is obviously loyal to the system there, and he saw my father as a traitor. Me going back to visit sounded like I was indoctrinating Ilya to him.”
Shane realised he made a lot of mistakes up until this point. One, he hadn’t taken his pen out of his pocket and he definitely should’ve been taking notes. Two, he didn’t ask Ilya about his family. How did he let this go unnoticed?
He tried to be subtle as he took out his pen and papers. “You said his dad is полковник,”colonel,”. Grigori?”
“Yes, полковник,”colonel, she watched him write. “You have excellent pronunciation, Mr. Hollander.”
“Thank you,” Shane replied. “What about his mother?”
“Ilya’s mom is dead.”
“Oh.”
“She was the best. Some of my best childhood memories are with him and Irina - that’s her name. We would spend hours in her kitchen. She taught us how to cook. We were just kids, but we promised each other that one day, we would open a restaurant together. Crazy, right?” Svetlana smiled fondly.
Shane looked down at his notes. He was a defense attorney, so he was used to digging into his clients' lives, learning their secrets to build a case. It was just a job. But sitting in that office, hearing about a young Ilya learning to cook with his mother…
Shane felt a strange, uncomfortable twist of guilt in his stomach. It felt too intimate. Maybe it was because he was investigating the life of a man he had actively deceived just an hour ago, sitting in an interrogation room and pretending he couldn't understand a single word of his Russian while he fucking called him cute.
He cleared his throat, pushing the guilt away. “But he only became a chef recently?”
Svetlana’s expression hardened again. “Grigori thought cooking was a women’s job.”
They went silent for a while.
“You said he’s crazy. Is that why?”
“Oh, no, not just that” she scoffed. “This man thought his house was an extension of the military. Ilya and his brother were raised to become военнымиmilitary and nothing else. Grigori is not a good person, and you should have this in mind. Ilya can’t go back to Russia.”
Shane frowned, trying to piece the puzzle together.
“He needed to get out of Russia and I needed a head chef I could trust. That’s why he’s here.”
“He ran away?”
Svetlana flinched. “What?”
“He ran away from home. That’s why he can’t go back to Russia. He’s in danger there,” since she fell silent, he continued. “Ms. Vetrova, is he is in danger, in here or there, or if his departure is linked to these drug charges–”
“He’s not involved in the fucking mob or anything like that!”
His pen stopped mid air. He hadn’t said this word there, but guess Svetlana saw it coming. She rubbed her temples. “Look, Hollander… I’m sorry, Mr. Hollander-”
“It’s fine.”
“That is not my story to tell. It’s deeply personal. And it has nothing, absolutely nothing to do with drugs, or a fucking mafia,” she assured him. “Ilya couldn’t be himself in Russia. Who he is and what he wants… He couldn’t get it there. It became completely unsustainable for him there, he is fucking depressed!”
He nodded, both falling into an understanding silence.
“Grigori is a powerful, traditional man,” Svetlana said carefully. “He didn't accept many of Ilya’s choices. And I bet that right now he’s not happy that Ilya is here.” She thinks for a second, and then asks. “What happens when there’s a case like this, where a foreign person gets accused of a crime? The country is notified or something like that?”
Shane frowned, his mind instantly pulling up the standard legal protocols. “Not automatically, no. The police wouldn’t just call Moscow over a local bar fight and a drug possession charge.”
“And if he’s being accused of being part of the mafia?” He glared at her. “What? North Americans hear ‘Russia’ or ‘Italy’ and automatically think of a mob, am I lying?”
“Look, Ms. Vetrova, if you don’t think this is a serious matter, we-”
“I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just worried,” she justifies.
“Then he would be put through a more meticulous background check, and if the Crown or the Border Services suspect an international organized crime syndicate, they could request intelligence directly from Russian law enforcement to see if he has history there.”
Where his father is a high-ranking Police Colonel.
He stared at his notepad, the pieces of information forming a more disturbing picture. Grigori Rozanov wasn't just a strict, traditional parent who disapproved of his son's career choices. He was a colonel with a lot of power. And, according to Svetlana, Grigori apparently was someone who had put Ilya through hell.
Shane made a quick note on his paper: Family history. Domestic abuse?
“Ms. Vetrova,” he said getting up. “I must go to investigate more into the case. Thank you so much for being so cooperative. I’ll do everything I can to get him out of there.”
“Please, Mr. Hollander,” she said, getting up too. “Don’t let them send him back.”
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“What do you mean ‘necessary to the community’?” Troy, the Barrett guy's first name, asked, arms crossed.
“I mean exactly that,” Luca said, trying to keep his voice steady. Those folks were fucking nuts. “If we can prove he plays a significant role here - professionally, socially - it helps his case.”
“So you need us to say he’s good at his job?” Cliff cut in.
“I need you to tell me the truth,” Luca replied.
A heavy pause. Then:
“He’s the best chef I’ve ever worked with,” Cliff said, quick, like he didn’t want to overthink it. “That’s not even up for debate.”
“He’s unpredictable,” Troy added immediately.
Cliff turned. “Excuse me?”
“He is,” Troy insisted. “Brilliant, yes. But unpredictable.”
“That’s called being human.”
“That’s called giving me a headache on a Friday night. He’s a nightmare and barely speaks English.”
Wyatt spoke without looking up. “People come back because of him.” That quieted things for a second. “They ask for him,” Wyatt continued. “Not the restaurant. Him.”
“Yeah,” someone in the back added. “We’ve had cancellations when he’s not here.”
“And walk-ins asking if he’s working,” another voice said.
“Saying stuff like this makes it seem like people come here because he’s handsome,” Cassie said.
“Well. That he is,” Troy shrugged.
“He trains people,” Bood said, glaring at Cliff. “Actually trains them. Not just yell and hope for the best.”
“I don’t yell-”
“You literally just yelled about vegetables.”
“That was justified.”
Troy sighed. “He also ignores half my front-of-house structure.”
“Because your structure is stupid.”
“My structure keeps this place running.”
“His food keeps it full.”
“That’s not how this works-”
“That’s exactly how this works.”
Luca blinked, trying to keep up as the voices overlapped again.
“He sources half the menu himself-”
“He changed suppliers twice…”
“Because the quality dropped!”
“...without telling anyone.”
“He told me!”
“You’re not ‘anyone’, Marlow!”
“He knows regulars by name,” Wyatt added, louder this time. “What they drink, too. And he’s only been here for two months. The clientele already loves him.”
“He gave a table a free meal last week,” Troy muttered.
“Yeah, they were celebrating something.”
“He didn’t tell me!”
“They were crying, Troy.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It kind of is!”
Luca shifted his weight, tightening his grip on the notebook.
“So” he tried, “you’re saying people come here because of him.”
“Yes,” Wyatt said.
“Among other reasons,” Troy corrected.
“Mostly him,” Cliff shot back.
“That’s not statistically proven-”
“Oh my god, Troy, shut up!”
“And if he doesn’t come back?” Luca asked. “Do you have any idea what this place - this community - loses if Mr. Rozanov doesn’t come back?”
For the first time that night, the silence was real.
Cliff looked away first. Troy pressed his lips together. Wyatt didn’t answer. Cassie sighed softly. Bood opened his mouth like he was going to say something, then thought better of it.
“…We’ll manage,” Troy said finally.
Well, no one agreed. Nice.
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Luca tripped a bit when he got out of the restaurant through the back door. The metal material slammed shut behind him, making him jump on his feet, alarmed by the loud noise. He must’ve look so fucking lame watching those people argue back and forth like some tennis play, unable to take really useful concrete information from them. Mr. Hollander would kill him - I mean, he wouldn’t be mean about it, but the mere thought of letting him down made Luca’s stomach churn.
He leaned his back against the cold brick wall, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply for the first time since he got there. God. Working in a kitchen could make a person crazy, if everyday looked like that.
“Rough in there, huh?”
Luca gasped, jerking his body from the wall as the other man exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. “Oh my God,” Luca put a hand on his chest, feeling it jump under his fingertips. The man - the manager Wiebe, if he was correct.
“Boy, you gotta chill,” he laughed, getting closer, and patting his back. “Are you alright?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wiebe, I’m just… A bit…”
“I know. It’s a lot, they’re a lot,” he signed the cigarette between his fingers. “They made me start smoking again.”
He frowned. “It’s like this everyday?” Wiebe nodded, taking a long drag of the cigarette.
“Some days are like this, some are not. Some days, they throw death threats, and on the other, they throw marriage proposals. You know. Kitchens.”
“Yeah. Kitchens…” said, even though he had no clue what the fuck that was supposed to mean. “Was Mr. Rozanov like that? Like… He usually throws death threats or he usually throws marriage proposals?”
Wiebe frowned his brows and then exploded in a loud laugh. He slapped his free hand on his thigh, curling his body as he held his belly.
“Boy, you are indeed a lawyer!”
“I’m a student, sir.”
“Let me tell you something about Rozanov,” he put his arm around Luca, the cigarette hanging a little too close to his face than he would like. “If he gets deported, this place will shut down.”
Before Luca could formulate a response - or another question - the back door opened again. Shane stepped out into the alley. Unlike Luca, he didn’t seem to be so bothered by the chaos of the restaurant.
“Luca,” he called out. “Hello. Shane Hollander, defense attorney,” he offered his hand to Wiebe, and both men shook their hands. “You got something out of their testimony?”
“Um…” Luca started, embarrassed.
“The boy was run over by those guys like a lost blind mouse on a highway,” Wiebe laughed.
“Well, that was specific,” Shane pointed out.
“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” the manager straightened and threw his cigarette onto the floor, making Shane frown his eyebrows. The bin was right there, what the fuck? “A kitchen without the chef is a bus without the driver. Today was a mess, everyone’s stressed out. Those boys are good people.”
He was talking like it was an apology to Luca.
“Here is the truth. If Rozanov is gone, this place will be gone too in less than a month. We’re going to go bankrupt, our clientele won't come back because only he can give what they want,” he says passionately. “We are completely fucked without him, his sous-chef went nuts today because of the fucking vegetables. So please. Get him out of there, please.”
So. Essential to the business’ survival - and significant economic impact to the community. Good. Shane offered him a tiny smile.
“I’ll do everything in my power to bring him back,” Shane said smoothly.
Luca extended his notebook. “Here, Mr. Hollander. They complained about a lot of the things that went wrong due to his absence. They said people come to the restaurant specifically for him, too.”
Shane took the notebook, scanning some pages. “And the recordings?”
“You were recording?” Wiebe turned to Luca. Shane glared at him.
“You didn’t ask for permission?”
Fuck. He didn’t. “I’ll get their permission now,” and then quickly ran through the door.
Now was Shane’s turn to get startled by Wiebe’s not-so-quiet laugh. “That kid is something else,” he rubbed his stomach like the laugh came from there.
“He’s a good kid,” Shane agreed.
He didn’t say much as they left the restaurant - he was still trying to figure out what the hell had just happened in there. Of course, he hadn’t expected the conversation with Svetlana to be easy, but there was something else now, something that kept flashing red in the back of his mind. Trying to piece together whatever Ilya Rozanov’s life was supposed to be was going to be a fucking nightmare.
Luca kept talking beside him, words spilling over each other as he tried to organize everything they had just heard - names, statements, contradictions that didn’t quite cancel each other out - but Shane was already filtering through it all, separating what could be used from what would fall apart the second it was questioned in court.
“Send me everything you got, please,” he said at some point, trying to cut through Luca’s rambling without sounding harsh. “Recordings, notes. I want all of it.”
Luca nodded quickly, almost too quickly. “Yeah, I can organize it, clean it up and-”
“Don’t,” Shane interrupted, glancing at him briefly, his tone gentler than the word itself. “Just send it as it is.”
Luca hesitated, then nodded again. In moments like this, Shane could see himself at that age - young, inexperienced, maybe a little too naive to survive the kind of shitshow they sometimes worked in. But Luca was a good, smart kid, and Shane tried to be the best mentor he could for him.
He let a second pass before adding, “Good job today, Luca. Thank you.”
That seemed to catch him off guard.
“You can go home now,” Shane continued, already reaching for the door. “Straight home, ok?”
Luca let out a breath that sounded like he had been holding it in for hours. “Yeah. Yeah, ok. Sir.”
Shane waited until he got into the car and actually drove off before turning away, already moving on to the next step. Yeah. He could feel a headache coming and - there’s still so much fucking work to do.
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The hotel was exactly what he expected it to be. Clean, quiet, impersonal in a way that made it easy to forget that people actually lived in those rooms, even if only temporarily.
Shane handled the front desk with the kind of efficiency that came from practice, presenting the authorization without hesitation and answering questions before they were fully asked. It didn’t take long for the receptionist to hand him a key card, along with a polite smile that suggested he wasn’t entirely comfortable with the situation, but also not willing to push it further. Well, good for him.
The elevator ride gave Shane too much time to think, which was never ideal. Overthinking was practically a hobby for him.
He reminded himself that this was necessary. Ilya’s accounts were frozen, which meant his cards would stop working soon, if they hadn’t already - meaning the hotel charges wouldn’t be paid, and the man wouldn’t have anywhere to stay. On top of that, Rozanov had claimed he’d lost his cardholder and passport, but Shane was hoping he might find his wallet in the hotel room, along with - fingers fucking crossed - other documents.
And, fuck, Rozanov was completely vulnerable right now. No friends besides Svetlana, no real fluency in the language, no family - although that was starting to look like a good thing - and none of his belongings. It was Shane’s responsibility to help him, after all, if Shane was going to build any kind of defense, he needed access to anything that could help establish stability, routine, intent. It was what he was supposed to do. What any good professional would do. What a good person would do.
That was all this was supposed to be.
It had nothing to do with the way Shane had felt imagining Rozanov in that damn cell - desperate, scared, almost hopeless. No, nothing to do with that at all.
The room was obviously quiet when he stepped in, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft finality that felt louder than it should have. It was all normal at first glance, almost staged in that careful way hotel rooms tend to be, but there were small signs of occupation that broke the illusion the longer he looked.
A suitcase sat half-unpacked near the wall, clothes folded with an attention that didn’t quite match the chaos Shane had seen earlier in the restaurant. A jacket had been thrown over a chair - not carelessly, but not neatly either, like it had been taken off in a moment of distraction. A glass of water sat on the table, a pair of sneakers carefully placed by the door, and a book in Russian - Анна КаренинаAnna Karenina - rested on an armchair positioned just in front of the window.
Shane moved further into the room, slow and deliberate, as if rushing would make him miss something important.
The wallet was sitting on the nightstand.
It caught his attention immediately. It felt too exposed, too easy to find - which made sense, considering Ilya had expected to come back for it.
He hesitated before picking it up, his fingers lingering just slightly before he opened it. This wasn’t personal, he reminded himself. It couldn’t be. He was looking for information, not out of curiosity.
Well. Maybe a little. Sue him.
Shane wouldn’t admit it to anyone else, but he could at least admit it to himself: Ilya had caught his attention. As composed and reserved as he usually was, Shane wasn’t a monk - he had casual hookups, went on dates, just like anyone else, thank you very much - and he had obviously noticed just how attractive Ilya was.
But beyond being really hot, Ilya was a mess. Shane’s job was to advocate for his clients, and while he preferred to believe they wouldn’t lie to him, he couldn’t help but question whether everything Rozanov had told him was entirely true. Who the hell was this guy? Was he really just in the wrong place at the wrong time? What did Svetlana mean by he couldn’t be himself in Russia? Was he part of the fucking mafia?
But what Shane really knew now was that Ilya, by all accounts, was an excellent chef. A cherished friend. An irreplaceable presence in the restaurant’s ecosystem. Loved by the customers, admired by - almost - all of his colleagues. Someone who, in just two months and with very little vocabulary, had already claimed his place in that kitchen.
So, he opened the wallet.
Inside, there was cash, a couple of cards that were probably useless now, and a photograph tucked neatly into one of the slots.
The woman in the picture was young, her expression soft in a way that felt genuine, not posed. There was something familiar in her features, something that made it immediately obvious who she was without needing confirmation.
Ilya’s mother.
Shane tilted the photo slightly, studying it for a second. A young, beautiful woman in a dark coat stood in the middle of a snow-covered courtyard, bare trees and worn apartment blocks behind her. She held a cute baby against her chest - bundled in red and white, bright against the gray - like she wasn’t letting go anytime soon.
Shane stared at the photo longer than he should have, taking in the details without really meaning to, before closing the wallet and slipping it into his pocket in an automatic motion, too precious to be kept anywhere else but really close to him.
Near the bed, there was a small object partially wrapped in paper, the edges worn like it had been opened and handled more than once. Shane unfolded it just enough to see what it was, recognizing it as some kind of gift, simple and probably inexpensive, but clearly kept with care.
A plush brown bear stared back at him - the national symbol of Russia, Shane noted. Around its neck, like a makeshift collar, hung a colorful bracelet threaded with mismatched beads. Square ones, stamped with letters in the Latin alphabet, spelled out “Ilyushka,” a nickname Shane recognized as something softer, more intimate than just Ilya. A child’s gift, maybe?
He didn’t linger on it, folding it back the same way he had found it. On the desk, a small card caught his attention next. It looked like a welcome card, glittery letters spelling “WELCOME ABOARD - IT’S TIME TO SPICE THINGS UP” and when he opened it, he found signatures on the first page - different handwritings overlapping in short messages that felt informal but genuine.
Welcome to the shitshow.
Good luck, babe!
Don’t burn the place down.
Shane put it down because, next to the card, there was a notebook.
Of everything in the room, this was what drew his attention the most. A worn notebook, bound in red leather, its edges softened with time and use. Книга рецептовrecipe book had been written across the cover in an elegant hand, and just beneath it, in messy, uneven letters - like a child’s handwriting - мама и Ильяmama and Ilya completed it.
Shane opened it carefully, immediately recognizing handwritten recipes filling the pages, all in Russian, the kind of careful, practiced script that only comes from doing something over and over until it matters. Something built over time, and so so full of love.
He turned a page, then another, before noticing a second notebook tucked partially underneath it. Smaller. Messier.
He picked it up. This one was in English - or trying to be.
Words were written in uneven lines, some repeated multiple times, others crossed out and rewritten with slight variations. There were phonetic notes scribbled beside them, corrections added later, circles, underlines - a visible attempt to hold onto something that didn’t come naturally.
Shane felt his jaw tighten slightly as he flipped through a few pages. That didn’t fit as neatly as the rest. Or maybe it did, and that was the problem.
He was starting to build a version of Ilya in his head - one that made sense, one that aligned with everything those people had said in the kitchen. Someone who worked hard, who cared and was deeply cared for, who was trying to belong to something meaningful.
Someone worth defending.
Was that version real? Or was Shane assembling it himself, choosing the pieces that made the story easier to believe?
Fuck. Why the fuck would that really matter? Shane had a job to do, and he was going to do it.
He closed the notebook slowly, letting it rest back on the desk as his gaze moved across the room again, taking everything in with a different weight now.
He went over every scrap of information he had gathered that day. A man who had left Russia abruptly. A man currently being accused of involvement with organized crime. A man who kept his mother’s picture in his wallet and carried a notebook just to remember English words he refused to forget.
Shane pressed his lips together, feeling the tension settle somewhere uncomfortable between thought and instinct. He needed facts. Evidence. Something that would hold under scrutiny. Not impressions. Not this quiet, constructed version of someone he barely knew.
And still, his eyes flicked back to the room - not nearly as impersonal as he had first assumed.
With a quiet exhale, he rolled up the sleeves of his wrinkled dress shirt and started packing.
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His phone rang before he could finish packing. The sound cut through the room, sharp against the quiet. Shane frowned, setting Ilya’s belongings on the bed before reaching for it.
“Shane Hollander.”
He listened. His posture stilled almost immediately, shoulders going rigid, fingers tightening slightly around the phone.
“What?” he said, sharper now. “No - when?”
He turned, pacing once across the room, then back again, a hand dragging briefly over his mouth. “That doesn’t make sense. He has a hearing-”
Another pause. Longer. Shane stopped moving.
“…Right.”
His voice dropped, flattening out. “Okay. Yeah. I understand.”
He pulled the phone away and ended the call without waiting for anything else. For a second, he just stood there, staring at nothing. Then he looked back at the bed, at the half-packed suitcase, at the things he had just taken.
“Fuck.” He grabbed the nearest item and shoved it into the bag, movements quicker now, less careful.
Ilya Rozanov was being deported.