Page 2 of Unexpected Bratva Baby

She approaches, her expression stern. “I need you to work morning shift tomorrow. Marisol called in sick.”

My heart sinks. “But tomorrow’s my day off. I have plans…”

“Cancel them,” she interrupts without sympathy. “This is a business, not a social club. We need reliable employees.”

I open my mouth to argue but close it. The extra hours mean more money for my Scottish shop fund. “Okay, Juanita. I’ll be here.”

She nods curtly. “Good. Be on time.”

I bite back the retort, wanting to remind her I’m always on time, while stepping out into the Miami heat. The humid air feels heavy in my lungs and so different from the crisp Scottish air for which I long. I start walking home, already counting down the days until I can leave Cafecito Dreams behind and start my own business. There are far too many days remaining between me and my dream.

I reach into my bag, pulling out a small keychain with the Scottish flag and run my thumb over the blue and white cross, reminding myself why I’m working so hard. One day, I’ll be back where I feel like I should’ve been all along.

As I walk, I start planning my next day off, whenever that might be. Maybe I’ll bake some shortbread or practice my Gaelic phrases. Anything to keep my dream alive while I’m stuck in this café.

When I reach my small apartment and get inside, I collapse onto the worn couch, kicking off my shoes with relief. The cool pleather of the furniture soothes my aching body after a long day at work. I reach for my phone, scrolling mindlessly through social media to unwind.

A notification pops up from my dog-walking app. I tap it, curious. A new client request appears on the screen, the details making my eyes widen.

Client: Mikhail Sokolov

Dog: Masha (Pitbull Mix, 3 years old)

Location: Brickell Avenue

Pay: $100 per hour

I blink, sure I’ve misread the pay rate. A hundred bucks per hour? That’s more than triple my usual rate. I hover over the accept button but hesitate. My schedule is already packed between the café and my other dog-walking clients.

“This could really boost my Scottish shop fund,” I mutter, chewing my lip.

I click on Mikhail’s profile, scanning for more information. His photo shows a strikingly handsome brunette man with intense blue eyes and a neatly trimmed beard. The brief bio mentions he’s a businessman, new to Miami.

My phone chimes with another notification from Juanita.“Need you to come in early tomorrow. Five a.m. sharp.”

I groan, flopping back against the couch cushions. The idea of waking up even earlier makes my body ache. Then I glance at Mikhail’s dog-walking request again, the generous pay rate taunting me. “Screw it,” I say, hitting accept before I can change my mind. “I’ll figure out how to make it work.”

A confirmation message pops up, along with a note from Mikhail:

“Thank you for accepting. Please come to the penthouse at one 1 p.m. tomorrow. Security will escort you up.”

I stare at my phone with excitement and a touch of nerves. The money is good, but is there some reason why he’s paying so much? Is the dog vicious? Oddly, I wonder if the owner is the vicious one before laughing off the silly thought.

2

Phoebe

The next day, I rush through my morning shift at Cafecito Dreams, barely avoiding Juanita’s wrath as I juggle orders and bounce between tables. By the time my shift ends, I’m exhausted but keep moving.

I hurry home, changing into a fresh T-shirt and jeans. I gather my dog-walking supplies, catching sight of myself in the mirror. My auburn hair is frizzing in the Miami humidity, and there are dark circles under my green eyes. “You can do this,” I tell my reflection, tucking a wayward strand behind my ear. “All the sleep you want after walking the new pupper.”

About twenty minutes later, the Uber drops me off in front of a gleaming high-rise in Brickell. I crane my neck, trying to see the top of the building. My palms are sweaty when I approach the doorman. This isn’t my usual neighborhood or clientele, for sure. “I’m here to see Mr. Sokolov,” I say, hoping my voice sounds more confident than I feel. “I’m the dog walker.”

The doorman nods, speaking quietly into his earpiece. Moments later, a stern-faced man in a suit appears.

“Miss MacKenzie? Follow me.”

We ride the elevator in silence, my stomach dropping when we ascend to dizzying heights. When the doors open, I step into a marble-floored foyer that probably costs more than I’ll make in a lifetime.

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