Page 5 of Unexpected Bratva Baby

Istand at the windows of my penthouse, gazing down at the bustling street below. A flash of auburn hair emerging from the building’s entrance catches my attention. Phoebe. Her vibrant sundress sways as she walks, a cheerful splash of color against the concrete sidewalk. I move closer to the glass, captivated by her easy grace.

It’s not just Phoebe that catches my attention. It’s Masha. My normally reserved, cautious dog bounds alongside her new walker with unbridled enthusiasm. Her tail wags furiously, and she prances with a lightness I’ve rarely seen.

“What’s gotten into you, girl?” I murmur, smiling despite myself.

Phoebe kneels, her face alight with laughter as Masha showers her with affectionate licks. The sight stirs something in me, a warmth I’m unaccustomed to feeling. She’s so good with Masha. Yesterday, she handled her perfectly, and today looks to be the same.

My phone buzzes, dragging my attention away from the scene below. It’s Yuri, my second-in-command. “Yes?” I answer, my voice sharp.

“The shipment from Odessa is delayed,” he says. “Customs is giving us trouble.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, frustration building. “Handle it. Whatever it takes.”

“Of course, boss.”

I end the call and turn back to the window, but Phoebe and Masha have already disappeared from view. An inexplicable sense of loss washes over me.

Shaking it off, I stride to my home office. Work always grounds me. I immerse myself in spreadsheets and ledgers, the familiar dance of numbers soothing my restless mind. Yet I find my thoughts drifting back to Phoebe’s warm smile and Masha’s uncharacteristic playfulness. I settle back in my chair, rubbing the bridge of my nose. The penthouse feels unusually quiet and empty.

On impulse, I pull up the security feed from the lobby. It takes only a moment to find the footage from earlier. There’s Phoebe departing with Masha. I stare at her longer than I can justify as she plays with Masha. I rewind, watching their interaction again, and again. Each time, I notice something new. The way Phoebe’s hand lingers on Masha’s head, the dimple in her chin when she smiles, and the look of pure devotion my dog gives her within minutes.

She’s really something. And pretty, too. Gorgeous in a way that makes me feel guilty for thinking of her as anything butinnocent, but all women have a devil side to them. They like to have fun just as much as men do.

A knock at the door startles me. I quickly close the security feed and say, “Coming.” Phoebe’s smile lingers in my mind in contrast to the grim business awaiting me. With a long exhalation, I stand and straighten my suit jacket. It’s time to focus.

The conference room is already occupied when I enter. Sergei, Yuri, and Vladimir rise to their feet, a sign of respect that never fails to satisfy me. I nod curtly and take my place at the head of the table. “Gentlemen,” I say, my voice low and authoritative. “Report.”

Sergei, my second, speaks first. “The Cubans are getting bolder, boss. They’ve taken over two of our protection rackets in South Beach this week alone.”

I rest my elbows on the polished mahogany. “And how did we let that happen?”

Yuri shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “They’re offering better rates to the businesses. Some of our guys got sloppy and thought they could slack off. The Cubans swooped in.”

I drum my fingers against the table, a steady rhythm that betrays my irritation. “Sloppy is unacceptable. Who was responsible?”

“Gleb and Izmail, holdovers from when Arseny waspakhanof Miami,” says Vladimir, his usually stoic face betraying a hint of disgust. “They’ve been dealt with.”

I nod, satisfied. Weakness can’t be tolerated when our hold on Miami is at stake. It’s the reason I’m here. Thebratvawas losing its hold in Miami, and the headpakhanfrom Moscowsent me here from Brighton Beach to address that. Arseny, my predecessor here in Miami, is currently at the bottom of Biscayne Bay with cement shoes from what Sergei has told me. “Good. What’s our next move?”

As Sergei outlines a plan to reclaim our territory, my mind wanders. I see flashes of auburn hair and hear echoes of light laughter. Phoebe. What is it about her that’s gotten under my skin?

“Mikhail?” Yuri’s voice snaps me back to the present. “What do you think?”

I blink, realizing I’ve missed part of the conversation. “Run it by me again,” I say, masking my distraction with a stern glare.

Sergei clears his throat. “We propose a show of force. Hit one of Valdés’ major operations. Send a FAFO message.”

I frown. What the hell is a fay-fo? My English is nearly native-level fluent, but that’s one I’ve never heard. “A what?”

Yuri laughs. “He’s trying out my generation’s slang, boss. FAFO means fuck around and find out.”

I nod and consider this, weighing the risks and benefits. It’s a bold move that could easily escalate the situation, but perhaps that’s exactly what we need. “Yes, let’s go with this FAFO response.” I wait for their chorus of agreement. “Which operation?”

“Their nightclub, ‘Havana Nights,’” says Yuri, pulling up a map on the large screen behind him. “It’s a major money-laundering front for them. Taking it out would hurt their bottom line and their ego.”

“People would be shocked to learn how many of their night spots and restaurants are fronts for money-laundering,” says Vlad softly, clearly in philosophical mode. “That’s why it remains a standard play. Retaliate by hitting their joints.”

I nod slowly, a plan forming in my mind. “Yes, but we’re not just going to hit it. We’re going to take it.”

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