Page 66 of Unexpected Bratva Baby

EPILOGUE

Phoebe – One Year Later

Istand behind the counter of “Thistle and Shamrock,” my heart swelling with pride while I survey the bustling cultural center and shop. It’s been almost a six months since we opened our doors, and the place has become a beloved fixture in Little Havana. The unlikely combination of Scottish and Russian cultures has proved to be a hit.

Tourists and locals browse through the colorful tartans and intricately painted Russian nesting dolls. The aroma of fresh-baked scones mingles with the scent of strong Russian tea wafting from the café. Patrons line up, eager to try my latest fusion creation—haggis pirozhki.

I chuckle, remembering Mikhail’s initial horror at the idea. His face had scrunched up in disgust when I first proposed it. “Haggis? In pirozhki?Lyubov moya, are you trying to start an international incident?”

But his expression had quickly changed to surprised delight upon tasting them. “Bozhe moy,” he’d exclaimed, eyes widening. “It’s actually good. How did you do this?”

The memory warms me while preparing for my sold-out Scottish-Russian fusion cooking class. I gather ingredients, setting out oats, spices, and ground lamb alongside flour and yeast for the pirozhki dough.

As I work, my mind drifts to the changes in our lives over the past year. Mikhail has forged alliances with other mafia families, creating a network of mutual protection and cooperation. It’s a delicate balance but one that’s made us all safer. I’m proud of his efforts, knowing how hard he’s worked to create a more secure world for our family. True to his word, he’s shielded me and our daughter, Ailsa Nadezhda, from the darker aspects of his world as much as possible.

The shop’s bell chimes, and I look up to see Nastya enter, pushing Ailsa’s stroller. Our daughter, now five months old, gurgles happily at the sight of me.

“Dobryy den,’Phoebe.” Nastya greets me with a warm smile. “How are preparations for the class going?”

I wipe my hands on my apron and move around the counter to scoop up Ailsa. “Everything’s ready. Just waiting for the students to arrive.” I pepper my daughter’s chubby cheeks with kisses, relishing her giggles. “How’s my wee lassie today?”

Nastya chuckles. “She’s been an angel, as always. We had a lovely walk in the park this morning.”

I nod, grateful for Nastya’s presence in our lives. More than just my personal bodyguard, and now Ailsa’s, she’s become a trusted friend and a vital part of our unconventional family.

“Phoebe,” she says, her tone turning serious, “Mikhail called. He’s running late for dinner tonight. Something about a meeting with the Cardenas family.”

I sigh, familiar worry and resignation settling in my stomach. “I understand. Did he say how late?”

Nastya shakes her head. “He wasn’t sure, but he promised to be home before Ailsa’s bedtime.”

I nod, bouncing Ailsa gently in my arms. “Well, my love,” I say to her, “Looks like it’s just you and me for dinner tonight. How about some haggis pirozhki, eh?”

Ailsa babbles in response, reaching for my necklace—a delicate silver thistle pendant, which was a gift from Mikhail the day we opened the shop just two weeks before I gave birth to Ailsa. It hadn’t been the best timing, but I’d been too impatient to wait any longer, and I had a dedicated staff. My parents had stepped in to manage for the first three months while I was on maternity leave.

The shop’s bell chimes again, and I look up to see my first students arriving for the cooking class. I hand Ailsa back to Nastya, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Wish me luck,” I say with a wink.

Nastya smiles. “You don’t need it, butudachi vse ravno.”

I turn to greet my students, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind the counter. The woman reflected there is a far cry from the naïve girl I was a year ago. My hair is pulled back in a neat bun, and my green eyes sparkle with excitement at the forthcoming opportunity to share my knowledge. Theapron I wear bears the “Thistle and Shamrock” logo—a thistle intertwined with a Russian firebird.

I inhale deeply, savoring the mingled scents of my two worlds—the earthy aroma of haggis and the yeasty smell of rising dough. This is my life now—a fusion of cultures, of danger and domesticity, of love and responsibility.

Fortunately, my parents were quickly won over by Mikhail’s charm, and they’re doting grandparents when they’re in Miami. Since Mikhail gifted them a small yacht of their own as a thank-you for running the shop for three months, I haven’t seen much of them, but I love that they’re living their best life, as am I.

I welcome my students and begin the class, amazed but pleased at how far I’ve come—from a simple barista to the wife of a mafia boss and owner of a thriving cultural center. It’s not the life I ever imagined for myself, but it’s exactly where I want to be.

The class flows smoothly, filled with laughter and the satisfying sounds of cooking. While waiting for our pirozhki to bake, I share stories of Scottish and Russian folklore, weaving together the threads of our two cultures.

“In Scotland,” I say, “We have a legend about the Loch Ness Monster, but did you know Russia has its own lake monster? It’s called the Brosno Dragon, and it’s said to live in Lake Brosno.”

My students listen as I spin tales of kelpies andrusalki, of selkies anddomovoi. It’s moments like these that make all the challenges worthwhile—the opportunity to share and celebrate our diverse heritage.

As the rich, savory smell of baking pirozhki fills the air, I’m thinking of Mikhail. I wonder what he’s doing right now, and what dangers he might be facing, though it should be just aroutine meeting. I push aside those thoughts. We’ve made a pact—he doesn’t bring his work home, and I don’t let my worries interfere with mine.

The timer dings, and I pull the golden-brown pirozhki from the oven. The class erupts in applause when I distribute the steaming pastries. “Let’s see if we can convert you all to the joys of haggis.”

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