Page 67 of Unexpected Bratva Baby

As the evening winds down, and the last of my students leave, clutching recipes and leftover pirozhki, I begin to clean up. The rhythmic motions of wiping down counters and washing dishes are soothing and familiar.

The shop’s bell chimes one last time, and I look up, expecting to see Nastya. Instead, Mikhail stands in the doorway, a bouquet of thistles and sunflowers in his hand.

“Surprise,lyubov moya,” he says with a grin. “I managed to finish early.”

I rush into his arms, inhaling his familiar scent of cologne and leather. “I thought you had a meeting with the Cardenas family?”

He chuckles. “I did, but I told them my wife makes the best haggis pirozhki in Miami, and I couldn’t possibly miss dinner.”

I pull back, searching his face. “You didn’t really say that, did you?”

His grin widens. “Of course, I did. Why do you think I’m home early? They couldn’t wait to get rid of me after that.”

I laugh, the tension I didn’t even realize I was carrying melting away. This is my Mikhail—the man who can navigate the dangerous waters of the mafia world and still make me laugh. “Come on,” I say, taking his hand. “Let’s go home. I’ve got a freshbatch of pirozhki waiting, and a wee lassie who’ll be thrilled to see her da before bedtime.”

Mikhail squeezes my hand, and I look up to see him watching me, his expression soft. “What are you thinking about,mo chridhe?” he asks, using the Gaelic term of endearment I taught him.

I smile, leaning into him as we walk. “Just how lucky I am. How lucky we all are.”

He nods. We both know the precariousness of our situation, and the constant threats that lurk in the shadows, but we also know the strength of our love, the bonds we’ve forged, and the family we’ve created.

The next afternoon,I step onto the deck of our yacht. The gleaming white surface is immaculate, now a far cry from the chaos of gunfire and blood that marred it a year ago. My chest constricts with emotion when I take in the scene before me.

Mikhail stands near the railing, cradling our daughter in his strong arms. His usually stern face is softened by a smile as he makes exaggerated expressions, eliciting giggles from our little girl. Ailsa’s curly auburn hair, so like my own, bounces with each laugh.

“There’re my two favorite people,” I call out, unable to keep the joy from my voice.

Mikhail turns, grinning at the sight of me. “Ah, there you are,lyubov moya. We were wondering when Mama would join us.”

I cross the deck, appreciating the sight of my little family. Masha lounges nearby, her scarred body relaxed but eyes alert, ever watchful of her human charges.

“Sorry I’m late,” I say, reaching out to stroke Ailsa’s chubby cheek. “The new shipment of tartan fabric arrived at the shop, and I got caught up sorting it.”

He chuckles. “Always the businesswoman. You’d give some of my associates a run for their money.”

I laugh, knowing he’s only half-joking. It’s been a challenge balancing my new role as a business owner with motherhood and the complexities of being married to the head of the Russian mafia in Miami, but I like to think I’ve found my groove, and I appreciate him noticing.

“How about we have a seat?” He nods toward the elegantly set table nearby. “Dinner should be ready soon.”

We settle into the plush chairs with Ailsa nestled comfortably in Mikhail’s lap, and I take a moment to admire the setup. The table is draped in crisp white linen, adorned with a centerpiece of thistles and sunflowers—a nod to our Scottish and Russian heritage. Fine china and crystal glasses gleam in the late afternoon sun.

“This is beautiful, Mishka. You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”

He reaches across the table to take my hand. “Of course, I did. It’s not every day we celebrate our first wedding anniversary.”

I squeeze his hand, remembering the day we chose our daughter’s name. We’d been sitting in this very spot.

“What about Ailsa?” I’d suggested. “It means ‘fairy rock’ in Gaelic. It’s the name of an island off the coast of Scotland.”

Mikhail had tested the name, his accent giving it a unique twist. “Ailsa,” he’d repeated. “I like it. Strong, but beautiful. Like her mother.”

“We should give her a Russian middle name, to honor your heritage too.”

He’d thought for a moment, then smiled. “Nadezhda,” he’d said softly. “It means ‘hope’ in Russian. Because that’s what she is to us—hope for a better future.”

Now, watching him bounce Ailsa on his knee, making silly faces to keep her entertained, I’m impressed but not surprised by how naturally he’s taken to fatherhood. It’s a side of him I never expected to see when we first met—the feared mafia boss, reduced to baby talk and diaper changes, but I saw the precursor to him in every interaction with Masha.

“What are you thinking about,lyubov moya?” he asks, noticing my contemplative expression.

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