Unexpected Bratva Baby

Chapter 5Mikhail

5

Mikhail

I stand on the deck of “The Scarlet Siren,” surveying the preparations with a critical eye. The soft glow of fairy lights casts a warm ambiance across the polished teak, transforming the yacht into an intimate oasis. A gentle sea breeze carries the tantalizing aroma of our gourmet spread, a carefully curated selection of Russian and Scottish-inspired dishes.

“Dmitri,” I call to my head of staff on the yacht. “Is everything in order?”

He approaches, clipboard in hand. “Yes, sir. The chef has prepared blini with caviar, smoked salmon canapés, and haggis bon bons. The Stolichnaya is chilling, and we have a selection of single malt whiskies as well.”

I nod, pleased. “Excellent, and the music?”

“A playlist of soft jazz and classical pieces, as requested.”

“Perfect.” I adjust my cufflinks, a nervous habit I thought I’d long outgrown. “You may dismiss the staff for the evening. I’ll handle things from here.”

As he leaves, I take a final look around. The setting is impeccable, but a tendril of doubt curls in my stomach. This world of wealth and power is all I’ve ever known. Will Phoebe be impressed or overwhelmed?

I shake off the thought. I’m Mikhail Sokolov, leader of the Russian bratva in Miami. I don’t second-guess myself.

The sound of a car approaching pulls me from my thoughts. I make my way to the gangplank, heart rate quickening in anticipation.

Phoebe steps out of the car, and for a moment, I forget to breathe. She’s a vision in a flowing sundress, the fabric clinging to her curves in all the right places. The setting sun sets her auburn hair ablaze, creating a halo effect that takes my breath away.

I descend the gangplank, extending my hand to her. “Phoebe,” I say, my voice huskier than intended. “You look stunning.”

She places her hand in mine, a shy smile on her lips. “Thank you, Mikhail. This is... wow.” She seems stunned as she takes in the yacht.

I lead her aboard, enjoying the way her fingers tighten on mine as we ascend the gangplank. “Welcome to ‘The Scarlet Siren,’” I say, unable to keep the pride from my voice.

Phoebe’s mouth falls open as she takes in the opulent surroundings. “This is incredible. I’ve never been on a yacht before.”

I guide her to the deck, where our intimate dinner setting awaits. “I hope you’ll enjoy the experience.”

As we reach the table, I pull out her chair. Phoebe sits, her movements graceful despite her obvious awe. I take my seat across from her, trying not to stare at her like an oaf.

“This is all so beautiful,” she says while looking at the elaborate spread before us. “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”

I pour us each a glass of champagne. “It’s my pleasure. I wanted tonight to be special.”

She takes a sip of champagne, raising her eyebrows in appreciation. “Oh, that’s delicious. I don’t think I’ve ever had champagne this good before.”

“It’s a Krug Grande Cuvée. One of my favorites.”

She nods, clearly impressed. “It’s amazing. Thank you for this, Mikhail. I have to admit, I was a little nervous about tonight.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

She blushes slightly, and the color is enchanting against her freckled skin. “You’re... you. Successful, charming, clearly very wealthy, and I’m just a barista with big dreams.”

I reach across the table, taking her hand in mine. “Phoebe, you’re far more than ‘just’ anything. Your passion and kindness are rare qualities in this world. Don’t sell yourself short.”

Her fingers tighten around mine, and the connection between us feels electric. “Thank you,” she says softly.

I reluctantly release her hand to serve our first course. “I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of arranging a menu that blends Russian and Scottish cuisines. I thought it might be fun to explore our heritage together.”

Her smile seems genuine. “That sounds wonderful. I’m always eager to try new foods.”

We begin our meal, and the conversation flows easily. She grins while she tells me about her latest adventures in Scottish cooking. “I’ve been experimenting with a modern take on Cullen skink. It’s traditionally a smoked haddock soup, but I’m trying to create a deconstructed version.”

I’m actually fascinate, but I’d probably feel the same hearing her talk about anything. “That sounds intriguing. How are you approaching it?”

“I’m thinking of doing a smoked haddock mousse, paired with crispy potato chips and a leek foam. Maybe some puffed wild rice for texture.” She pauses, a self-conscious laugh escaping her. “Sorry, I’m probably boring you with all this food talk.”

“Not at all,” I say. “Your passion is captivating. I’d love to try this dish when you perfect it.”

Phoebe beams at me, and the warmth flooding me has nothing to do with the excellent vodka we’re drinking. “I’d like that,” she says softly.

As we move through the courses, I’m increasingly drawn to Phoebe. She asks thoughtful questions about the Russian dishes, eager to learn about my culture.

“These blini are delicious,” she says, savoring another bite. “The caviar adds such a wonderful brininess. Do you make these often?”

I chuckle. “I’m afraid my culinary skills are limited. These are the work of my chef, but they were a staple at family gatherings when I was growing up.”

“Oh, you grew up in Russia?”

I nod, a pang of nostalgia hitting me unexpectedly. “Yes, in Saint Petersburg. It’s a beautiful city, full of history and culture.”

“I’d love to visit someday,” she says wistfully. “I’ve always been fascinated by Russian architecture, especially the onion domes on the cathedrals.”

“Perhaps I could take you there sometime,” I say, surprising even myself with the offer.

Her eyes widen but she doesn’t shy away. “Really? That would be amazing.”

As the evening progresses, we move from the dinner table to the comfortable seating area on the deck. The Miami skyline glitters in the distance, a stunning backdrop to our conversation.

Phoebe settles into the plush cushions, tucking her legs beneath her. The movement causes her dress to ride up slightly, revealing more of her creamy thigh. I force myself to look at her face, not wanting to be caught staring.

“So, Mikhail,” she says, her tone playful. “Tell me something about yourself that would surprise me.”

I consider for a moment, swirling the vodka in my glass. There’s so much I can’t tell her—about my true identity, my business, and the danger that surrounds me, but I want to share something real.

“I have a secret passion for ballet. I used to sneak out to watch performances at the theater when I was younger.” I sigh. “My father didn’t like or approve of ballet, which was an anomaly among Russians.”

Phoebe’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really? I wouldn’t have pegged you for a ballet enthusiast.”

I shrug. “There’s something mesmerizing about the grace and strength of the dancers. The way they can tell a story without words is powerful.”

“That’s beautiful,” she says softly. “I’d love to see a Russian ballet someday.”

“Perhaps we can make that part of our Saint Petersburg trip,” I say, only half-joking.

She laughs. “Planning our second date already, are we?”

I move a bit closer. “I’m certainly hoping there will be a second date, and a third, and many more after that.”

The air between us feels charged with electricity. Her breath catches as she looks at my lips. I want nothing more than to close the distance between us, to taste her, and lose myself in her warmth, but I hold back, not wanting to rush things. Instead, I stand, offering her my hand. “Would you like to see the rest of the yacht?”

She nods, slipping her hand into mine. I guide her through the yacht, resting my hand lightly on the small of her back. She blinks when we enter the main salon, taking in the opulent surroundings.

“This is incredible.” She runs her fingers along the polished mahogany table.

“I’m glad you like it,” I say as she explores with childlike wonder. “The craftsmanship is exquisite. Each piece was handmade by artisans in Italy.”

She turns to me with a bright smile. “You must have quite the eye for design. Everything is so beautiful.”

I shrug, feeling a hint of pride at her admiration. “I appreciate quality. Shall we continue the tour?”

We move through the yacht, and I point out various features. There’s a state-of-the-art entertainment system, a fully equipped gym, a swimming pool, and a sauna. Phoebe asks intelligent questions, appearing genuinely interested in every detail. She’s smart and I like that about her.

Approaching the master suite, I hesitate for a moment. “And this is the main stateroom,” I say, pushing open the door.

Phoebe steps inside, and I hear her sharp intake of breath. The room is a masterpiece of luxury, with its king-sized bed draped in fine linens and a panoramic view of the ocean through the wall made completely from glass.

“Oh, my,” she murmurs, her gaze drawn to the bed. She stares at it for a long moment, and I do the same. The air between us grows thick with unspoken tension. We’re clearly sharing similar thoughts.

I clear my throat. “There’s an en-suite bathroom as well,” I say, my voice sounding rougher than I intended. “Would you like to see it?”

Phoebe tears her gaze away from the bed, a flush creeping up her neck. “No, that’s okay. I think I get the idea.”

We stand there for a moment, the silence stretching between us. I’m acutely aware of how close she is, and the scent of her perfume. My fingers itch to reach out and touch her, to pull her close and?—

“Should we head back to the deck?” she asks, breaking the spell.

I nod, perhaps a bit too eagerly. “Of course. The night air will be refreshing.”

We make our way back to the deck, and I pour us each another glass of wine. Phoebe rests against the railing, gazing out at the twinkling lights of Miami’s skyline.

“This view is breathtaking,” she says, taking a sip of her wine.

I move to stand beside her, our arms almost touching. “It is, though not as breathtaking as the company.”

Phoebe turns to me, smiling. “You’re quite the charmer, Mikhail.”

“Only when properly inspired,” I say, raising my glass in a small toast.

We fall into comfortable conversation, and I’m increasingly captivated by Phoebe’s passion for her Scottish heritage.

“Tell me more about Scottish cuisine,” I say, genuinely curious. “You mentioned experimenting with traditional dishes earlier.”

Phoebe’s face lights up. “Oh, there’s so much more to Scottish food than most people realize. It’s not all haggis and deep-fried Mars bars, you know.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Haggis? I’ve heard the term, but I’m not entirely sure what it is.”

Phoebe grins, a mischievous glint in her eye. “You ate it tonight in those haggis bon bons. Delicious, by the way. Compliments to your chef.”

I nod. “I’m not sure what haggis is though.”

She seems delighted to tell me. “Haggis is a traditional Scottish dish. It’s made from sheep’s heart, liver, and lungs, mixed with oatmeal, onions, and spices. Then it’s all stuffed into a sheep’s stomach and boiled.”

I watch Phoebe’s face light up as she enthusiastically describes the intricacies of haggis. Her passion is infectious, and I smile despite my stomach turning at realizing I ate that earlier, and I didn’t die. That’s a bonus.

Her hands gesture animatedly. “The flavors are complex. The pepper and nutmeg give it a wonderful warmth, and the oatmeal adds a fantastic texture.”

I arch a brow. “I must admit, you’re making it sound far more appetizing than I remember it being.” I’d eaten one of the bon bons but had been too focused on my date to really eat much of anything. “Perhaps I’ve been too hasty in my judgment.”

Phoebe grins triumphantly. “I knew I could convince you. I’ll have to make you some the traditional way. My gran’s recipe is to die for.”

Our laughter mingles with the gentle lapping of waves against the yacht. The Miami skyline twinkles in the distance, a backdrop to this perfect moment. I’m about to suggest we open another bottle of wine when my phone buzzes insistently in my pocket.

I tense, recognizing the specific vibration pattern I’ve set for urgent business matters. Composing my features into a neutral expression, I pull out the device.

“I apologize, Phoebe. I need to take this. It’ll only be a moment.”

She waves a hand, still smiling. “Of course, go ahead.”

I step away, moving toward the bow of the yacht. The message on my screen makes me bite back an oath.

“Shipment compromised. Feds closing in. Need instructions ASAP.”

I clench my jaw, sorting through potential solutions. I can’t let this derail my evening with Phoebe, but I also can’t ignore the potential catastrophe unfolding.

I dial a number, speaking in rapid Russian as soon as the call connects. “Divert the shipment to warehouse B. Use the submarine entrance. If anyone asks, it’s a shipment of vodka for the nightclub. Understood?”

The voice on the other end confirms my orders, and I swiftly end the call. With a deep breath, I force my features to relax before turning back to Phoebe.

She’s standing at the railing, silhouetted by the last rays of the setting sun. The sight of her momentarily pushes away thoughts of compromised shipments and federal agents.

I approach her, placing a hand lightly on her lower back. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long.”

She turns to me with a warm smile. “Not at all. I was just admiring the view. It’s breathtaking.”

“Yes, it is.” I’m staring at her rather than the scenery.

We stand in comfortable silence, watching as the sun dips below the horizon. The sky transforms into a canvas of deep purples and fiery oranges, reflected in the calm waters of the bay. Phoebe shivers slightly as a cool breeze sweeps across the deck. Without thinking, I step closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She leans into me, her warmth seeping through my shirt.

“This has been an incredible evening, Mikhail,” she says softly. “Thank you for all of this.”

I look down at her, struck by how perfectly she fits against me. “The pleasure has been all mine, Phoebe.”

Our gazes lock, and suddenly, the air between us feels charged with electricity. My heart rate quickens. I move slowly, giving her every opportunity to pull away, but she doesn’t. Instead, she tilts her face up to me. Our lips meet in a soft, tentative kiss. It’s gentle at first, a mere brush of lips, but then she sighs, parting her lips slightly, and something inside me ignites.

I deepen the kiss, one hand cupping her face while the other pulls her closer. She responds with equal fervor, threading her fingers through my hair. The kiss is everything I’d imagined and more. Phoebe tastes of wine and sweetness, and I’m soon lost in the sensation. All thoughts of business and danger fade away, replaced by the intoxicating feel of her in my arms.

When we finally part, we’re both slightly breathless. Phoebe’s cheeks are flushed, her lips swollen from our kiss. She looks utterly beautiful.

“Wow,” she whispers, a shy smile on her lips.

I stroke her cheek gently, marveling at the softness of her skin. “Indeed.”

For a moment, I’m tempted to pull her back in for another kiss, to see where this passion might lead us, but I resist the urge. Phoebe deserves more than a rushed encounter on my yacht, no matter how luxurious the setting.

Instead, I take her hand, bringing it to my lips for a gentle kiss. “Perhaps we should head back to shore. It’s getting late, and I’d hate for you to be too tired for work tomorrow.”

Phoebe nods, though I detect a hint of reluctance. “You’re right. I suppose we should call it a night.”

We make our way back to the marina, and it feels like something significant has shifted between us. The kiss we shared was more than just a physical act—it was a promise, or a glimpse of what could be.

For the first time in years, I’m looking forward to the future with genuine excitement. Phoebe has awakened something in me that I thought long dead. Hope, perhaps.

Or maybe it’s something even more dangerous.

Love.