Page 53 of Unexpected Bratva Baby
I shake my head, a small smile on my lips. “Of course, I don’t mind. That’s why I had this built for you.”
She nods, dropping her gaze to the dough she’s kneading. “I’ve been thinking. About us, about everything that’s happened.”
I step closer, my mouth dry. “And?”
She looks up. “I’m still angry. I’m still scared, but...I’m willing to try to understand your world. To see if we can make this work.”
Relief washes over me, so intense it’s almost dizzying. “Phoebe, I?—”
She holds up a hand, stopping me. “I have conditions. No more lies. No more half-truths. I want to know everything, even the ugly parts, and I want to be involved in decisions that affect my life. Can you agree to that?”
I nod without hesitation. “Yes. Absolutely, yes.”
She visibly relaxes. “Okay. Maybe you could start by telling me about your plan to deal with Valdés. The real plan, not the sanitized version.”
I blink, surprised by her directness, but I see the determination in her eyes. I pull up a stool, settling across the island from her. I lean forward, resting my elbows on the cool marble. “We’re going to hit Valdés where it hurts most—his pride and his wallet. There’s a shipment coming in soon, filled with high-value goods he’s been waiting on for months to distribute to certain powerful people he wishes to impress—other cartel members, politicians, and some influencers in our kind of circles. We’re going to intercept it.”
I pause, studying Phoebe’s reaction. Her brows are slightly gathered in concentration. There’s no revulsion or recoil at the implicit violence in my words. Instead, I see a sharpness there.
“And by ‘intercept, you mean steal it?”
I nod. “Exactly. It’s a bold move, but it sends a clear message. It will humiliate him and reduce his influence with others. If The Corporation loses face, they’ll have a serious internal issue to address and might need to elect a new leader.” I draw my finger across my throat dramatically. “Their elections get brutal.”
Phoebe grimaces but doesn’t comment on that. “What about retaliation? Won’t this put us at risk?”
“It will, but we’ll be ready. I’ve got Sergei working on fortifying our key locations. Anastasia will be increasing your security detail.”
I watch her process this information, searching for any sign of fear or doubt, but Phoebe’s gaze remains steady. “Okay,” she says, nodding slowly. “What else?”
Her willingness to engage, to understand the intricacies of my world, both surprises and impresses me. I continue outlining our plans, each detail met with thoughtful questions and insightful observations. For the first time in the week since she found out what I really do, I have a glimmer of hope that maybe she can accept everything about me, good and bad.
19
Phoebe
The community center bustles with energy as I set up for my Scottish cooking class. The aroma of sautéed onions and fresh herbs fills the air, mingling with the excited chatter of my students. I adjust my apron, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles while trying to calm my stomach. It’s a little bit nerves, since I’ve only taught a couple of classes before this, and a lot of the fish and chips I had for lunch. The dish looked so good, but now, my stomach is rebelling. Pregnancy isn’t being easy on me.
“All right, everyone,” I say loudly to be heard over the chatter. “Let’s gather ‘round. Today, we’re making Scotch eggs.”
The students huddle closer, their faces eager. Nastya is among them, ostensibly just another student. She gives me a subtle nod, reminding me of her true purpose here.
I take a deep breath, pushing away thoughts of danger and focusing on the task at hand. “First, we’ll start with our sausage mixture. The key is to get the right balance of spices...”
As I demonstrate, my hands move with practiced ease, kneading the meat and explaining each step. The familiar motions soothe my nerves, and I start to relax into the rhythm of the class.
“Watch closely as I wrap the egg,” I say, cradling a soft-boiled egg in seasoned sausage. “You want to make sure it’s completely covered, but not too thick.”
A movement outside the window catches my attention. I glance up, hands stilling. A man stands there, watching intently. His salt-and-pepper hair is slicked back, and his dark gaze is fixed on me with an unsettling intensity. My heart skips a beat as recognition dawns. José Valdés. I haven’t seen him before, but I know it’s him on an instinctive level.
I force myself to keep talking, to keep moving, even as my pulse accelerates. “Next, we’ll coat our Scotch eggs in breadcrumbs. This gives them that perfect crunch when we fry them.”
My gaze dart to Nastya. She’s already alert, her posture changing subtly as she notices my distress. I give her the barest of nods toward the window, praying she understands.
“Who wants to try wrapping their own egg?” I ask, my voice remarkably steady despite the fear coursing through me.
As students step forward, eager to get their hands messy, Nastya slips away from the group. She moves casually, as if heading to the restroom, but she’s surely alerting the other security personnel Mikhail has stationed around the building.
I continue the lesson, hyper-aware of Valdés’ presence outside. He hasn’t moved and hasn’t tried to enter. What is he waiting for? “Remember, the oil needs to be hot enough to crisp the outside quickly without overcooking the egg inside,” I say, demonstrating the frying technique. The sizzle of the Scotch egg hitting the oil is deafening in my ears, drowning out my pounding heart.
