Chapter 22Phoebe
22
Phoebe
T he sun rises over the horizon, shining brightly through the porthole in the dressing room of “The Scarlet Siren.” I stand in front of a full-length mirror, adjusting my flowing white dress. The fabric drapes elegantly over my mostly invisible baby bump, and I smile at the reflection.
“You look beautiful, Phoebe,” says Nastya, appearing behind me. She’s wearing a pale blue bridesmaid dress with her hair swept into an elegant updo.
I turn to face her, my heart fluttering with excitement and nerves. “Thank you. I can’t believe this day is finally here.” I’m a little sad that my parents can’t make it, but they’re on a long cruise, and I wasn’t willing to wait for them to return in two months.
I’ll have a lot of explaining to do then, but they’ll be happy for me once they get over the shocks—a new son-in-law and a grandchild on the way. I don’t plan to mention what Mikhail actually does for a living, of course. There are only so many shocks they can handle.
Nastya squeezes my hand, and I’m glad she’s here since my mom isn’t. “Are you ready?”
I nod, taking a deep breath. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
We make our way to the deck, which has been transformed into a romantic wonderland. White flowers adorn every surface, their sweet fragrance filling the air. Twinkling lights are strung overhead, creating a magical ambiance even in the daylight.
Our small group of guests is already seated, a mix of Mikhail’s trusted associates and my closest friends, but we didn’t bother dividing by bride and groom side. I spot Masha at the end of the aisle, wearing an adorable tartan bow. She wags her tail excitedly when she sees me and rushes to my side, ignoring Mikhail’s attempt to call her back.
I pause to pet her and nod to him. “It’s all right. Who better to walk me down the aisle since my dad can’t be here?”
He nods, and the soft strains of a violin fill the air, signaling the start of the ceremony. I step onto the aisle and walk carefully. Masha walks beside me with quiet dignity, as though aware of the importance of her role.
Mikhail stands at the other end, looking dashingly handsome in a crisp black suit. Our gazes meet, and the rest of the world fades away. I walk toward him, my heart fluttering erratically with each step.
When I reach him, he takes my hands in his. His touch is warm and reassuring. “You’re breathtaking,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.
Masha stands between us, clearly inserting herself into the ceremony, and we trade a tender smile before both stroking her ears at the same time as the officiant begins the ceremony.
I barely hear the words. I’m lost in his eyes, seeing a depth of emotion that takes my breath away. He once seemed so dangerous and mysterious but now stands before me as my partner, my protector, and the father of our child.
“Phoebe?” His voice pulls me back to the present. It’s time for our vows. He clears his throat, never looking away from me. “From the moment I saw you with Masha, I knew you were special. You brought light into my dark world and showed me what it means to truly live. I promise to love and protect you and our child and to be the man you deserve for all of our days.”
I blink back tears when I begin my own vows. “Mikhail, our journey hasn’t been easy, but it’s led us here, to this perfect moment. You’ve shown me a world I never knew existed and taught me the true meaning of strength and love. I promise to stand by your side through whatever life throws our way, to be your partner in all things, and to love you fiercely always.”
We exchange rings. Mikhail’s hand trembles slightly as he places the cool metal ring on mine, and I give his fingers a gentle squeeze.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” says the officiant a few minutes later. “You may kiss the bride.”
Mikhail pulls me close, one hand cradling my face as our lips meet in a kiss that’s tender yet passionate, sealing our vows and our future together. When we break apart, cheers erupt from our guests. Masha barks excitedly, furiously wagging her tail. Mikhail and I turn to face our friends and family, hands clasped tightly together.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” announces the officiant, “I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Sokolov.”
We make our way down the aisle, showered with flower petals. The deck has been quickly transformed for the reception, with tables set up for a celebratory feast. Mikhail leads me to a quiet corner, away from the bustling activity. He wraps his arms around me, resting his hand protectively over my barely-there bump. “How are you feeling, Mrs. Sokolov?” he asks with a smile.
I savor his embrace. “Happy. Overwhelmed. A little bit hungry,” I say with a laugh.
He chuckles, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “We’ll get you fed soon, I promise, but first...” He pulls back slightly, his expression growing serious. “I meant every word of my vows. You and our child are everything to me. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe and happy.”
I reach up, cupping his face in my hands. “I know, and I meant every word of mine. I’ll be by your side come whatever.”
Our moment is interrupted by Nastya approaching with two glasses—one of champagne, and the other sparkling cider for me and the baby. “Sorry to intrude,” she says, handing us each our designated glass. “It’s time for the toasts.”
We rejoin our guests, accepting congratulations and well-wishes. Sergei stands, raising his glass. “To Mikhail and Phoebe,” he says, his voice carrying across the deck. “May your love be as vast as the ocean that surrounds us, and may your future be filled with joy and prosperity.”
As we sip our drinks, I catch sight of Masha weaving between the guests’ legs. She trots up to us, her tartan bow slightly askew.
Mikhail bends down to scratch behind her ear. “You did a wonderful job as Best Dog, Masha,” he says affectionately.
“And aisle escort,” I say, smiling at the interaction. It still amazes me how this man, who can be so ruthless in business, shows such tenderness toward our dog. And me. I blink back a haze of moisture as I imagine him with our baby. I’m convinced he’ll be a good, caring father, unlike what he had.
The day continues with food, dancing, and laughter. Late in the afternoon, Mikhail pulls me close for another dance. “Are you happy, lyubov moya ?” he asks softly, using the Russian term of endearment he knows I love.
I rest my head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. “So, so happy, love,” I say honestly.
The sound of laughter and clinking glasses fills the air as Mikhail and I sway gently to the music. His strong arms encircle me, and I lean my head against his chest, appreciating this perfect moment.
Suddenly, he tenses. He tightens his arms around me, and I lift my head to look at him. His jaw is clamped as he stares at the horizon.
“What’s wrong?” I ask with concern.
He doesn’t immediately answer. He takes my hand, leading me away from the dance floor. “Stay close to me,” he says, sounding urgent.
I follow his gaze, squinting against the setting sun. My heart dips into my stomach when I spot several jet skis approaching at high speed, their engines roaring louder as they draw near.
Before I can fully process what’s happening, the first gunshot rings out. The sound pierces through the music, silencing the laughter and chatter. For a split second, everything freezes.
Then chaos erupts.
Guests scream and duck for cover as more shots are fired. The peaceful celebration transforms into a battlefield in the blink of an eye. I catch a glimpse of José Valdés on one of the jet skis, his face twisted with rage.
Mikhail pushes me behind him, shielding me with his body. “Get below deck,” he orders, his voice sharp with urgency. “Now.”
I hesitate, not wanting to leave him. “But?—”
“Go,” he shouts, already reaching for a weapon hidden beneath his jacket.
Adrenaline surges through me, making me turn and run. My white wedding dress billows around me, catching on chairs and table corners as I move. I pause, gathering the fabric in my hands to free my legs.
“This way.” Nastya appears at my side, grabbing my arm. “We need to get the civilians to safety.”
Together, we begin ushering panicked guests below-deck. The sound of gunfire intensifies, punctuated by shouts and splintering wood as bullets tear into the yacht.
“Hurry,” I call out, guiding an elderly couple toward the stairs. “Get inside, quickly.”
As the last of the civilian guests disappear below, I turn back to the deck. The scene before me is one of utter chaos. Mikhail’s men are engaged in a fierce gunfight with Valdés’ crew, who are now boarding the yacht.
I search frantically for Mikhail and spot him near the bow, exchanging fire with two of Valdés’ men. His face is set in grim lines, and his movements are precise and deadly.
“Phoebe.” Nastya grabs my arm. “We need to get you to safety too.”
I shake my head. “I can’t leave Mikhail. I can’t just hide while he’s fighting.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re pregnant. Your safety is paramount.”
While we argue, a man in a dark suit rounds the corner. His looks straight at me, and a wicked grin spreads across his face. He raises his gun.
Without thinking, I shove Nastya aside and dive behind a nearby bar. The bullet whistles past, shattering bottles and glasses above my head. Shards of glass rain down, stinging my exposed skin.
I crawl along the floor, snagging my wedding dress on broken glass and splintered wood. My hand brushes against something solid—a heavy cast-iron skillet that must have fallen from the outdoor kitchen setup.
Footsteps approach. I stand up and press my back to the makeshift galley wall, gripping the skillet so tightly my knuckles turn white. The man’s shadow falls over me as he rounds the bar.
Time seems to slow. I see his finger tightening on the trigger. In that moment, all my fear and anger crystallize into a single, powerful surge of energy. I swing the skillet with all my might. The heavy iron connects with the man’s head with a sickening thud. His eyes roll back, and he crumples to the ground, unconscious.
I stand there, panting, the skillet still clutched in my trembling hands. What I’ve just done hits me, and I stumble backward. He’s probably not dead. Probably.
“Phoebe?” Mikhail’s voice cuts through the chaos. He appears at my side, his eyes wild with concern and relief. “Are you hurt?”
I shake my head, unable to form words. He pulls me closer, wrapping his arm protectively around me. “We need to move,” he says urgently. “It’s not safe here.”
He clasps my hand tightly while we weave through the chaos on the deck. The acrid smell of gunpowder fills the air, mixing with the salty sea breeze. My heart is galloping like a racehorse, and my wedding dress, once pristine and flowing, now clings to my skin, damp with sweat and sea spray, not to mentioned tattered and torn in places.
We duck behind an overturned table, the white tablecloth now stained with spilled champagne and flecked with blood. He looks around, assessing the situation. A muscle twitches in his cheek.
“Stay low,” he says, his voice hard to hear over the gunfire. “We need to get you to safety.”
I nod, unable to form words. My throat is constricted by fear. We start to move again, but a figure suddenly appears before us, blocking our path.
José Valdés stands there, his dark eyes glittering with malice. His wet suit is wrinkled, and a streak of blood mars his left cheek. He levels a gun at us, curling his lips into a sneer. “Going somewhere, lovebirds?” he asks, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Mikhail pushes me behind him, shielding me with his body. “Valdés, this ends now.”
Valdés laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “Oh, I think it’s just beginning, amigo .”
In a blur of motion, Mikhail lunges forward, knocking the gun from Valdés’ hand. It skitters across the deck, disappearing under a nearby lifeboat.
“Phoebe, stay down,” he shouts, never taking his gaze off Valdés.
I remain behind the sturdy wooden table as my pulse skyrockets. From my hiding spot, I see the two men circle each other, their movements fluid and predatory.
Valdés strikes first, connecting his fist with Mikhail’s jaw. The impact carries across the deck, making me wince. Mikhail staggers back a step but quickly recovers, retaliating with a swift uppercut that snaps back Valdés’ head.
The fight is brutal and relentless. They grapple and strike, each blow echoing in the night air. I keep a hand pressed against my mouth to stifle my gasps and cries.
Mikhail lands a solid punch to Valdés’ midsection, driving the air from his lungs. Valdés doubles over, wheezing, but as Mikhail moves in, Valdés surges upward, headbutting him in the face. Blood streams from Mikhail’s nose, staining his white shirt crimson. He wipes it away with the back of his hand, never looking away from his opponent.
Mikhail’s face is a mask of determination, eyes blazing with cold fury I’ve never seen before. He fights like a man possessed, every move calculated and deadly, but Valdés is no amateur. He matches Mikhail blow for blow, his lips curled in a snarl of hatred.
I watch in horror as Valdés gains the upper hand, pinning Mikhail against the railing. The metal groans under their combined weight. Mikhail’s face contorts with pain as Valdés’ arm presses against his throat.
“You should have stayed out of Miami,” shouts Valdés, his voice carrying over the sound of the waves. “This city is mine.”
Mikhail struggles, his face turning red from lack of oxygen. I can’t just sit here and watch him die. Acting instinctively, I stand up, my voice ringing out across the deck. “José?”
Valdés’ head snaps toward me, his eyes widening in surprise. It’s only a split second of distraction, but it’s enough. Mikhail seizes the opportunity. With a surge of strength, he breaks free from Valdés’ hold. His fist connects with Valdés’ jaw in a sickening crunch. Valdés stumbles backward, his feet tangling in a coil of rope.
Time seems to slow as Valdés loses his balance. He teeters on the edge of the railing, arms windmilling wildly. For a moment, our gazes lock. I see the realization dawn in his expression, followed quickly by fear.
Then he’s gone, plummeting over the side of the yacht with a strangled cry. The splash of his body hitting the water is lost in the chaos of the ongoing fight. The rope tangled around his angle jerks and twitches as he struggles. When it goes taut but stops moving a few moments later, I’m sure it signals he’s dead.
I rush to Mikhail’s side, my legs shaky. He wraps an arm around me, pulling me close. His breath comes in ragged gasps, and I can feel his heart beating an irregular rhythm.
“Are you okay?” I ask, running my hands over his body to check for injuries.
He nods, never looking away from the spot where Valdés disappeared. “It’s over,” he says, his voice hoarse.
We stand there, clinging to each other as the sounds of fighting die down around us. Mikhail’s men have subdued the remaining attackers. The deck is littered with bodies and debris, which is an unwelcome difference from the elegant wedding setup from just hours ago.
As though realizing how close we came to losing each other, he pulls me closer, arms protectively encircling me. I bury my face in his chest, inhaling his current scent—gunpowder, sweat, and that cologne I love so much. His heartbeat thrums against my ear, a steady rhythm that helps calm my frayed nerves.
“I was so scared,” I whisper, my voice muffled by his shirt. “When I saw Valdés pinning you against the railing, I thought... I thought I was going to lose you.”
He tightens his arms around me. “Never,” he says fiercely. “I’ll always fight to come back to you and our child. Always.”
I lift my head to look at him, not doubting him. Despite the cuts and bruises marring his face, he’s never looked more beautiful to me than in this moment. “I love you,” I say, the words feeling inadequate to express the depth of my emotions.
Mikhail presses his forehead against mine. “I love you too, moya lyubov . More than anything.”
We share a kiss that’s gentle yet passionate, conveying all the words left unsaid, and I’m careful not to bump his broken nose. For a moment, the world fades away. There’s no yacht and no dead bodies. Just us, wrapped in each other’s arms, alive and together.
The moment is broken by the sound of boots on the deck. We pull apart to see Sergei approaching, his usually impeccable suit torn and bloodstained.
“Boss,” he says, nodding respectfully to Mikhail. “The situation is under control. All of Valdés’ men have been neutralized or captured. What are your orders?”
Mikhail turns to Sergei, his face hardening into the expression of a leader. “No survivors,” he says dispassionately. “Dispose of the bodies once we’re in international waters. Make sure there’s no trace left.”
Sergei nods sharply. “Understood, boss. We’ll take care of it.”
“We’ll retire to our stateroom in a minute,” he says to me. Calmly, he crosses to the side of the yacht, where the rope still hangs tautly. Methodically, with no expression, he reels it in. It seems to stick at one point, resisting his efforts, and I move forward to help him. Together, we drag in the last few feet of rope, bringing up Valdés’ body along with it.
“He’s dead,” I say with satisfaction.
“Yes.” Still, he kneels and checks for a pulse before his shoulders completely relax. “It’s truly over now.” He stands and wipes his hand on his pants before wrapping his arm around my waist, guiding me away from the carnage on the deck. Neither of us looks back at Valdés’ dead body. Sergei or someone else will handle it when disposing of the others.
“Come, lyubov moya . Let’s get you cleaned up.”
We make our way to our stateroom, leaving behind the chaotic aftermath of the battle. The contrast between the luxurious interior and the violence we’ve just witnessed is jarring. The plush carpet muffles our footsteps—so different from the blood-slicked deck we’ve just left.
“Are you hurt?” he asks as we walk toward our stateroom.
I shake my head, my voice muffled against his shirt. “No, I’m okay. Just shaken.”
He tightens his arm around me. “I’m sorry you had to see that, moya lyubov . I never wanted you to be caught in the middle of this.”
I pull back slightly, looking up at him. His face is etched with concern, a bruise already forming on his jaw where Valdés struck him, and his nose is still trickling blood. I reach up, gently tracing the contour of his face with my fingertips. “Is it truly over?”
Mikhail nods. “Yes, dorogaya . The threat from Valdés is over. He’s gone, and his organization will crumble without him.”
Relief washes over me, so intense it makes my knees weak. Mikhail must realize it and guides me to the bed, sitting down beside me. “What happens now?”
He sighs, relaxing slightly. “We rebuild. We strengthen our position in Miami and make sure no one tries to fill the power vacuum left by Valdés, and most importantly,” he says, his free hand coming to rest on my belly, “We prepare for our future.”
I cover his hand with mine, feeling the slightest swell of our growing child beneath my palm. “I can’t believe how close we came to losing all of this,” I say, leaning my head against his shoulder.
He turns, pressing a kiss to my temple. “But we didn’t lose it, lyubov moya . We’re here, we’re safe, and we’re together. That’s what matters.”
I nod, letting his words sink in. We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, both lost in our thoughts. The gentle hum of the yacht’s engines and the distant lapping of waves against the hull create a soothing backdrop.
I convince him to come with me into the bathroom to clean up. I wince when he almost casually wrenches his nose back into alignment. “Ewww.”
He laughs. “It’s not the first time I’ve had a broken nose, and I’m not wasting half the night waiting for Dr. Falkav to get to me.” He methodically cleans his face as he shares that.
“Fair enough, but still…ewww.” He laughs again as I take his hand and lead him back to the bedroom. Once on the bed, I say, “This isn’t exactly how I imagined our wedding night would go.”
Mikhail chuckles. “No? You didn’t envision a shootout and a dramatic showdown with a rival mafia boss?”
I laugh, the tension of the night finally starting to dissipate. “Strangely enough, no. I was thinking more along the lines of sparkling cider and rose petals.”
Mikhail stands, pulling me up with him. “Mrs. Sokolov, the night is still young. How about we start with getting you out of this ruined wedding dress?”
He moves his hand to the zipper at the back of my dress, slowly sliding it down. The tattered fabric falls away, pooling at my feet. He looks at me, his eyes darkening with desire. “You’re beautiful.”
I shiver at his touch, my skin tingling. “So are you, Mr. Sokolov. Although,” I say, reaching up to loosen his tie, “You’re a bit overdressed for the occasion.”
He grins. “We can’t have that, can we?”
We undress each other slowly, savoring each touch and each kiss. It’s a reaffirmation of life and our love after coming so close to losing it all. When we finally come together, it’s with a passion born of relief and joy, and the promise of a future together. Afterward, we lie tangled in the sheets, my head resting on his chest. He traces lazy patterns on my back, sending pleasant shivers through me.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, his voice soft in the quiet room.
I prop myself up on my elbow, looking down at him. In the dim light, his eyes are a deep, mesmerizing blue. “I’m thinking about how surreal this all is. A few months ago, I was just a girl working in a coffee shop, dreaming of opening my own Scottish cultural center. Now, I’m married to the head of the Russian mafia, pregnant with his child, and I just survived a shootout on our wedding day.”
He cups my cheek, brushing his thumb across my lips. “Do you regret it?” he asks, a hint of vulnerability in his voice.
I press against his touch, shaking my head. “Not for a second. It’s been dangerous, and terrifying at times, but it’s also been the most exhilarating, passionate time of my life. I love you, Mikhail, danger and all.”
A smile spreads across his face. “I love you too, Phoebe.”
He pulls me down for a soft and tender kiss. When we part, I settle back against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. “What’s next for the Sokolov family?” I ask.
He touches my belly again, resting his hand protectively over our child. “First, we need to finish our honeymoon. We’ll need to start planning the nursery.”
I smile at the thought. “I can’t wait to see you as a father. You’re going to be amazing.”
“We both will be,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “We’re a team, lyubov moya . Always.”
As we lie there, wrapped in each other’s arms, I let myself embrace contentment. The danger probably isn’t gone forever—I’m not na?ve enough to believe that—but for now, we’re safe. We’re together, and we have a future to look forward to.
The gentle rocking of the yacht and the warmth of his body lulls me toward sleep. As my eyelids drift closed, I send up a silent prayer of thanks for this man, this life, and the adventures that lie ahead.