Epilogue
Phoebe – One Year Later
I stand 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, but udachi 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 na?ve 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. The apron 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 and rusalki , of selkies and domovoi . 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 a routine 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.”
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 fresh batch 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.
I smile, reaching out to smooth a stray curl from Ailsa’s forehead. “Just how far we’ve come. A year ago, we were dodging bullets on this very deck. Now look at us.”
His expression sobers for a moment. “Our journey hasn’t been easy. There are times I wonder if I’ve done right by you, bringing you into this world.”
I frown. “Hey, none of that. I chose this life when I chose you, Mishka. I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.”
He turns his head to press a kiss to my palm. “What did I do to deserve you, mo chridhe ?”
I grin at his use of the Gaelic endearment. “You learned to make a proper haggis, for one thing.”
He laughs heartily. “Ah, yes, how could I forget? The great haggis debacle of last Burns Night.”
I join in his laughter, remembering the disaster that was Mikhail’s first attempt at making the traditional Scottish dish. “You have to admit, it was pretty impressive how quickly you put out that fire.”
“I still maintain that recipe was faulty,” he grumbles good-naturedly.
“Sure, blame the recipe,” I tease. “It had nothing to do with you trying to substitute vodka for whisky.”
Ailsa, not wanting to be left out of the fun, lets out a squeal and reaches for the centerpiece. Mikhail deftly intercepts her chubby hand before she can grab a fistful of flowers.
“Not so fast, little one,” he says, tickling her tummy. “You’re as mischievous as your mama.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh, really? And who was it that thought it would be a good idea to teach her to say ‘borscht’ as her first word?”
Mikhail has the grace to look sheepish. “I was hoping you’d forgotten about that.”
“Not likely.” I laugh. “Especially since she now demands it at every meal even though she can’t eat it yet.” She’s still breastfed at this point in time, but she already has a deep interest in food, which I take credit for her inheriting from my side.
As if on cue, Ailsa babbles something that sounds suspiciously like “bosh,” her little face scrunching up in concentration.
“See what you’ve started?” I say, shaking my head in mock exasperation.
Mikhail grins, unrepentant. “Just wait until she’s old enough for pirozhki lessons. We’ll make a proper little chef out of her yet.”
I smile, imagining our daughter in the kitchen, flour dusting her cheeks as she learns to make the Russian pastries alongside her father’s borscht and my haggis. It’s a beautiful vision of the future we’re building together.
A gentle sea breeze ruffles my hair, carrying with it the salty tang of the ocean. In the distance, the Miami skyline glitters. That world is still out there, with all its dangers and complications, but here, on this yacht with my family, I feel safe and loved.
Masha lets out a soft woof, her tail thumping against the deck as a server appears with our first course. The aroma of seafood and herbs wafts toward us, making my mouth water.
Masha is served first, a bowl of chopped up steak, and her tail wags even harder.
“Masha,” says Ailsa suddenly, pointing at her and reaching dramatically for her best doggie friend.
I frown at Mikhail. “First borscht, and now Masha? When will she say Mama?”
He just laughs and waves a hand to the plates our server sets down. “Shall we?”
I nod, suddenly realizing how hungry I am. As we begin our meal, I meet Mikhail’s loving gaze over Ailsa’s curly head, thinking about the winding path that brought us here. I wouldn’t change a thing. Our love story, as improbable as a fusion of haggis and pirozhki, has turned out to be the greatest adventure of my life.
The End.