Twin Baby Mafia Pregnancy

Chapter 1

AURORA

Iget to Echelon two hours before doors open, the same way I do every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday.

The VIP list is already on my phone. Fourteen names tonight, six of them repeat clients who tip well and behave, four who tip well and don’t, and four new entries Dominic added this morning without telling me first. I pull up their profiles from whatever I can find online and start building the mental map of who needs a corner booth, who gets the blonde server, and who shouldn’t be seated within earshot of anyone else.

The private rooms need checking. I walk each one myself because the cleaning crew missed a champagne stain on the leather last week, and Dominic blamed me for it in front of the bar manager.

Room three has a wobble in the side table that nobody has fixed despite two requests.

I wedge a cocktail napkin under the short leg and make a note to handle it myself tomorrow with actual shims.

Security gets the abbreviated version of my concerns.

Reza, the head of floor detail, listens while I explain that table nine’s client has a restraining order his wife filed last month, and he should be kept far from the east lounge, where her divorce attorney likes to drink.

Reza nods. He doesn’t write it down, which means he’ll forget, so I text him the details while he’s still standing in front of me.

“You know I can hear you typing,” he says.

“I know you won’t remember the attorney’s name otherwise.”

He reads his phone and shakes his head. “How do you even find this stuff?”

“I pay attention.” I pocket my phone and smooth the front of my dress.

“Table four’s usual girl called in sick, so Jess is covering.

Tell your guys not to let her pour for the Russians.

She’s heavy-handed, and they don’t need extra alcohol.

” The Russians were always like a timebomb waiting to detonate.

I wasn’t going to let them explode on my shift.

Reza heads toward the back, and I check the time. It’s forty minutes until we open. The bartenders are restocking, the DJ is running sound check, and the floor looks the way it should, dim and expensive enough to make rich people spend more because they’ve confused atmosphere with privacy.

The front door opens, and I already know who it is before I turn around.

Eric walks in wearing his off-duty clothes, jeans and a button-down he thinks makes him look relaxed, but I see the outline of his service weapon at his hip. He never goes anywhere without it. He told me once it was policy. I found out later it wasn’t.

“Hey.” He scans the room the way he always does, noting exits and occupants even when there’s nobody here. “Place looks good.”

I keep my tone cool and don’t give him a personal acknowledgement. “We’re not open yet.”

“I was passing by.” He slides both hands into his pockets and wanders toward the bar like he has every right to be here. “Long day, so I thought I’d stop in before heading home.”

He wasn’t passing by. Echelon is twenty minutes from the precinct in the opposite direction of his apartment. I don’t say that. I’ve learned that correcting Eric’s geography, or engaging in anything remotely personal, only extends the conversation.

I look right through him with a professional nod. “I’ve got a lot to finish before we open.”

“I know, I know.” He waves one hand, then drops it. “I just wanted to check on you. This neighborhood’s been flagged for increased activity, and I worry about you walking out of here at three in the morning.”

I arch an eyebrow. “I’ve been walking out of here at three in the morning for six years.”

“Exactly my point.” He turns to face me, and his expression is the careful one he uses when he wants me to think he’s being reasonable. “You’re too smart for this, Aurora. I’ve said it before, and I’ll keep saying it. You talked about going back to school once. You remember that?”

I remember. I also remember that every time I brought it up while we were together, he suggested programs near his apartment, schedules that matched his shifts, and financial plans where I’d depend on his paycheck to cover tuition.

The offer always sounded like a gift until I unwrapped it and found a leash inside. “I remember.”

“So why not do it? I could help. I’ve got connections at Miami Dade, and my buddy’s wife runs the financial aid office. I could make a call and get you set up by fall. You wouldn’t even need this job anymore.”

I look at him directly. “I don’t need your help, Eric.”

“It’s not about needing help.” He swallows once, the tell that means I’ve pushed into territory he considers unreasonable. “You need to be practical. You’re twenty-seven and hosting parties for men who’d step over your body on the way to the bathroom. That’s a holding pattern caused by stagnation.”

I want to tell him that my job pays more than his, I’ve never missed rent, and I manage a client list worth more than his entire precinct’s annual budget, but I don’t.

Defending myself to Eric always turns into a negotiation I didn’t agree to enter, and it prolongs his visit.

I reply as though I’m speaking to anyone on the street.

“I appreciate the concern. I’ve got it handled. ”

He holds my stare for a count of three, clearly deciding whether to push harder.

The old Eric would have kept going and rephrased the same argument four different ways until I agreed just to end the conversation.

He’s learned to pull back sooner since I left him, which only makes the pull-back feel more calculated.

“Fine.” He takes a step toward the door, then stops.

He always stops. Every exit with Eric comes in two parts, the leaving and the thing he saves for the doorway because he knows I’ll be watching him go.

“One more thing. A couple of names on your VIP list tonight have shown up in federal briefings. I’m not going to tell you which ones, but you should be careful about who you’re serving and what you’re pretending not to see. ”

The comment is designed to target the intersection of my competence and my vulnerability.

He wants me unsettled and looking at every client tonight wondering which one carries federal attention, so that tomorrow I call him and ask what he knows.

He thinks he can kickstart the cycle to start again, but I’m done with his games.

“Thanks for the heads-up.” I walk ahead of him and hold open the door since he seems to have forgotten how to take the last few steps to leave me in peace, at least until next time.

With a look of disappointment he can’t hide, he departs, and I lock it behind him. I should have kept it locked until opening anyway, but there were deliveries coming in earlier. It’s an oversight I won’t make again.

I stand there for ten seconds with my palm flat against the metal, breathing until my pulse settles.

Eric never hits. He doesn’t yell. He does something quieter and harder to explain, that makes you edit your own thoughts before you’ve finished thinking them.

I spent two years doing that. I’m not doing it again.

The service hallway door opens, and Dominic comes through straightening his cuffs.

He’s wearing the Brioni tonight, which means someone important is coming.

He only wears Italian when he wants to signal he belongs in conversations he’s been invited to observe.

A Patek Philippe catches the light at his wrist when he adjusts it.

I haven’t seen that one before. “Aurora, come here a second.”

I follow him to the hostess station. He pulls up the VIP list on the tablet. There’s a fifteenth name I haven’t seen before.

“Adrian Bugrov will be at table one, with private room access, full bottle service, and whatever his people order goes on the house tab.” Dominic adjusts his watch while he talks, a nervous habit he doesn’t know he has.

“He’s bringing three guests. One of them is Viktor Sokolov, who handles his security.

Don’t make small talk with Sokolov. Don’t ask him questions.

Just confirm their preferences and make sure nothing is late or wrong. ”

I nod, making a mental note, but wanting a more detailed profile of this latest VIP. “Who is Bugrov?”

Dominic looks up from his watch. “He’s a very important client.”

I frown. “I’ve never seen his name on the list before.”

“He’s been here three times, always under other names, and you weren’t hosting those events.

Tonight, he’s coming as himself, which means this meeting matters to him, and anything that goes sideways will be my problem first and yours second.

Don’t seat anyone near his section. Don’t send anyone to check on the room unless I tell you to.

If he wants something, you go personally. Not Jess, not Maria. You.”

I’ve been doing this job long enough to recognize the gap between a VIP and whatever Adrian Bugrov is. Dominic manages billionaires, diplomats, and cartel-adjacent businessmen. Him running through instructions like he’s rehearsing for a performance review tells me Bugrov sits above all of them.

My stomach clenches a bit, but I don’t let a hint of anxiety show. I’ve dealt with very important clients many times. “I’ll handle it.”

“And…” He grabs my elbow as I turn to leave, then releases it immediately like he didn’t mean to touch me. His palm is damp, which is something new for him in my experience. “Don’t inconvenience him. Whatever that means in the moment, figure it out and handle it.”

I nod and head back to the floor.

The doors open at ten. The first wave is the usual crowd of finance guys who arrive early because they think it signals importance, couples who booked a table three weeks ago, and a handful of women in cocktail dresses who work the room like a second career.

Some of them are discreet working girls, but they have their arrangements with Dominic and keep it from becoming blatant. A girl’s gotta eat, as they say.