The city continues. The monsters in the dark are dead or hiding. And in this bed, above the streets where she once starved, we'll build the only dynasty that matters. Together.
Epilogue
Six years later, I still wake up in Mikhail’s arms every single morning.
The penthouse has changed. What was once a cold, sterile fortress filled with silence and steel is now loud, warm, and overflowing with life. Toys scatter across the living room rug like colorful landmines. The kitchen island is covered in half-finished drawings and glitter glue. And in the center of it all is our daughter, Sofia, who at five years old has already mastered the art of wrapping her terrifying father around her little finger.
This morning is no different.
I’m standing at the couch in one of Mikhail’s old button-downs—my favorite pregnancy uniform these days—rubbing slow circles over my swollen belly while I watch the scene unfold. Our second child, a boy we’re calling Anton, kicks hard against my ribs like he’s trying to remind me he’s almost here. I smile and take another sip of ginger tea.
“Daddy, higher!” Sofia demands, her hair flying as Mikhail spins her in dizzying circles. Her laughter fills the entire penthouse, bright and fearless. The same laugh that onceseemed impossible in these walls. Mikhail—still looks menacing and perfect all at once. His tailored black shirt is rolled up to his elbows, revealing the ink and scars that used to terrify me. Now they’re just part of the man I love. He’s grinning. Actually grinning. The kind of open, boyish smile that would shock every rival in Boston into silence if they saw it.
“Any higher and you’ll hit the ceiling, malyshka,” he says, but he lifts her anyway, spinning her until she squeals with delight.
I lean against the counter, heart so full it aches in the best way. This is my family.
This is real.
Sofia spots me and immediately abandons her father, running over to press both hands against my belly. “Baby brother kicking again?”
“Like he’s training for the Olympics,” I tell her, brushing one of her braids behind her ear.
Mikhail comes up behind her, sliding his arms around both of us. One large hand settles over my belly beside Sofia’s smaller ones. The baby gives a fierce kick right under his palm. Mikhail’s breath catches the way it always does.
“He’s strong,” he murmurs against my temple, voice rough with emotion. “Just like his mother.”
Sofia looks up at him with those big gray eyes she inherited from him. “Daddy, can I go to the salon today? Mama said I could help sweep the floor like a big girl.”
Mikhail glances at me. I raise an eyebrow, waiting. Six years ago, this man broke bones in warehouses and ruled Boston with an iron fist. Now he’s negotiating with a five-year-old like she holds all the power.
He sighs dramatically—the same sigh he gives every time one of us asks him for anything. “Only if you promise to listen to your mother and not run around with scissors again.”
Sofia beams, a mischievous smile that Mikhail says mirrors mine. “I promise!”
Mikhail looks down at her like she is the sun and the moon combined. Then he looks at me, and the expression shifts into something deeper, something that still makes my knees weak even after all this time.
“I have a meeting at eleven,” he says quietly, brushing his thumb across my cheek. “Bratva business. Dmitri and Viktor will be here by ten. I won’t be gone long.”
I nod. I know what his “meetings” mean. He’s still the Pakhan. The monster hasn’t disappeared—he’s simply learned when to sheath his claws. The empire still runs. Enemies are still handled. Blood is still paid when necessary. But he no longer brings any of it home. The penthouse is sacred ground. Our family is untouchable. And when he walks through that door at the end of the day, the Pakhan stays outside. Only my Mikhail comes in.
“Be careful,” I tell him, reaching up to straighten his collar. “Come back to us in one piece.”
His eyes soften. He leans down and kisses me—slow, deep, full of everything we’ve built together. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine. “Always,” he whispers. “You and our children are the only reason I still fight. The only reason I still breathe.”
Sofia giggles. “Daddy, you're kissing Mama again.”
"That's because I can't stop." Mikhail chuckles, then scoops our daughter up onto his hip. “One day, little one, when you’re thirty, and I’ve scared off every boy in Boston, you’ll understand.”
“Thirty?” I laugh. “Try forty.”
He gives me that look—the one that says he’s already planning background checks on future boyfriends—and kisses Sofia’sforehead before setting her down. “Both of my girls have me wrapped around their fingers,” he says, voice soft with wonder. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Later that afternoon, after he’s handled whatever dark business the city demanded of him, he comes to the salon—Riley Miller Beauty, now one of the most sought-after spots in Back Bay—finishing a client’s highlights when the wind ushers him in.
Sofia runs to him. She’s wearing the tiny pink apron he bought her, along with her miniature broom. My clients go quiet the way they always do when he enters. Even after six years, the Pakhan still commands a certain reverence.
But then Sofia squeals, “Mama, look what Daddy brought!” and holds up a bag of my favorite pastries from the bakery down the street, and the entire salon melts.
