EXTENDED EPILOGUE
Five Years Later
The air in my new office smells of fresh paint and Italian leather.
Five years.
Five years of grinding. Weeks with eighteen-hour days running the Collins & Sterling International Regulatory Division like a sovereign territory and building a network of legitimate contacts that spans the globe, rivaling my husband's.
I stand by the massive window of my corner office, thirty floors above the Manhattan bustle. The view is spectacular, a panorama of skyscrapers reflecting the late afternoon sun. It's a view of dominance, of the city I now own a piece of, not through the back channels of theSmirnov Bratva, but through the front door of the New York State Bar.
Benson-Smirnova & Associates, PLLC.
The brass plaque on the mahogany door is the cornerstone of my life’s ambition—the way I always wanted to see my name. But also Smirnova, not just because of who I am proudly married to, but because it is an assurance of quality and power in certain circles. Dmitri's initial investment was significant, calculated, and entirely silent. He provided the runway; I commandeered the plane.
Today, the highly specialized team I poached from Collins & Sterling, Smirnov Corp., and a few other law firms from around the city and around the world—all brilliant and discreet—are finalizing their setup in the surrounding offices. My executive assistant, a calm, unflappable woman named Olivia, is currently outside prepping for the arrival of our first official client.
I would love to say I'm entirely cool, but the anticipation is like a knot in my stomach. This is the moment of truth. This is our first client, the one we have to win over, so my firm launches with immediate prestige. I check my appearance in the mirror—the perfect tailored suit, my hair pulled back into a high ponytail, my expression one of professional severity.
My rings—the midnight sapphire and the diamond eternity band—flash in the bright summer sunlight. They feel grounding on my finger, representing the life I've built, the shield and the sword I forged and wield in equal measure.
A sudden, sharp burst of noise shatters the stillness of the hallway. It's not a polite chime or the soft whoosh of the elevator doors opening. It's laughter—loud, high-pitched, and quickly followed by the distinct sound of small shoes skidding on the polished marble of the entryway. My shoulders drop with a sigh that is half exhaustion and half pure affection—the calm before the storm is officially over.
The door bursts open, and two small hurricanes storm my perfect office.
“Mama! Mama! Look at my rocket!” Mila, now six, is a whirlwind of energy, her long, dark braid bouncing as she skids to a halt, holding up a multicolored cardboard tube with construction paper glued and taped to its sides. She has Dmitri’s eyes and my dramatic flair, and she isn’t shy about announcing her presence.
Trailing her more quietly is Leo. Leonid Smirnov, our youngest, is four and a perfect copy of his father—light tousled hair, quiet intensity, and eyes that assess everything around him. He's carrying his battered stuffy and has a smear of purple marker across one cheek.
“What are you two doing here?” I ask, kneeling to bundle them both into a big, tight hug.
“Pavel brought us,” Mila declares, looking back at the man standing behind the two of them, their likely babysitter for the afternoon.
“My apologies,” he says. My husband's second-in-command looks slightly ruffled, as if he's just wrestled two small bears across the city. His formality is a stark contrast to the energetic chaos he’s been assigned to watch. “Dmitri’s meeting ran late, and April is sick. Dmitri insisted I bring them here. He said you needed to see your children before the Big Signature.’”
“Miss April has a headache.” Mila frowns, the same line forming between her eyes that her father has as she talks about the nanny the kids both adore. I’m sure she talked Pavel’s head off about April the entire ride here.
“That rocket is impressive,Mila. Does it fly?”
She makes a face, her nose wrinkling. “Not really.”
To demonstrate, she throws the paper tube, and it nose-dives into the ground. Leo giggles.
“Maybe Papa will show you how to fold a paper airplane,” I tell her, picking up the tube and handing it back as I get to my feet. “I have some snacks in the break room, loves. How about you go with Pavel and get what you want? My client will be here soon.”
Pavel looks resigned as he gathers the children.
“Papa is coming to get us, isn’t he?” Leo asks, clutching his stuffy.
“He is never far,” Pavel says, a statement that is both an assurance of protection and a simple fact of our lives. Even when he is off on the other side of the world, either for the corporation or onbratvabusiness, he is watching over us.
They disappear out the door, and I hear Mila and Leo chattering down the hallway, greeting my new employees brightly as they pass their offices.
I take a deep breath and walk back to my desk, checking the time as the minutes slow to a crawl. Finally, Olivia knocks on my door and peeks her head in.
“Your new client has arrived.”
My stomach flips, but I manage to snap my professionalism back into place. “Please, send them in.”
