Page 86 of Bound in Possession

I turn back to Camilla, a low smile finally tugging at the corner of my lips as I look at my brave, fierce wife.

"Now," I murmur softly, wrapping my arm around her waist and pulling her back against my chest, feeling the soft rhythm of her breathing finally settle. "Where were we before your father interrupted our morning?"

As we walk back up the grand staircase toward our suite, the heavy silence of the house gives way to a quiet that feels entirely different—clean, still, and free of ghosts. I lead her through the doors and sit her down on the edge of the mattress. I drop to my knees in front of her, resting my hands on her thighs, looking up into her eyes with total clarity.

"I need to say something to you, Camilla," I say, my voice steady, though my heart is pounding in my chest. "And I need you to listen to me carefully."

She tilts her head, her soft brow furrowing slightly as she gazes down at me.

"Last night... watching you over that balcony, realizing how close I came to losing you... it changed everything," I tell her, my fingers gently lacing with hers. "I bought you at an auction. I brought you into my world under the guise of an arrangement, a contract, a piece on a chessboard. But I refuse to keep you as a bought bride for another second. You are not my property, and you never will be."

Camilla's eyes widen, a soft gasp escaping her lips.

"I have set up separate estates under private security—places far away from the Bratva, far away from your father," I continue, holding her gaze with complete sincerity. "If you want to leave, if you want a life completely separate from me, under full protection where no one can ever touch you again... it is yours. The papers are ready. The money is yours. The choice is yours. I am offering you absolute, real freedom."

Silence stretches between us, thick and breathless. Freedom—real, uncompromised freedom—is finally sitting right in front of her.

Camilla stares at me, stunned, her eyes shining with unshed tears as the weight of my words settles into her heart. She slowly reaches out, framing my jaw with both of her warm hands, searching every inch of my face.

"You big idiot," she whispers, a soft, breathless laugh breaking through her emotion. "Do you really think I’m going to walk away from you now?"

"Camilla—"

"I am staying, Maksim," she says firmly, her thumb gently brushing across my cheekbone. "I am choosing to stay right here with you. But let me be very clear about one thing: I am not choosing another cage. I am choosing the man who learned to open the door."

She leans down, pressing her forehead against mine, her breath fanning soft and warm against my lips. "I love you. I love the man you are with me, and I am so, so glad to be your wife."

Something inside my chest snaps—the final, hardened wall I’ve built around my heart over decades of violence and cold survival completely shatters. My throat constricts so tight I can barely breathe, a sudden, burning prickle stinging behind my eyes.

Before she can see the tears threatening to spill from the ruthless Pakhan, I pull her into my arms, burying my face in the crook of her neck, hugging her so tightly that not even the air can come between us.

I squeeze my eyes shut, taking a deep, shuddering breath of her sweet scent.

In her arms, surrounded by her light, the ruthless monster who thought he was built for nothing but blood and shadows realizes the truth.

He has finally found a home.

EPILOGUE

CAMILLA

Two months later…

The late afternoon sky hangs low and heavy over the cemetery, a dreary sheet of slate gray that matches the sea of black coats gathered around the fresh open grave.

It has been an exhausting, suffocating day. The funeral mass at the cathedral dragged on for agonizing hours—a solemn spectacle filled with towering incense clouds, Gregorian chants, and hypocritical tributes paid to Luciano de Lorenzo, a man whose legacy was built entirely on fear.

Now, out here in the damp air, the priest’s voice drones on, a low, rhythmic murmur delivering final rites as the polished mahogany casket rests above the cold earth, ready to be lowered.

I lean back against Maksim, drawing strength from the steady warmth of his body. His heavy arm is wrapped securely around my waist, his thumb gently caressing my hip through the thick fabric of my black coat, keeping me anchored. On the other side of the plot, Sienna stands tucked against Alessandro’s side, while Eleonora rests her head tiredly against Nico’s shoulder.

And at the very front of the line, standing erect and unyielding, is Rosalia. Daniela stands quietly at her hip, a united front. Neither of us is crying. There are no veil-draped tears, no trembling lips, no dramatic displays of grief.

Rosalia simply watches the casket with a cold serenity—a woman who has survived her tyrant husband and stepped into the terrifying, beautiful vacuum of her own power.

Off to the far edge of the gathering, half-hidden beneath the shadow of a sprawling cypress tree, stands my father. He skulks alone, isolated and sharp-eyed. He hasn't dared to approach Maksim or me since the morning he stormed out of our estate two months ago, and frankly, neither of us gives a damn. He is a ghost of a past I no longer belong to.

I try to tune back into the priest’s words as the velvet straps begin their slow, creaking descent, lowering Luciano de Lorenzo into the dark soil forever.