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"A child," Maksim breathes. He presses a hand against his forehead, rubbing his temples furiously, his eyes darting toward the closed office door. "My God. Oksana..."

"I’m not here to ask for your permission, Maksim," I tell him, leaning forward so there's no mistaking the absolute certainty in my voice. "I’m here to tell you that I’m marrying her. I’m going to provide for her and protect her. I’m going to give our child a name that carries the full weight of the Gallagher-Murphy syndicate behind it. I'm going to do right by her, and what we've created together."

"She’s about to become the wife of my right hand, Maksim," Declan adds, stepping in with an added smooth diplomacy. "Which means your family and mine are joined. If anyone in this city—Russian, Italian, or otherwise—thinks they can touch the Svenkov name, they will be answering directly to me. We want an alliance, not a conquest. And it will elevate your house higher than it’s ever been in Chicago."

Maksim looks between us, his gaze lingering on my face. He sees the resolve there. He knows my reputation—he knows I don't break promises, and he knows I don't leave my people unprotected. The terror in his posture slowly settles into a grim, resigned exhaustion. Whatever storm is raging in his life, whatever pressure is breaking his back, he realizes he has no leverage here.

He nods with a jerky, stiff motion of his chin.

"You... you swear to me she will be protected?" Maksim asks, his voice cracking slightly. "You swear on your mother’s grave that no harm comes to that girl?"

"I’d burn this entire city to the ground before I let a single hair on her head be touched," I swear. "You have my word."

Maksim closes his eyes, exhaling a long, shuddering breath. "Then marry her. But do it quickly."

—

The rest of the meeting is calmer. It's more procedure than anything else, discussing the minutiae of how the wedding preparations and the wedding itself will go. I tell Declan to drop me off downtown before he heads home. I'm going to propose to Oksana tonight, and I need a ring.

It's started to rain when I step into the jewelry store, but it doesn't match my mood in the slightest. I wouldn't say the hardest part is over—confessing how I feel to Oksana and asking her to marry me feels like possibly the most terrifying thing I've ever done—but the most unpleasant part is. I've faced Declan, and I've dealt with Maksim.

Now I need to find the woman I'm going to marry, the ring she's going to wear for the rest of her life.

I feel out of place among all the glass and glittering jewels, despite my suit. I shove my hands in my pockets to hide the scars, looking around a bit uncomfortably. An older gentleman with silver hair, wire-rimmed spectacles, and a tailor-made vest approaches me, his eyes quickly taking in the scar running across my jaw before settling into an expression of impeccably polite professionalism.

"Good afternoon, sir," he says smoothly. "How may we assist you today?"

"I’m looking for an engagement ring," I say, the words feeling foreign in my mouth.

He smiles, relaxing into his role. "Of course. A joyous occasion. Do you have a particular style, cut, or budget in mind?"

"Budget isn't an issue," I tell him flatly. "And I don't want anything fussy. Maybe something delicate. Beautiful." I think of the way Oksana walked up to me in the club, the way she dresses. She's never afraid to be seen, to be noticed. She lights up a room when she walks in, makes everyone want to look at her, and she knows it. "Something for a woman who likes to stand out."

The jeweler's eyes start to gleam with interest when I say that budget was no issue, and now he's nodding along. He leads me toward a private viewing area in the back, pulling open a velvet-lined drawer beneath a spotlight. He lays out several options on a black suede tray, some of which I write off immediately. Several are too busy, and others are fragile and ethereal which, while beautiful, don't suit Oksana in my opinion.

I hope I'm getting this right. I feel a bubble of nerves in my chest. I know how she dresses, but I don't know the first thing about buying women jewelry. I've never noticed that she wears many rings, either, so I don't even have that to go off of. The only jewelry I've ever really seen her wear is earrings.

"Too busy, too princess-y and delicate," I say, shaking my head as I glance over the selections. The jeweler pauses, taps his chin thoughtfully, and then reaches into a locked safe beneath the counter. He pulls out a single, unadorned black velvet box, opening it with a soft click and placing it directly under the light.

I've never cared much for jewelry, but even my breath catches in my throat.

It’s an antique emerald-cut diamond, completely flawless, flanked by two sharp, tapered platinum baguettes on a smooth platinum band. The center diamond is very large—I know nothing about carat sizes, but I can tell it's substantial. It would certainly stand out on Oksana's finger, and it's elegant and timeless, but bold. I think the moment I look at it, that it suits her.

I reach out, picking it up between my scarred thumb and forefinger. My hands, which have spent forty years dealing out pain, look absurdly brutal holding something so exquisite. A vision flashes behind my eyes of Oksana sitting across from me at the diner, her slender fingers wrapped around a white porcelain coffee mug, her light blonde hair tumbling over her bare shoulder, this ring flashing against her pale skin. Her carrying my child. Her standing beside me at an altar, looking up at me and promising to stand by my side through whatever darkness this life throws at us.

I slip the ring back into the velvet cushion. "It's perfect," I say, hearing my voice thicken with emotion. "Wrap it up for me, please."

—

When I get back to my house, the rain has turned into a steady, soft mist. I see a light on in the house, and my heart suddenly lifts.

This is what I'm going to come back to now. This thing I never thought I'd have—a light waiting for me when I came home at night, a wife, a child… all of it is within my reach. The feeling is so overwhelmingly sweet and so terrifying all at once that my knees feel momentarily weak.

I step inside, closing the door behind me and locking the deadbolt. The house is warm, and it smells like rain from outside the open window and the faint hint of cinnamon. I see an open tin of tea on the counter, and that warmth in my chest intensifies. Oksana has made herself at home, and the happiness that rushes through me makes my heart beat faster.

She's sitting on the couch, her hair piled up on her head, soft and cozy in leggings and my sweatshirt, holding the mug of tea. Some old movie is playing on the television. She looks young and beautiful, and I realize with another dizzying rush, that she's going to be mine. Forever.

As long as she says yes, and I believe she will.