Epilogue I
AbrAM
Isabella’s face fills the monitor—olive-gold skin, glossy black hair pinned into a severe twist, a single strand of pearls that looks disarmingly domestic for a woman who commands half of Las Vegas’s underworld.
The rain outside her mansion slants across the camera in gray streaks, but her eyes are sharp, amused.
“Your Albanian problem,” she says in Italian, lips quirking, “has officially become our Albanian problem. They set up another stash house off Charleston Boulevard last night.”
I lean back in my office chair, steepling my fingers. “We’ve warned them twice. Third time, we draw blood.”
She nods. “Scare them first. A burned warehouse. No fatalities unless absolutely necessary. My people will handle the accelerant—no fingerprints.”
“Fine. But I want eyes on their lieutenant. If he tries to relocate, I want him stopped at the county line.”
Isabella tips her head, studying me. “Always efficient, Abram. I like it.”
“Efficiency works.”
Her smile turns gentler. “How is Jenna? I believe your child is overdue?”
“Three days,” I reply. Saying it aloud makes my chest tighten with anticipation. “The doctor says it’s normal.”
“Some babies are like Sicilian judges,” she laughs.
“Stubborn until bribed.” I return the laugh and she goes on.
“Enjoy these quiet hours, Abram. Parenthood shifts the weight of every trigger. I thought myself ruthless—until I held my first son. I’m still ruthless, but now there are nightmares to match. ”
I remember Jenna’s ultrasound image taped above my desk, the tiny silhouette, the pulse that sounded like a hummingbird. “We don’t always have the luxury of softness,” I say. “Not in our line of work.”
“True. But softness will find you anyway. Embrace it or drown in bitterness.” She glances off-screen, someone calling for her. “I must go. We’ll coordinate the warehouse job through the usual channels.”
We exchange a nod—professionals, partners, occasionally reluctant friends—and end the call.
A new message pings from Denis. Got intel on the Albanian importer. Sending dossier.
I’ve barely skimmed the attachment when I hear a startled gasp echo down the hallway.
“Abram!”
Jenna’s voice—breathless, excited, and afraid all at once.
I’m out of my chair in half a second. She’s in the living room, standing beside the sofa, leggings soaked, one hand braced on the small of her back. Her eyes are wide but shining.
“It’s time,” she says, half laughing, half crying.
For a heartbeat I just stare—at her wet leggings, at her flushed cheeks, at the way she bites her lip the moment another contraction grips her. All the planning evaporates. There is only her.
“Okay,” I breathe, crossing the room and cupping her face. “Okay, malen’kaya, we’ve got this.”
She nods, squeezing my wrist when the pain hits. “Hospital bag’s by the door. Contraction timer’s on the counter.”
I move automatically, sending a text to the driver, grabbing the overnight bag, barking a quick order to the security guard outside the elevator. “Car downstairs in two minutes.” My pulse hammers harder than it ever did facing a gun.
Jenna exhales shakily. “Abram?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t forget the car seat.”
“Right.” I almost laugh as I snatch the infant carrier from the hallway bench and return to her side, sliding an arm around her waist. Another contraction steals her breath, and she clutches my shoulder, forehead pressed to my chest.
Six minutes since the last one. The number ricochets around my skull as if it’s lit in neon. Too close. Too damned close.
“Six minutes isn’t bad,” Jenna says. I help her ease into the passenger seat before slamming her bag into the trunk on my way around the car.
“It’s too close for my liking,” I say, sliding behind the wheel.
She laughs, bright and breathy, then curls a hand behind my neck. When I lean in, my intention to buckle her belt, she tugs me the extra inch and kisses me—slow and confident—as if we’ve got all the time in the world.
“I love you,” she murmurs against my mouth.
“I love you more if you don’t deliver in my Maybach.” I try for stern though it comes out teasing.
Another contraction claws through her. She squeezes my wrist, teeth sinking into her bottom lip, but the sound that escapes is controlled. Counted breathing from the class we took, every exhale a practiced hiss. I wait until the tremor leaves her shoulders then gun the car down the ramp.
The Strip glitters in the rearview, every red light magically turning green as we approach.
My foot hovers on the edge of illegality, but Jenna keeps steadying me with small facts from the birthing class.
“Average first-stage labor lasts eight hours; airway flexes under adrenaline; my dilation at the appointment Tuesday was barely two centimeters.”
She’s being brave for both of us.
“Average isn’t you,” I say. “You’re an overachiever.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.” She touches the dashboard timer. “Three minutes, forty-five seconds now. See? We’re textbook.”
“Textbooks don’t factor in Vegas traffic if a tour bus breaks down in the middle of the road.”
She snorts. “You own half this town; if a bus flipped, someone would clear your lane.”
That earns a reluctant smile. I weave past a delivery truck, pulling under the porte-cochere of Centennial Women’s Medical Center in record time. A nurse is already rolling a wheelchair toward us.
“Forty-three weeks,” I bark, scooping Jenna out before she can object.
She swats my shoulder. “I can walk.”
“I can’t breathe,” I counter. “Humor me.”
Triage whips us through vitals and paperwork, but Jenna’s text had apparently set off its own alarm—Claire barrels into the waiting area in mismatched sweats.
“You couldn’t hold it until the weekend?” she teases. “Abram, how are you?”
“I’m fine,” I deadpan. “Focus on the mother.”
“Focused.” Claire grips Jenna’s free hand as the nurse scans her wristband. “Do you need ice chips? Memes? Sarcastic commentary?”
“Breathing,” Jenna pants through a new contraction wave. Claire shifts into coach mode while I sign consent forms no one actually reads.
Elevator doors open onto the birthing wing. We have a private suite and the best view in the building because, of course, I made sure to sort that out. I glance out the window, a commander’s instinct mapping streets, imagining what kingdom my child might inherit—if they want it.
Jenna’s gasp snaps my attention back.
One nurse calibrates monitors while another tags an IV. I station myself at Jenna’s left, hand enveloping hers, counting breaths with her. Her grip is crushing, but I don’t flinch. Pain shared is pain stolen.
“You’re five centimeters,” the midwife announces. “Moving fast, Mama. Let’s get you settled.”
Five centimeters already. My pulse slows. My job is simple now—protect, support, breathe.
Jenna meets my eyes, sweat dampening her temples. “Told you we had plenty of time.”
I press a kiss to her knuckles. “Indeed you did. But I’m still glad we didn’t test the upholstery.”
The double doors of Labor & Delivery sigh shut behind me, and for the first time in twelve hours, my shoulders loosen.
The corridor is quiet and dimly lit, smelling faintly of antiseptic and lemon floor polish. A janitor pushes a mop past the vending machines, earbuds in, oblivious to what just occurred behind those doors.
I pause halfway to the elevators and lean against the wall for a second.
Vanya.
The name floats up from my chest like steam. I say it aloud, barely above a whisper.
“Vanya.”
My daughter.
The sound tastes sacred. Like a word I’ve been waiting my whole life to speak.
My hand moves reflexively to my shirtfront, where traces of her first feeding left a faint circle over my heart.
I didn’t care. I didn’t even think to wipe it away.
There was only the blur of her entrance, the sudden silence after Jenna’s final push, then the wet squall of life. A sound that split me wide open.
I remember the crown of dark hair, slick and impossibly small. The way the doctor lifted her—red, furious, and beautiful. My knees nearly gave out. I’ve seen death up close—hell, I’ve dealt it out more than once—but this was different. This was life at its rawest.
And Jenna. My girl. Glowing with sweat and tears. When they placed Vanya on her chest, the whole world narrowed to that one frame, mother and daughter, skin to skin, heartbeats colliding.
I didn’t know it was possible to love that hard. To feel joy that deep.
I close my eyes, remembering the moment. Nothing else existed. Not the empire. Not the threats. Only them.
My angels.
Tatiana spots me first, unleashing a banshee shriek as she hurries towards me. Anya barrels past Denis to clamp both arms around my neck. Little Charles tugs at my pant-leg, round eyes searching.
“Uncle Abram, where’s the baby?”
I crouch, ruffling his hair. “With her mama right now. You’ll see her soon, malysh.
” Everyone’s talking at once, and I raise my hands like a conductor.
“Seven pounds even,” I announce. “Full head of dark hair and the longest fingers I’ve ever seen.
She latched like a champion. Your niece is an absolute warrior. ”
Mikail smirks. “Kid already has the Vasiliev grip. Good luck, pakhan.” Laughter breaks the tension.
Tatiana presses a tiny ivory and blue crocheted blanket into my palm. Denis slips me a slim envelope—college fund, first deposit, written in his precise block letters. I tuck both gifts close to my chest, struck speechless.
“Family dinner when Jenna’s home,” Anya says firmly, wiping mascara streaks. “Non-negotiable.”
Tatiana teases, “Try to get some sleep while you’re here, big brother.”
After my family leaves, I signal two plain-clothes Bratva sentries to plant themselves at the ward entrance. They nod, palms on concealed weapons.
It’s quiet inside Jenna’s room other than the soft beep of her monitor and Vanya’s ribbon-thin breaths. A bedside lamp washes everything in amber light. I sink into the chair beside the bassinet.
Jenna lies on her side, hair a dark red spill across the pillow.
I brush one knuckle down her cheek. She doesn’t wake, but her lips curve, instinctively knowing I’m here.
Vanya stirs, and I slide a fingertip into her miniature fist. She squeezes, soft but relentless.
My pulse stutters at the fragile nails, the little wrinkles on her knuckles, the tininess of her hands.
My kingdom used to be red lines on a map and envelopes of tribute. But now it begins and ends in this room with one sleeping queen and one newborn heir.
Two angels.
I’ll bleed dry before I let the world bruise either one of them.