Epilogue
Anton
“You’re being weird again.”
I glance at Mary in the passenger seat. She’s wearing a pale yellow sundress that ties over her shoulders, soft fabric brushing the curve of her stomach. The pattern catches the light when she shifts—bright, easy, alive. Her hands rest on that small curve that’s becoming more pronounced every day.
“I’m not being weird.”
“You’re gripping the steering wheel like you’re about to drive into enemy territory.”
“I’m not—” I look down. My knuckles are white. I force myself to relax. “I’m fine.”
“Anton.” She shifts to face me. “Where are we going?”
“I told you. The new house.”
She looks out the window. It’s nothing but desert; miles of pale sand, scattered brush, and the occasional stretch of cracked highway disappearing into heat shimmer.
“Anton,” she says, brow furrowing. “There’s literally nothing out here. Did you drive me into witness protection without telling me?”
A corner of my mouth twitches, but I kill it before she notices.
Truth is, I’m the one who’s nervous. Because I bought a twenty-two-thousand-square-foot fortress without asking her opinion.
Because I’m hoping the kitchen and the view will make up for the fact that I’m basically moving her into a Bratva compound.
Because I’m terrified that she’ll take one look and hate it.
“Because it’s a surprise,” I say instead.
She narrows her eyes. “I don’t like surprises.”
“You liked the ring.”
“The ring was different. The ring wasn’t—” She gestures vaguely. “A whole house.”
“You’ll like the house.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you.” I reach over, take her hand. “Trust me.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then: “If there’s a stripper pole, I’m leaving you.”
I almost laugh. “No stripper pole.”
“Indoor shooting range?”
“Maybe.”
“Anton!”
“For security purposes only.”
“We’re going to have a baby. Babies don’t need shooting ranges.”
“Babies need protective fathers.”
She opens her mouth. Closes it. “I can’t argue with that logic, and I hate it.”
I reach over, catch her hand, and press a kiss to her knuckles. “Trust me, you’ll love it, malyshka.”
Her expression softens instantly. That small smile—bright, unguarded—spreads across her face like sunlight. Her cheeks flush pink, eyes sparkling with a mix of curiosity and disbelief.
The road curves, cutting through another stretch of open desert before the landscape shifts. Low hills rise in the distance, and beyond them, the first glimpse of the house appears—white stone against the gold horizon, glass glinting in the sun.
Mary leans forward, palms braced on the dashboard.
“Anton…” Her voice trails off as the mansion grows larger with every turn.
I watch her instead of the road for a second.
The way her eyes widen. The way the reflection of the house flashes across her irises, like she’s staring at something unreal.
She looks back at me, then at the property again, like she’s trying to reconcile the man beside her with the empire waiting ahead.
The gates come into view. Twelve feet of iron and stone and cameras.
Mary sits up straighter. “Is that… Are those our gates?”
“Yes.”
“Anton. Those are very big gates.”
“The property is very big.”
“How big?”
I punch in the code. The gates swing open silently. “You’ll see.”
We drive through. The private road winds through desert landscape, red rock and scrub brush and nothing else for miles.
“This feels very ‘mob boss takes his enemies to the desert to dispose of bodies,’” Mary says.
“I would never dispose of bodies on our property. That’s bad for resale value.”
“That’s what concerns you? Resale value?”
“I’m a practical man.”
She’s smiling despite herself. I can see it.
The estate appears gradually. Guest houses first. Then the main structure.
Mary goes silent.
Completely silent.
I glance at her. She’s staring. Mouth slightly open. Eyes wide.
“Anton,” she breathes. “What the hell is that?”
“Our house.”
“That’s not a house. That’s a… That’s a compound. That’s a fortress. That’s where billionaires hide when the apocalypse comes.”
“It’s also where we’re raising our daughter.”
“Our daughter is going to think she’s a princess.”
“She is a princess.” I park in the circular drive. “Pakhan’s daughter. Close enough.”
The front doors open before we’re out of the car. Lev, Dima, and Boris emerge. All three grinning.
“Welcome home, Mrs. Malikov-to-be,” Lev calls out.
Mary just stares at them. Then at the house. Then at me.
“You’re all insane,” she says.
“Probably,” I agree. “Come on.”
I help her out of the car. Her hand is shaking slightly in mine.
“You really bought this?” she asks quietly.
“Yes.”
“For us?”
“For our family.” I pull her closer. “For you and our daughter to be safe. For Grandma to visit without stairs. For Jasper to have space to work on wedding plans. For everyone we love to have a place that’s truly home.”
Her eyes are wet. “Anton—”
“Do you want to see inside, or should we stand in the driveway crying?”
She laughs. Wipes her eyes. “Inside. Definitely inside.”
Lev opens the door with a flourish. “After you, Your Majesty.”
“Stop,” Mary mutters, but she’s smiling.
We enter. The foyer opens up three stories. Spiral staircase. Marble floors. The chandelier that costs an arm and a leg.
“Jesus,” Mary breathes.
“Twenty-two thousand square feet,” Boris offers helpfully. “Not including guest houses, security buildings, or underground levels.”
“Underground levels. Plural.”
“Two,” Dima confirms. “One for wine and entertainment. One for—” He glances at me.
“Business,” I finish. “Bratva business. Separate from the family areas.”
Mary nods slowly. Processing.
“How many bedrooms?” she asks.
“Twelve,” I say. “Including our master suite with attached nursery.”
“Bathrooms?”
“Fifteen.”
“Who needs fifteen bathrooms?” She’s looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“People who host Bratva meetings and don’t want everyone using the same toilet,” Dima says seriously.
“Also people with pregnant wives who need options,” Lev adds.
Mary snorts. “Fair point.”
We move through the house. I watch her face as she takes in each room. The formal dining room. The library. The media room. The gym.
“You have a gym in your house,” she says.
“Our house.”
“We have a gym in our house.”
“For prenatal yoga,” I offer. “And postnatal recovery. Jasper mentioned you’d want space for that.”
She turns to look at me. “You talked to Jasper about my postnatal recovery?”
“I talk to Jasper about everything concerning you.”
“That’s either really sweet or really creepy.”
“Can it be both?”
“Probably.”
Lev is trying not to laugh. Dima’s smirking. Boris is typing something on his tablet, probably updating security protocols.
“Six pools,” I mention as we pass windows overlooking the grounds. “Olympic, lap, infinity, indoor heated, children’s splash pad, and natural spring-fed.”
Mary stops walking. “Six pools.”
“You’re pregnant in Vegas. Options are important.”
“I’m starting to think you’re compensating for something.”
Lev barks out a laugh. Even Dima cracks a smile.
I lean down, mouth near her ear. “Would you like me to prove I’m not compensating for anything?”
She turns red. “Anton!”
“Later,” I promise. “After the tour.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me.”
But she’s smiling. And some of the tension in my chest eases.
The master suite is on the third floor. Private wing. I open the door.
Mary steps inside. Takes in the windows, the bed, the sitting area, the bathroom.
Then she sees the connecting door.
“Is that—?”
“The nursery.” I open it.
She walks in slowly. Touches the yellow walls. The crib I had delivered last week. The rocking chair by the window.
“It’s perfect,” she whispers.
“Safe,” I correct. “Windows don’t open. Camera in the corner. Door locks from inside. Separate ventilation system.”
“Anton.” She turns to me. Eyes wet again. “You thought of everything.”
“I think about you. Both of you. All the time.”
She crosses to me. Wraps her arms around my waist. Buries her face in my chest.
I hold her. Let her cry. Let myself breathe for the first time since we drove through those gates.
She likes it. She actually likes it.
“There’s one more thing,” I say after a moment.
She pulls back. Wipes her eyes. “What?”
“Come with me.”
I lead her back downstairs. Through the house. Past the formal dining room and the living areas.
To a wing she hasn’t seen yet.
I open the double doors.
And watch her face.
The kitchen is massive. Commercial-grade everything. Two ovens. Three sinks. Marble countertops that stretch forever. A separate baking station with a stand mixer, every tool imaginable, temperature-controlled storage.
And along one wall—floor-to-ceiling shelving. Empty. Waiting.
“Anton.” Mary’s voice is little more than a whisper. “What is this?”
“Your kitchen.” I move to stand behind her. Hands on her shoulders. “For your bakery.”
“My… what?”
“You’re starting a business. A real one. Mary’s Bakery. Or whatever you want to call it. This is where you do it.”
She turns to stare at me. “You built me a commercial kitchen?”
“Yes.”
“In our house?”
“In our home. So you can work when you want. Rest when you need to. Be close to our daughter. Build something that’s yours.”
Tears are streaming down her face now. “I don’t… Anton, this is—”
“What you deserve. What you’ve always deserved.
” I cup her face. “You’re brilliant, malyshka.
You create things that make people happy.
And now you have the space and resources to do it right.
No more borrowing Jasper’s kitchen. No more pretending it’s just a hobby.
This is real. You’re real. And everyone’s going to know it. ”
She’s sobbing.
Behind us, I hear Lev say something to Dima about “making the pregnant lady cry,” but I ignore them.
“Do you like it?” I ask quietly.
“Like it?” She laughs through tears. “Anton, I love it. I love you. I love this whole insane fortress palace house. I love that you think I can do this. I love—” Her voice breaks. “I love everything.”
I kiss her. Soft. Gentle. Tasting her tears and her joy and everything we’re building together.
“Good,” I murmur against her lips. “Because we’re getting married here in a week.”
She pulls back. “What?”
“The courtyard. Outside. That’s where the ceremony happens. Wedding first. Then the coronation. I want everyone to see you become my wife before they watch me become Pakhan.”
“Anton—”
“No arguments. It’s already decided.”
“You can’t just decide—”
“I’m the Pakhan. I can decide whatever I want.”
She glares at me, then breaks into a laugh that sounds like sunlight. “You really don’t do anything halfway, do you? Even when you’re trying to claim me.”
I smirk. “Didn’t have to try, malyshka. You were mine the second you looked at me.”
“Unfortunately,” she mutters, but her smile gives her away.
I kiss her again. Because I can. Because she’s mine. Because in a week, she’ll walk across that courtyard and promise forever.
And I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure she never regrets it.
I pull back, brushing my thumb along her jaw. “So,” I murmur. “You like it or not?”
She looks past me, out at the house—our house—bathed in late afternoon sunlight. The white stone. The fountains. The beginning neither of us saw coming. When she turns back, her eyes are shining, lashes wet.
“Yes,” she whispers, voice trembling through a smile. “I love it. I love you.”
I rest my forehead against hers, feeling her breath mix with mine.
“Good,” I say. “Because this? The house, the life, all of it… It’s yours. You’ve got a hundred days behind you, malyshka. Now I get the rest of forever to claim you.”
THE END