EPILOGUE
XANDER
The penthouse apartment feels different, filled with voices and laughter.
I've lived here for five years, and until tonight it served only as a place to sleep between operations and store weapons.
Now children chase each other through the living room while women arrange platters of food on the dining table, transforming my fortress into a home.
"Uncle Xander, can I see your room?" Mikhail asks, appearing at my elbow.
"After dinner," I promise, ruffling his hair.
"Your mother would kill me if I let you wander around unsupervised."
"I wouldn't touch anything," he protests, but the gleam in his eyes suggests otherwise.
Besides, I have too many hidden surprises I'm sure Irina would be livid about if he went in there alone.
Anya joins her brother, eyes bright with excitement.
"Aunty Nadya says the baby will be here in a few months. Will he sleep in a crib or a bed?"
"A crib first," Nadya answers from across the room, her hand resting on the slight swell of her belly.
She's so tiny, it's impossible to hide the small bump already poking out.
"Babies need cribs until they're old enough to climb out."
She's radiant tonight, dressed in deep blue that brings out the color of her eyes.
Almost two months pregnant and glowing with health that erases the memory of her bruised and battered face when I pulled her from that bakery.
The Sokolov scars have faded into history, leaving only the future we're building together.
Igor stands by the window, nursing a glass of vodka and looking uncomfortable in civilian clothes.
He's the only member of my organization present tonight, invited because he's the closest thing I have to family outside the Bratva.
His weathered face shows traces of amusement as he watches the chaos unfold.
"Never thought I'd see you playing house," he comments when I join him.
"Neither did I," I admit.
"But here we are."
"The boss wants to meet with you next week. Questions about your recent… lifestyle changes."
The reminder of organizational politics dampens my mood slightly.
Leonid has been patient with my withdrawal from active operations, but patience has limits.
Eventually, he'll demand I choose between the life I've built with Nadya and the obligations I swore to uphold.
After Nadya came home, I reported back to him that Sokolov was dead and his organization was dismantled.
Then I told him how I did it, and I bore the wrath of a dozen lectures in one spitting match.
But he cooled to the relative temperature of the sun, and since then he's been civil, like he put it all behind us. I just don't know what he's going to expect from me to make amends now.
"I'll handle it," I say, unwilling to let future complications ruin tonight's celebration.
Irina emerges from the kitchen carrying a platter of pelmeni, steam rising from the dumplings in fragrant clouds.
She's warmed to me considerably over the past weeks, though I still catch her studying me occasionally as if searching for cracks in the persona I've constructed.
"Dinner is ready," she announces.
"Everyone to the table."
We gather around the dining room table I purchased specifically for this occasion—large enough to seat eight comfortably, made from solid oak that will survive whatever chaos children bring to meals.
Nadya sits at my right hand, her sister across from us with the children on either side.
Igor takes the seat at the far end, looking distinctly out of place among the arrangements.
The meal begins with traditional toasts and blessings.
Irina leads a prayer of gratitude that feels foreign to my ears but moves me, nonetheless.
These are rituals I never experienced growing up in the Bratva, but I respect them deeply, and I want to carry them forward for our child, or children.
"To new beginnings," Irina says, raising her glass.
"And to the family we choose as much as the family we're born into."
We drink, and the children dig into their food with enthusiasm that makes conversation temporarily impossible.
I watch Nadya eat, noting how she picks at her plate with the selective appetite pregnancy has given her.
"Not hungry?" I ask quietly.
"The baby doesn't appreciate Russian dumplings today," she murmurs.
"Maybe tomorrow."
"What does the baby appreciate?"
"Ice cream. Pickles. Chocolate at three in the morning."
She smiles, and the expression transforms her face into something luminous.
"Your son has expensive tastes already."
The reference to our child as my son fills me with pride and terror in equal measure.
In seven months, I'll be responsible for another human being, someone who will depend on me for protection and guidance.
The thought of failing him keeps me awake some nights.
And while we don’t know if it's a boy, I'm pinning all my hopes on it, though I won't be angry if Nadya births a daughter for me either.
"I've been thinking about names," I say, loud enough for the table to hear.
Nadya's eyebrows rise. "Have you?"
"Xavier. It's traditional, dignified. A strong name for a strong child."
"Another name that starts with the letter you favor," she teases.
"How predictable."
"What's wrong with the letter X? It served me well enough."
"Nothing's wrong with it. But our son deserves his own identity, not just a variation on his father's name."
Anya giggles into her napkin while Mikhail looks confused by adult humor he doesn't quite grasp.
Irina watches our exchange with open amusement, clearly enjoying the playful argument.
"What would you name him then?" I challenge.
"Dmitri. Nikolai. Alexander."
She counts names on her fingers, each one carefully chosen to avoid the letter I prefer.
"Something that doesn't announce his father's ego every time someone speaks it."
"My ego is perfectly reasonable," I protest with a chuckle.
"Your ego bought a yolka that barely fits through our door and filled it with presents no one on that side of town could afford," Nadya counters.
"Reasonable isn't a word I'd use to describe you."
Igor snorts into his vodka, earning a teasing glare from me that he ignores.
"Fine," I concede as I roll my eyes.
"We'll discuss names later when you're not ganging up on me with your family."
"Smart man," Irina approves.
"Learning when to retreat is an important skill."
Everyone chuckles, even Mikhail who doesn't understand, and the meal continues with conversation flowing easily between topics.
Mikhail tells me about his school project on aviation history, while Anya demonstrates the dance moves she's learned in ballet class.
Irina shares stories from the hospital that are equal parts heartwarming and horrifying.
Igor contributes occasional observations in his gruff manner, slowly warming to the atmosphere despite his obvious discomfort.
As dinner winds down and dessert appears—elaborate pastries from Moscow's finest bakery—I realize this is what I've been fighting for.
Not territory or power or revenge against enemies, but this.
The sound of children laughing, women talking, the warmth of belonging to something larger than violence and criminal enterprise.
"I need to say something," I announce, setting down my fork.
The table falls quiet, all eyes turning toward me.
Nadya's expression shifts to curiosity mixed with apprehension, probably wondering what pronouncement I'm about to make.
I reach into my pocket and withdraw the ring I've carried for three days, waiting for the right moment to present it.
Platinum band set with a single diamond, elegant without being ostentatious—he kind of ring a businessman might give his beloved.
I told her I want to marry her and she told me she wanted it too, but I never truly asked.
And while I'm not one for sentiment, I do believe in giving her the full opportunity to consent.
"Nadya," I say, my voice steady despite nerves I haven't felt since my first kill.
"You've turned my life upside down in the best possible way. You've given me hope for a future I never imagined wanting. You're carrying my child and tolerating my ridiculous displays of affection. And you're going to be my wife…"
I hold the ring out and she just gawks at me.
The silence that follows feels endless. Nadya stares at the ring, then at me, her expression cycling through emotions I can't quite identify.
"I don't know," she says finally.
"That's a fairly substantial commitment."
My heart drops into my stomach.
Has she changed her mind about us?
About the future we've been planning?
About—
"Nadya," Irina interrupts and snickers for a moment.
"What, he didn't ask!" Nadya snips, then raises her eyes at me as Irina continues.
"That's the best proposal you're going to get. Don't be foolish."
I get the sense that Irina gets her good mothering from their mamochka because it makes Nadya hide a grin.
"I'm considering my options," Nadya protests, but the smile tugging at her lips betrays her teasing nature.
"What options?" her sister demands.
"You're pregnant with his child, living in his apartment half the week, and clearly head over heels in love with the man. Say yes before he realizes he could do better."
"Could I do better?" I ask, playing along with the game.
I start to pull the ring back, but Irina grabs my forearm and halts it.
"Absolutely not," Irina confirms.
"My sister is a treasure you don't deserve but somehow managed to win anyway."
"Mamochka's right," Anya pipes up.
"Uncle Xander gives the best presents. We should keep him."
"That's mercenary reasoning," Nadya scolds, but she's laughing now.
"No, she's right," Mikhail corrects with the seriousness of youth.
"Rich uncles are useful for birthdays and holidays."
The children's enthusiasm breaks whatever tension remained.
Nadya reaches for the ring, holding it up to catch the light from the chandelier overhead.
The diamond sparkles brilliantly, sending rainbow reflections across her face.
"It's beautiful," she admits.
"Like the woman I'm offering it to," I say.
"So, what's your answer, Ptichka? Will you marry me or do I need to increase my bribery budget?"
"You can't bribe me into marriage."
"I can try."
"Your efforts would be wasted."
She slides the ring onto her finger, admiring how it fits perfectly against her skin.
"Because my answer is yes."
Her answer makes breathing difficult. I stand and pull her into my arms, kissing her with enthusiasm that makes the children giggle and Irina clear her throat meaningfully.
"Alright, that's enough," Irina says, standing and herding the children toward the living room.
"Let's give them some privacy. Igor, you can help me clear the table."
"I don't do dishes," Igor protests weakly.
"You do tonight," Irina informs him, and to my amazement, he follows her without further argument.
If he weren’t already married, I’m sure Irina would whip him into shape tonight.
Alone in the dining room, I deepen the kiss, pouring months of fear and hope and desperate love into the connection between us.
Nadya responds with equal passion, her hands gripping my biceps as if she can pull me closer through sheer determination.
"I love you," I whisper against her lips.
"More than I thought possible to love another person."
"I love you too, Khishchnik. Even when you're being ridiculous about baby names."
"Xavier is a perfectly good name."
"We'll discuss it later," she promises, the same words I used earlier.
"After we've celebrated our engagement properly."
"How do you propose we celebrate?"
"I have ideas. Most of them can’t happen until company goes home, though…"
The suggestion sends heat through my veins.
"I've never been good at delayed gratification."
"I know. It's one of your more endearing flaws."
Through the doorway, I hear Irina organizing the children for games that will keep them occupied.
Igor's gruff voice contributes occasional commentary that suggests he's being drafted into entertainment duty against his will.
This is what redemption looks like.
Not grand gestures or public declarations, but quiet moments stolen in the midst of the chaos of building a life with someone who sees your worst qualities and loves you anyway.
Nadya has given me that gift, has offered me a future where I'm more than just a weapon the Bratva wields against its enemies.
"Merry Christmas, Ptichka," I murmur against her hair.
"Merry Christmas, Khishchnik. And may we have many more together."