Epilogue
EPILOGE
DROGO
The park is quiet for once. Late afternoon sun cuts through the trees in long golden bars, turning the grass almost gold.
Marcus sits beside me on the bench, arms crossed, eyes narrowed like he’s spotting a sniper in the playground.
Around us, my men are placed strategically—two near the swings, one by the fountain, another leaning against a tree pretending to check his phone.
They’re not subtle, but they don’t need to be.
Everyone in this city knows who I am now.
My son, Nikolai, is laughing somewhere near the slide—loud, fearless, already too tall for five. He’s got Alena’s eye shape and my temper. Right now, he’s got his arms wrapped around Marcus’s daughter, Sofia, in what he thinks is a “hug.” She’s giggling, trying to squirm away but not really trying.
Marcus’s stare could melt steel.
“Can you stop eyeballing my son, please?” I say, voice low, amused.
Marcus doesn’t look away. “Will your son take his hands off my daughter?”
I laugh—short, rough. Nikolai squeezes tighter, Sofia squeals, and Marcus snaps.
“Fucker, I want to see you when a boy comes to take your daughter on her first date.”
My blood runs hot instantly. The thought alone makes my jaw lock.
“No,” I say, flat.
“Yeah,” Marcus shoots back, grinning now because he knows he hit the mark. “You say that now.”
The image flashes—some teenage boy showing up at the house, flowers in hand, trying to take my little girl anywhere.
My hand twitches toward the gun that isn’t there (because we’re in a fucking park with kids).
Fuck. The thought is terrifying. I can already see myself standing at the door, staring the kid down until he pisses himself and runs.
I remember the night they came into the world.
Alena screaming in the private clinic, sweat-soaked hair plastered to her face, gripping my hand so hard I thought she’d break bones. I was trembling—actually shaking. She looked at me between contractions, eyes wild, and ordered: “Out! Get out, Drogo, you’re making it worse!”
Konstantin had to drag me into the hallway. He was laughing—quiet, trying to contain it—but failing. “First time in my life I’ve seen a terrified mafia boss,” he said, clapping my shoulder. “Breathe, Pakhan. She’s got this.”
Hours later, I heard the first cry—sharp, furious, alive.
Nikolai. Then minutes after, softer but no less fierce—our daughter, Elena.
Both with Alena’s eyes and my coloring. The second I burst into the room, Alena looked exhausted and radiant and murderous all at once.
I dropped to my knees beside the bed, took her face in my hands, kissed her like I’d never let go.
Then the nurse put Nikolai in my arms. Tiny. Perfect. Staring up at me with those huge dark eyes like he already knew who I was. Elena next—same stare, same power. I almost knelt again. I’d killed men without blinking, but holding them? That undid me.
I swore right there—blood still on the sheets, Alena’s hand in mine—I would make sure they had a father.
A family. Not just me and Alena, but the whole damn thing: uncles who’d die for them, aunts who’d spoil them, a brotherhood that would protect them.
Yes, the mafia extended to them now, but they would have it all. Safety. Love. Power.
Other families stopped trying me after the rumors spread.
“The Pakhan’s wife has… something with the afterlife.
” Ghosts follow her. Cold comes when she’s angry.
Lights die when she’s sad. They don’t know the half of it.
Alena never asked for the power; it just came with her.
And damn if I’m not proud of it. Proud of her.
I look across the grass now.
Alena’s laughing her ass off at a picnic table, bottle of beer in hand, head thrown back. Lucy’s beside her, cackling. Konstantin’s wife is there too, leaning in, telling some story that has them all in stitches. Alena’s hair is loose, catching the sun, and she looks so alive it hurts to breathe.
Then I see Elena—my daughter, quieter than her brother, more calculating. More like me. She spots me and runs over, little legs pumping. I scoop her up before she crashes into my knees, lifting her high until she squeals.
“Daddy!” she says, wrapping her arms around my neck. “There’s a boy in the bushes. He says he wants to be my friend.”
I look toward the bushes. Nothing. Perfect. Another 1800s ghost friend.
I lean to her ear, voice low. “Tell him your daddy is the Pakhan and he better keep his hands to himself.”
She giggles—high, bright—and nods like she understands exactly what that means.
I set her down. She runs back toward Sofia and Nikolai, already shouting something at the invisible boy.
Alena approaches then, still laughing, beer bottle swinging from her fingers. I wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her close, burying my face in her hair. She smells like sun and beer and home.
“So,” she says softly, leaning into me. “We could’ve done worse, no?”
I press my lips to her temple, breathing her in like she’s a drug. Because she is.
“We could have,” I whisper against her skin.
Marcus is already jogging over to Sofia, yelling “Okay, okay, that’s too much!” Lucy’s laughing so hard she’s doubled over. Konstantin watches his wife with that quiet, stupid-in-love look he’s had since they met.
I hold Alena tighter. My son is still hugging Marcus’s daughter. My daughter is bossing around ghosts. My wife is laughing in my arms.
Five years ago, I killed my father to keep her safe.
Today I’d kill the world to keep this.
And I’d do it smiling.
Because this—right here—is family.
My family.
And no one will ever take it from me again.
THE END