Chapter 37
Sergei
“Mr. Orlov, custody is hereby granted in full.”
Judge Galeotti’s gavel comes down with the finality of a bullet, and I feel something in my chest crack open. Not break—expand. Like I’ve been holding my breath for eight years and can finally exhale.
“Thank you, Your Honor.” My voice stays steady despite the earthquake happening inside my ribs.
Diane collects the paperwork with practiced efficiency, but I’m already moving toward the gallery where Mila sits between Andrei and one of his men.
She’s wearing the navy dress Izzy bought her last week, dark hair in French braids that took me three YouTube tutorials to master.
Her hazel-green eyes find mine across the courtroom, and the hope written there nearly destroys me.
“Papa?”
“Come here, ptichka.” I crouch down when she reaches me, letting her crash into my chest. Her small arms wrap around my neck, strawberry shampoo filling my nose, and I hold on maybe too tight. “It’s done. You’re mine. Officially, legally, permanently mine.”
She pulls back, studying my face with those too-old eyes. “Forever?”
“Forever.” I press a kiss to her forehead, tasting salt—her tears or mine, I’m not sure. “No more court dates. No more lawyers. You’re home.”
“With you and Izzy?”
“With me and Izzy.” The words feel right. Perfect. Terrifying in their permanence.
Elena’s death two weeks ago should’ve complicated things, but it simplified them instead.
No contested custody. No parental rights to negotiate.
The judge reviewed my home situation—stable marriage, secure income, character references from people who somehow forgot I used to kill for a living—and ruled in my favor within twenty minutes.
My daughter. My home. My family.
My wife waiting outside.
The thought sends heat spiraling through me despite the courthouse’s sterile chill.
Izzy’s been wound tight all morning, oscillating between excitement for the custody ruling and terror about tonight’s gala.
She left an hour ago to handle last-minute details, but promised she’d be here when we walked out.
She keeps her promises.
Mila takes my hand as we exit the courtroom, her grip tight enough to hurt. Good. I never want her to let go. In the hallway, reporters swarm—drawn by the Orlov name, by Elena’s suspicious death, by the spectacle of The Wolf fighting for custody in family court.
“Mr. Orlov, do you have any comment on your ex-wife’s murder?”
“How do you respond to allegations you’re unfit—”
“Is it true your current wife is Isabelle Davenport, the heiress—”
I keep walking, one hand on Mila’s shoulder, steering her through the chaos. Andrei and his men form a protective wall, shoving cameras back, creating space. The questions blur into white noise until we burst through the courthouse doors.
And there she is.
Isabelle leans against my SUV, all black leather and deadly elegance.
She’s wearing pants that should be illegal, heels that add three inches, and an expensive jacket.
Her dark hair falls loose around her shoulders, catching weak sunlight, and when her blue eyes find mine across fifty feet of concrete, everything else disappears.
My soul and heart. Mine.
The possessive thought hits like a freight train.
Not the fake wife playing house for appearances.
Mine. The woman who kills for my daughter.
Who stands beside me in courtrooms and war zones without flinching.
Who’s walking into danger tonight because burning down her family’s empire matters more than safety.
She straightens when she sees us, and her face transforms. That polished Davenport mask cracks, revealing raw emotion. Relief. Joy. Love that we only started to name, but it’s already written in every line of her body.
Mila breaks free from my grip, running toward Izzy with the kind of trust that makes my throat tight. “Izzy! We won! Papa won!”
Izzy catches her, lifting her despite the heels and impractical outfit, spinning once before setting her down. “I know, sweetheart. I told you we would. Your papa’s very persuasive when he wants to be.”
“Does this mean you’re really my mom now?” Mila’s voice is small. Hopeful. Destroying us both.
Izzy’s eyes find mine over Mila’s head, asking permission for something we haven’t discussed. Something permanent. I nod once, and watch her smile—genuine, warm, nothing like the ice princess Manhattan thinks she is.
“If you want me to be,” Izzy says carefully, crouching to Mila’s level. “I’m not trying to replace your mama. But I’m here. I’m staying. And I love you like you’re mine. So if you want to call me Mom, or Izzy, or something else entirely, that’s your choice. Okay?”
“Okay.” Mila throws her arms around Izzy’s neck. “I want to call you Mom. Is that weird?”
“Not weird.” Izzy’s voice cracks slightly. “Perfect, actually.”
I close the distance between us. One hand finds Izzy’s shoulder, the other rests on Mila’s back. The three of us form a tight circle on the courthouse steps, cameras flashing, reporters shouting, the world continuing around us while we exist in this pocket of quiet certainty.
Family.
Not fake. Not temporary. Not a business arrangement that got complicated.
Family.
Izzy rises, still holding Mila’s hand, and her free hand finds mine. Her fingers thread through mine with practiced ease, and the simple touch grounds me. Reminds me why tonight matters. Why we’re walking into that gala, knowing Matthew’s hired professionals to end us.
Because this—right here—is worth protecting.
“We should celebrate,” Izzy says, voice steadier now. “Ice cream? Coney Island? Whatever you want, sweetheart.”
“Can we go to the park?” Mila bounces slightly. “The one with the big swings?”
“Prospect Park. We’ll hit the carousel, get hot dogs, tire you out completely.”
Mila grins. “And then tonight you and Mom go to your fancy party?”
“Something like that.” Izzy’s thumb traces circles on my palm, the touch intimate and grounding.
I guide them toward the SUV, hyperaware of the cameras still tracking our movement. Tomorrow’s headlines will scream about The Wolf and his heiress wife, about violence and money and dangerous marriages. Let them. “Come on. We’ve got six hours before we need to get ready. Let’s make them count.”
Prospect Park is crowded for a Wednesday afternoon—parents with strollers, teenagers skipping school, the usual collection of humans pretending November isn’t trying to freeze them solid. Mila runs ahead toward the playground, and Izzy’s hand tightens on mine.
“You okay?” Her voice is soft. Meant only for me.
“Better than okay.” I pull her closer, needing the contact. “I have my daughter. Legally, permanently. No more courts. No more Elena threatening to take her. She’s mine.”
“Ours.” Izzy stops walking, forcing me to face her. “She called me Mom, Sergei. She chose that. Chose me. Chose us.”
“Because you earned it.” My hand finds her jaw, thumb tracing her cheekbone. “You protected her. Fought for her. Became exactly what she needed. That’s not obligation. That’s love.”
Her breath catches. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t make this more complicated than it already is.” But she’s leaning into my touch, eyes dark with want and fear and something that might be hope. “Tonight we face Matthew. Tonight everything could go wrong. I can’t—I can’t think about what this means if we don’t survive.”
“Then don’t think.” I lean down, lips brushing hers in a kiss that tastes like promise and goodbye. “Be here. Now. With me and Mila. Let tomorrow take care of itself.”
She kisses me back, hard and claiming, her fingers fisting in my jacket. When she pulls away, we’re both breathing hard, and a passing jogger wolf-whistles. Izzy flips him off without breaking eye contact with me.
“You make it impossible to stay detached,” she says.
“Good. Detached is boring. Dangerous is better.”
“Dangerous is going to get us killed.”
“Maybe. But at least we’ll die interesting.” I press one more kiss to her forehead before stepping back. “Come on. Our daughter’s waiting.”
Our daughter. The words feel natural now. Right. Like Mila was always meant to be ours, and Elena was a temporary guardian until Izzy could step into the role.
We spend three hours in the park. Mila drags us on the carousel—she rides the purple horse again, making Izzy take the pink one.
I stand between them like the world’s most overdressed carnival security.
We get hot dogs from a vendor, who definitely recognizes me but wisely says nothing.
Mila challenges Izzy to a swing competition that ends with both of them dizzy and laughing.
I watch from a bench, cataloguing every moment. The way Izzy’s face transforms when she’s genuinely happy. How Mila mimics Izzy’s gestures without realizing it. The easy affection between them that developed somewhere between bullets and bedtime stories.
This is what I’m protecting tonight. This exact thing.
My phone buzzes. Andrei.
Security sweep complete. Plaza’s clean. Matthew’s crew arrived an hour ago—three men, Chicago contractors. Professional. Expect trouble.
I show Izzy the text. Her jaw tightens.
“We should go home,” she says quietly. “Get ready. Run through the plan one more time.”
“Yeah.” I stand, calling to Mila. “Time to head out, ptichka.”
She pouts but doesn’t argue, taking my hand on one side and Izzy’s on the other as we walk back to the SUV.
The drive home is quiet. Each of us is processing what comes next.
Mila chatters about the carousel, oblivious to the tension crackling between the adults.
Izzy’s hand finds mine on the center console, squeezing once before releasing.
We’re going to survive this. We have to.
At home, Andrei and one of his men who will stay with Mila are already waiting. They take Mila inside with promises of pizza and movies, leaving Izzy and me standing in the garage. The space suddenly feels too small, too charged.
“Three hours until we need to leave,” I say. “Shower. Dress. Weapons check.”
“Romantic.” But she’s smiling, that dangerous smile that means she’s thinking about violence. “I’m wearing the red dress. The one with the slit.”
Heat floods through me. “You’re trying to kill me before we even get to the gala.”
“Motivation to keep you alive.” She moves closer, hands sliding up my chest. “Can’t let some Chicago contractor take you out when I have plans for later.”
“Plans?”
“Very detailed plans.” Her lips brush my jaw. “Involving significantly fewer clothes and that thing you did last night that made me forget my name.”
My hands find her hips, pulling her flush against me. “You’re playing dirty.”
“I learned from the best.” She bites my earlobe gently, and I feel the reaction all the way to my cock. “Now let me go get ready. The sooner we handle Matthew, the sooner we get to the good part.”
She’s gone before I can respond, disappearing into the house, leaving me standing in the garage with an inconvenient problem and three hours to get my head right.
Focus. Tonight’s about ending Matthew. Protecting Izzy. Surviving long enough to have a future.
But when I walk inside and see Mila’s school artwork covering the fridge, when I smell vanilla candles and home and family—I know exactly what I’m fighting for.
Not survival.
This.
This exact life we’ve built from fake marriage and real bullets.
And I’ll burn down anyone who tries to take it from us.