Epilogue
Ever After
Mikhail
"The babies are coming."
Four words. Four simple words that transform me from a man who once killed without hesitation into someone who can't even remember how to breathe.
Mariana stands in our bedroom doorway at three in the morning, two weeks before her due date, water pooling at her feet. Her face is calm, but I can see the pain building in her eyes.
"Now?" My voice cracks like a teenager's.
"Now."
I've planned for this. Rehearsed it. The hospital bag is packed, the route mapped, Boris on standby for traffic assistance. But all preparation evaporates as I stare at my wife, who's gripping the doorframe through another contraction.
"Mikhail," she says patiently. "We need to move."
Right. Move. I can do that.
Twenty minutes later, we're speeding through Manhattan while Mariana breathes through contractions that are coming fast. Too fast.
"Seven minutes apart," she pants. "The book said first babies take longer."
"The book didn't account for Kozlov twins."
"Our children are already overachievers?"
"Our children are impatient." I take her hand, letting her squeeze through the next contraction. "Like their parents."
At the hospital, everything becomes controlled chaos. Nurses, doctors, monitors beeping. They tell me the twins are coming quickly, that there's no time for the epidural Mariana wanted.
"I can't do this," she says, tears streaming down her face. "Not without drugs. I can't—"
"You can." I brush hair from her face, using the calm voice that once talked to associates through dangerous operations. "You're the strongest person I know. You survived Pavel, Harrison, being married to me—"
She laughs through the pain. "Being married to you is the easy part."
"Liar."
"Only sometimes."
Dr. Martinez checks her again. "First baby's crowning. Ready to push?"
"No," Mariana says.
"Yes," the doctor counters.
What follows is the longest and shortest hour of my life. Mariana pushes with determination that reminds me why I fell in love with her. She curses in Spanish, English, and the little Russian I've taught her. She threatens my manhood, promises divorce, then begs me never to leave her.
"Never," I promise. "Never, little wolf."
At 4:47 AM, our daughter enters the world screaming. Dark hair, furious at the indignity of birth, perfect.
"Sofia," Mariana breathes.
Sofia. We'd finally agreed on names last week—Sofia for a girl, Adrian for a boy.
But there's no time to celebrate. The second twin is coming.
"I can't," Mariana sobs. "I can't do it again."
"You can. One more, my love. Bring our son out and it's over."
And at 5:03 AM, our son arrives. Quieter than his sister, but alert, an expression that makes him look already too knowing.
"Adrian," I whisper.
The nurses place both babies on Mariana's chest, and I see my entire world in that hospital bed—my wife, exhausted but radiant, holding our children who are still connected to her, to us, by invisible threads that will never truly be cut.
"They're perfect," Mariana says, touching each tiny face.
"Like their mother."
She laughs, then winces. "Don't make me laugh. Everything hurts."
I kiss her forehead, tasting salt and struggle and triumph. "You did it."
"We did it."
The next hours blur together. Tests, measurements, first attempts at feeding. Sofia latches immediately, aggressive even in eating. Adrian is more thoughtful, taking his time, studying the process before committing.
"Already showing their personalities," the nurse observes.
By afternoon, our room has become command central. Mila arrives first, arms full of balloons and tears streaming down her face.
"They're beautiful! Look at those cheeks! Can I hold them?"
"Wash your hands," I order.
"I already did. Twice. With surgical soap."
Alexei follows with the twins—Viktor and Katya who are now toddlers that peer at the babies with suspicion.
"Babies small," Viktor announces.
"You were that small once," Alexei tells him.
"No."
"Yes."
"No!"
Boris arrives with what appears to be half of Moscow's flower supply. Rodriguez brings FBI onesies that say "Future Agent" which makes me growl and Mariana laugh.
But it's her mother who makes me understand everything.
She arrives that evening, taking Sofia from my arms with the expertise of a woman who knows babies. As she rocks my daughter, singing softly in Spanish, she looks at me.
"Now you understand," she says simply.
"Understand what?"
"Why parents would die for their children. Why we would kill for them." She touches Sofia's cheek. "This little one has your strength already. See how she grips my finger?"
I watch my daughter's tiny hand wrapped around her grandmother's finger and feel something crack open in my chest. Twenty-three years of armor, gone in an instant.
"And this one," her mother continues, moving to Adrian in Mariana's arms, "has your watchfulness. See how he studies everything? He's memorizing the world."
She's right. Adrian seems to be processing everything with an intensity that's unsettling in someone only hours old.
That night, after everyone's gone, I hold Sofia while Mariana feeds Adrian. My daughter weighs nothing and everything. She's impossibly small, impossibly perfect, impossibly mine.
"What are you thinking?" Mariana asks.
"That I would burn the world for her. For both of them."
"That's not comforting."
"It's not meant to be. It's just true."
Sofia makes a tiny sound, not quite a cry, and I find myself speaking to her in Russian. Telling her about her heritage, her family, the long journey that brought her parents together. She probably understands nothing, but her face shows something that looks like recognition.
"What are you saying to her?" Mariana asks.
"That she's loved. That she's safe. That her father was once a ghost but she made him real."
"Mikhail..."
"It's true. Ghost could have survived forever. But Mikhail Kozlov, father? That required these two."
Adrian finishes feeding and Mariana passes him to me. Two babies, one in each arm. The weight of the entire world.
"Are you scared?" she asks.
"Terrified."
"Good. Me too."
"But we'll figure it out?"
"Together," she confirms.
Three days later, we brought them home. We'd decided to stay in New York rather than move to Chicago near Alexei and Mila.
Mariana wanted to be close to potential FBI work when she's ready, and I wanted our children to grow up in the city where their parents fell in love—even if it started with her trying to arrest me.
The house has been baby-proofed to within an inch of its life, courtesy of Mila's obsessive preparation during her visits.
Two cribs, though the twins sleep better together.
Enough diapers to supply a small country.
And a library of parenting books I've memorized but which prove useless when faced with actual screaming infants.
"They're broken," I announce at 3 AM on our first night home. "They won't stop crying."
"They're not broken. They're babies."
"Sofia's been screaming for an hour."
"Twenty minutes."
"It feels like an hour."
Mariana takes Sofia, who immediately quiets. "She just wanted her mama."
"Traitor," I tell my daughter, but I'm smiling.
Adrian, meanwhile, has decided sleep is for the weak. He lies in his bassinet, alert and watching, like he's standing guard.
"He's going to be trouble," Mariana predicts.
"They both are. They're ours."
She laughs, then immediately shushes herself as Sofia stirs. "We're going to be terrible at this."
"Probably."
"Our children are going to need so much therapy."
"Definitely."
"But they'll be loved."
"Fiercely. Completely. Probably too much."
"No such thing as too much."
I think about my sister Anya, slowly healing in Chicago with Alexei and Mila's help, learning what real love looks like after twenty-three years of horror. About Mariana's mother, who raised her alone after her father died. About all the ways love can be imperfect but still be enough.
"No," I agree. "No such thing."
Two weeks later, I'm alone with the twins while Mariana showers—a fifteen-minute window that feels like hours. Sofia is crying, Adrian needs changing, and I'm trying to heat bottles one-handed.
This is when Boris finds me.
"Sir?" He takes in the chaos—me shirtless because Adrian spit up, Sofia red-faced and screaming, something suspicious leaking from Adrian's diaper.
"Don't say a word."
"I was just going to offer—"
"Help. Yes. Please."
He takes Sofia, who immediately stops crying. Because of course she does.
"You have the magic touch," I accuse.
"I have practice. Seven younger siblings."
"Seven?"
"Russian families." He shrugs, bouncing Sofia with practiced ease. "You'll learn."
And I do. Slowly, messily, imperfectly. I learn that Sofia only sleeps when held but Adrian prefers his space. That they both calm to Mariana singing in Spanish but will accept my Russian lullabies in desperation. That love multiplies rather than divides, growing to fill whatever space it's given.
And one month in, something miraculous happens.
Sofia smiles.
Not gas, not reflex. A real smile, directed at me while I'm making ridiculous faces at 4 AM.
"Mariana," I whisper urgently.
"If this is about Adrian's diaper, you're on your own."
"Sofia smiled."
She's instantly awake. "Really?"
I make the face again—apparently I look like a demented fish—and Sofia's tiny mouth curves up.
"Oh my God." Mariana's crying. "She smiled!"
"At my fish face."
"Your fish face is terrible."
"But effective!"
Adrian, not to be outdone, chooses that moment to grab my finger and squeeze with surprising strength.
"He's holding on," Mariana breathes.
"They both are."
And they are. Holding on to us, anchoring us to this new life where Mikhail Kozlov finally lives.
"What are you thinking?" Mariana asks, watching our children slowly drift back to sleep.
"We should have met sooner."
"If we'd met sooner, I would have been deeper in darkness. You would have arrested me without hesitation."
"True."
"We met exactly when we were supposed to. When we were ready to save each other."
She kisses me softly. "For criminals and FBI agents, we're awfully romantic."
"Currently exhausted parents."
"But are you happy?"
"Deliriously."
As if in agreement, both twins sigh in their sleep, tiny fists unfurling, completely at peace.
This is what we fought for. Not just survival, but this moment.
This family. This future where our children will grow up knowing only love, where their biggest concern will be whether Aunt Mila spoils them too much (she will) or if Papa's overprotective nature will embarrass them (it definitely will).
Outside, New York continues its relentless pace. But inside our house, time stops.
In his place stands a man who learned the hard way that love doesn't make you weak—it makes you invincible.
Even at 3 AM with screaming twins and spit-up on his shirt.
Especially then.
THE END
Dear reader,
I’m so grateful you joined me on this journey through brIDE OF VENGEANCE.
Mariana and Mikhail’s passion refuses to fade—it only burns hotter in the shadows.
If your heart still aches for them as much as mine does, click here for your exclusive bonus epilogue and discover how their story truly ends.
With all my love,
Emma Harris
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