Epilogue Elle
Turns out, if you put enough distance between yourself and generational trauma, add a golden retriever, a chubby baby, and a tomato patch the size of a tennis court, you can actually start to feel like life couldn't be better.
Montana's a dream. The sunlight hits different from city light, like God forgot to install a dimmer switch. It's been a year since we moved here, and we've never looked back.
I've got our three-month-old on one hip, his cheeks squished against my collarbone, drooling like a champion. The other arm cradles a basket overflowing with tomatoes, all grown by yours truly in this ridiculous, over-ambitious garden that came with the farmhouse.
Pasha comes flying out of the barn like a little bat out of nerd hell.
"I DID IT!"
My basket almost flips. The baby flinches, then farts loud enough to rival thunder. He is his father's son.
Pasha skids to a stop, hair wild, eyes bright like he's got NASA on speed dial. "The robot! The sensors worked! It moved on its own! I rigged the solar panel to the motor and..."
"Whoa, breathe." I adjust Alexander, who is now very interested in Pasha's monologue. "You finally got it to stop crashing into the barn wall?"
He nods like he's just hacked the Pentagon. "And it didn't explode."
"Low bar, but I'll take it."
From the porch, Nikolai grunts his approval. He's lounging in his chair with a book in one hand and our dog snoring at his feet. A stupidly gorgeous golden retriever named Capone, who barks at butterflies and has a personal vendetta against my garden hose.
Sir Isaac Mewton, the OG of this household, has yet to accept Capone's existence. He glares from windowsills and occasionally throws up on Nikolai's pillow in protest.
It's a work in progress.
Some nights I still dream about the bleach room.
About hands grabbing me in the dark, the hood over my face, the sound of a gun going off inches from my ear.
I wake gasping, and Nikolai's already there, pulling me close, murmuring against my hair until my breathing slows.
He has his own version. Some mornings I find him at the window before dawn, watching the treeline like he's counting shadows.
We don't talk about it much. We don't need to. We just hold on tighter.
But the days. God, the days are good.
I take the baby inside for his nap and leave the boys to argue about what to name the robot.
Dinner is stupidly perfect. Roasted chicken, potatoes with garlic and herbs I grew myself.
I'm starting to feel like a frontier wife and I'm all for it.
Nikolai lights candles like it's a Michelin-star date instead of a Thursday with mashed peas on the tablecloth.
Pasha sits across from us, legs swinging. Capone lies under the table waiting for scraps. Sir Isaac has claimed the bookshelf like a furry gargoyle, judging us from above.
Then Pasha's phone buzzes.
He checks it and freezes. Fork halfway to his mouth.
I switch to panic mode. Kids don't freeze unless it's huge.
He looks up, eyes weirdly shiny. "It's Mom."
Nikolai's face doesn't change, but his hand tightens on his glass.
"What did she say?" I ask gently.
"She's in Florida. She started college. Social work." A pause. "She wants to visit in two weeks."
I look at Nikolai. His territory. His son. His call.
To my surprise, he smiles. "That's great, Pasha. We'd love to have her." He reaches across the table, voice softer than I've heard it all day. "Do you want that?"
Pasha nods. "She said she's proud of me." He whispers it like he can't quite believe it.
My heart cracks in half and sews itself back together.
"She should be," I say. "You're the smartest person I know."
Natalia and I had the conversation three months after we moved to Montana.
She flew in for one day. We sat on this same porch, two cups of coffee between us, and she told me everything.
Why she did it. What Gayle threatened. How she'd thought about warning me but was too scared of what the Italians would do if Gayle's protection disappeared.
I wanted to hate her. Part of me still does, on the bad days. But she put a bullet in the head of the woman who was about to kill me and my husband and my unborn child. That's not something you can erase with anger, no matter how justified.
So I forgave her. Not all at once. Not neatly. But enough.
Healing doesn't look like what I expected. It's not a grand moment or a dramatic reconciliation. It's quiet texts, slow rebuilding, and space made at the table for someone who hurt you but is trying to be better. It's imperfect and messy and human.
Like most things worth having.
After the boys are in bed, I collapse onto ours, tugging off my jeans. "I'm pretty sure I have tomato seeds in my hair."
Nikolai sits beside me, hand on the small of my back. "Want me to check?"
I turn to look at him. His hair's longer now, the silver gone soft, natural waves resting over his temple instead of the severe swept-back look he kept in the city. Like even his hair decided to relax when we left.
"Only if you're volunteering to wash it too."
He smirks. That half-smile that still makes my stomach flip.
"Have I mentioned lately that I love you?" I push myself up, leaning into his warmth. "Like embarrassingly, stupidly, completely love you?"
"Not since this morning." He presses a kiss to my temple. "Never get tired of hearing it."
He goes quiet for a moment. Then: "I bought the tower."
I blink. "You what?"
"Gayle's building."
"That's a weird flex, but go on."
"I had it demolished."
I sit up. Heart racing but not from fear. "Like... demolished?"
He nods. "Gone. Blown to dust. One less monument to that life on the skyline."
And just like that, I'm crying. Not pretty crying. Full snot, instant flood, can't breathe crying. Nikolai opens his arms like he expected exactly this, and I crawl into his lap and bury my face in his chest.
"It's just a building," he murmurs into my hair. "It didn't deserve the power you gave it."
"I know." I hiccup. "But now it's really over. She's gone. The tower's gone. That life is gone."
"And this one is real." He holds me tighter. "This is your life now, Elle. Ours."
I kiss him. Hard. Wet. Honest. Grateful.
"I love you," I say against his mouth.
"I know," he replies. Smug bastard.
We fall asleep tangled in sheets and limbs, baby monitor on the nightstand, Capone snoring outside the door, cat probably plotting revenge.
And for once, there are no nightmares.
Just dreams that already came true.