Extended Epilogue Dimitri
Five years later
I stand in the backyard of the estate, watching my children play, and sometimes I still can’t believe this is my life.
Mila is six now with blonde curls and blue eyes and fierce determination that would make a general proud.
She’s currently explaining to her four-year-old brother, Mikhail, exactly how to properly build a fort, complete with hand gestures and that tone of absolute authority she definitely inherited from me.
Mikhail, named after the guard who died protecting Vera in the safe room, because some heroes deserve to be remembered, is ignoring her completely because that’s what little brothers do.
“Misha, you have to put the big branches on the bottom,” she insists.
“Don’t wanna,” Mikhail says, adding a small stick to the top of their increasingly unstable structure.
Mila slams her hands onto her hips and gives him a glare worthy of Mrs. Kozlov. “That’s not how physics works!”
Her brother shrugs. “Don’t care about physics.”
“Mikhail Dmitrievich Volkov, you listen to me right now—”
I bite back a smile. She’s using his full name just like Vera does when she’s exasperated with me.
Mikhail looks exactly like I did as a child—dark hair that refuses to stay combed, sharp gray eyes, and he’s already showing signs of having my build. He’s going to be tall and strong, and based on how often he challenges his sister, probably fearless to the point of giving me gray hair.
But Mila...
Mila looks like Alexei.
The resemblance has become more pronounced as she’s gotten older.
She has the same blond hair that curls at the ends and the same striking blue eyes.
Even some of the same facial expressions—the way her nose scrunches when she’s concentrating, the tilt of her head when she’s considering something—are all Alexei.
She was about two when I first realized it, and it was like someone had punched me in the gut. A physical reminder of my brother and his betrayal.
I’d stood frozen in the doorway of her nursery, watching her sleep, and for just a moment, I’d seen Alexei’s face instead of hers.
It had scared the shit out of me.
But here’s what I’ve learned over the past six years. Biology doesn’t make a family. Love does.
Mila is my daughter. She calls me Papa and runs to me when she’s scared. She climbs into my lap for stories and holds my hand when we walk through the city. She has my stubbornness, my sense of justice, and my fierce protectiveness over the people she loves.
When she looks at me, she doesn’t see anyone but her father.
And when I look at her now, I don’t see Alexei anymore.
I see Mila. My daughter. My little girl who wants to be a doctor and a superhero and possibly the president, and who gets indignant about playground injustice and cries when characters die in books.
We never hid the truth from her. When she was old enough to understand, which was around four years old, Vera and I sat her down and explained (in age-appropriate terms) that I’m not her biological father. Another man was, but I chose to be her father. I chose to love her and raise her.
Mila had processed this with remarkable maturity, her little face serious. Then she’d asked, “But you’re still my Papa, right?”
“Always,” I’d promised, my throat tight. “Always and forever.”
“Good.” She’d climbed into my lap and wrapped her arms around my neck. “Because you’re the best Papa in the whole world.”
And that was that.
Now, watching her boss her little brother around with all the authority of an eldest child, I feel Vincent approach.
My father-in-law has become one of my closest allies and friends over the past years. Together, we’ve run both families with fairness, with Vera as an equal partner in all decisions. The alliance between Volkov and Ashford is stronger than either family ever was alone.
“She’s got your leadership qualities,” Vincent observes, nodding at Mila as she attempts to restructure the entire fort.
“She’s a force to be reckoned with," I respond, but there’s pride in my voice. “She’s six and already running the household. Even Mrs. Kozlov defers to her. Yesterday, she tried to reorganize my office.”
“Wonder where she gets that from,” Vincent says dryly.
The back door opens and Vera emerges, carrying a tray of snacks for the kids. Even after seven years of marriage, two children, and countless challenges faced together, my breath still catches when I see her.
She’s more beautiful now than ever. She’s strong, confident, and happy, comfortable in her own skin in a way she wasn’t when we first married.
She catches my eye and smiles—that private smile that’s just for me—and I cross to her to help with the tray.
“Lunch is almost ready,” she tells me. “It’s going to be chaotic with both families here.”
“It’s always chaos,” I respond, kissing her temple. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
She laughs and calls the children for their snack, and I watch as Mila and Mikhail abandon their fort construction to race toward their mother.
This is my life now. Snacks and fort-building and sibling squabbles and family dinners.
And I love every second of it.
An hour later, the estate is indeed in chaos.
The dining room is packed. The Volkov side—my remaining cousins, my most trusted men who’ve become like brothers, and their wives and children.
The Ashford side—Vincent, Elena, and Marcus, Vera’s sisters, Lydia and Natasha who are home for a weekend from college, and various aunts and uncles and cousins.
Two families that were once sworn enemies, now gathered together for Sunday dinner like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The noise level is incredible. Conversations overlapping, children laughing and running between tables, the clatter of dishes and silverware. It’s warm and loud and chaotic and perfect.
Mila sits next to me, telling me an elaborate story about something that happened at school involving her friend Anna and a frog that got loose in the classroom. I listen with the same attention I give to business negotiations, because making her feel heard and valued is very important to me.
Mikhail is on Vera’s lap across from us, getting more food on his face than in his mouth, and she’s laughing as she tries to wipe him clean.
“And then Mrs. Peterson screamed,” Mila continues, her blue eyes wide with remembered excitement, “and the frog jumped on Aiden’s desk and Aiden fell off his chair.”
“That sounds very dramatic,” I say seriously.
Mila nods, pleased with my reaction. “It was! And then I caught the frog and put him in the terrarium because nobody else would do it.”
I draw her close to me in a hug. “You were very brave, moya dochka,” I tell her.
She beams at the praise. “That’s what Anna said. She said I was the bravest person in the whole class.”
I kiss the top of her head. “I think Anna is right.”
Vincent stands then, tapping his glass for attention. The room gradually quiets, all eyes turning to him.
“Seven years ago,” he begins, and I know where this is going. Vincent’s annual toast has become a tradition. “I made a deal I thought would save my family. I gave my daughter to a man I believed was a monster in a marriage meant to end a war.”
The room is completely silent now, and even the children have stopped fidgeting.
“I was wrong about so many things.” He looks at me with genuine affection.
“Dimitri isn’t a monster, except for when we’re playing cards.
” Light laughter at that, and I roll my eyes.
Vincent is just a sore loser. “He’s a good man,” Vincent continues, “a great leader, and…” His voice roughens.
“He’s the best thing that ever happened to my daughter. ”
Vera’s hand finds mine under the table.
“And Vera,” Vincent continues, “my brave, strong daughter who took an impossible situation and turned it into something beautiful. Together, they’ve built a family, an alliance, and a peace that I hope lasts for generations.”
He raises his glass, eyes shining. “To Dimitri and Vera and the family they’ve created. Proof that even from darkness, light can grow.”
“To Dimitri and Vera!” the room echoes, glasses raised.
I squeeze Vera’s hand and she squeezes back, and we share a look that says everything we can’t say out loud.
We did it. We survived.
After dinner, as the sun sets and the children play in the garden under watchful eyes, I find myself in my office with Vera.
It’s become our ritual to steal a few minutes alone in the chaos of family gatherings. She sits in my lap in the desk chair, her head on my shoulder, and we just breathe together.
“This is everything I never knew I wanted,” I say quietly. “A family. Real peace. You.”
"Me too." She runs her hand down the front of my shirt and I hold her tighter. “When I think about who we were all those years ago... we were so different. So broken.”
I don’t like to think about who I was when we first met. “We fixed each other.”
“You fixed me,” she corrects. “I was ready to just survive. You taught me to actually live.”
Through the window, we can see Mila teaching Mikhail and the cousins how to climb the tree in the yard (definitely against every safety rule we’ve set) and I make a mental note to go supervise in a minute.
But for now, I just hold my wife and watch my children and think about the path that brought us here.
The fake death. The forced marriage. The hatred and fear and violence. The slow, impossible fall into love. The battles fought and won and the family created from ashes.
“Do you ever think about him?” Vera asks quietly.
She doesn’t have to specify who.
“Sometimes,” I admit. “Less than I used to. When I look at Mila, I don’t see him anymore. I just see our daughter.”
“Good.” She kisses my jaw. “Because that’s who she is. Ours. They both are. This whole beautiful, chaotic family is ours.”
“Ours,” I agree, and the word has never felt more right.
We sit in comfortable silence for another moment and then return to the chaos. Because that’s what family is—beautiful, loud chaos that you choose over and over again.
Mila immediately runs to me, demanding I push her on the swing. Mikhail wants Vera to help him catch fireflies. Vincent is arguing good-naturedly with Viktor about politics. Lydia, Natasha, and Elena are laughing with some of my cousins.
The whole estate is filled with laughter and love.
And I think, This. This is what we fought for.
Not power or territory or revenge.
This.
Family. Love. Peace. Home.
As the stars come out and the children finally start to tire, Vera leans against me, watching our family together.
“We did good,” she says softly.
“We did better than good,” I respond, pulling her close. “We did the impossible.”
And standing there, surrounded by the family we created from hatred and war, by the children who represent hope and future, by the love that grew in the darkest soil and bloomed anyway—we both know I’m right.
We did the impossible.
We took a forced marriage meant for revenge and turned it into the greatest love story of our lives.
Mila’s laughter rings out in the twilight as Mikhail chases her through the garden, and Vera’s hand finds mine. The evening air is filled with warmth and joy.
And that, I think as I pull my wife closer and watch my children play, is the best victory of all.
Not the empire I built or the power I wielded.
But this.
Love. Family. Peace.
Home.
Loved Dimitri and Vera? Binge read the entire Mafia Lords of Sin Series here.
“You’re going to marry me.”
I laugh—because the alternative is screaming.
My clinic is ashes.
My father is bleeding on concrete.
And Luca Marchetti, Chicago’s most ruthless crime lord, is watching me like he already owns my soul.
“Six weeks,” he says calmly.
“Smile for the cameras. Say I do. And your father lives.”
I should run.
Instead, I say yes.
Read FERAL FIANCE here.