Epilogue – Barbara
Three Months Later
The morning light came soft through the kitchen windows, no sirens cutting through it, no city chaos bleeding into the quiet. Just birds. Just wind moving through the apple trees. Just the kind of peace I used to think was a myth people told themselves to sleep better at night.
I’d woken up an hour ago to find Kirill’s side of the bed already cold, the sheets barely disturbed.
Three months in this mansion outside Chicago, and I still wasn’t used to the silence.
No traffic. No distant gunshots. No screaming neighbors or police helicopters circling overhead.
Out here, the loudest thing was the wind through the fields and the occasional crow calling from the fence line.
It was unsettling at first. The quiet. I’d spent so long living in noise, in chaos, that peace felt like waiting for the other shoe to drop.
But Kirill had been patient with me. On the nights I couldn’t sleep, when I’d wake up reaching for a gun that wasn’t there anymore, he’d pull me close and whisper in Russian until my heartbeat slowed.
I didn’t understand most of the words, but I understood the meaning. You’re safe. We’re safe. This is real.
I stood at the counter now, one hand pressed to the curve of my belly, always there now, like my palm had learned a new resting place. The baby moved beneath my touch, a flutter that still startled me every time. A reminder. A promise. A future I’d almost thrown away for revenge.
Six months pregnant, and I was glowing. That’s what everyone said. Illyana told me I looked like I’d swallowed the sun. Hailey said I looked disgustingly happy. Kirill just looked at me like I’d hung the moon and didn’t bother hiding it anymore.
The kitchen was massive, all white marble and stainless steel, with windows that stretched from floor to ceiling.
I could see the entire property from here: the rolling fields dotted with wildflowers, the white fencing marking the boundaries, the apple trees in full bloom near the gazebo.
It looked like something out of a magazine. A life I’d never thought I’d deserve.
But here I was. Barefoot in my own kitchen, wearing one of Kirill’s shirts because nothing else fit anymore, carrying his baby and planning a goddamn baby shower.
The irony wasn’t lost on me.
Three months ago, I’d still been looking over my shoulder, still flinching at loud noises, still wondering if the peace was real or just another setup.
Now? Now I stood in a kitchen that smelled like coffee and vanilla, watching the sun climb over fields that belonged to us, carrying a baby that shouldn’t exist but did anyway.
Miracles came in strange packages.
“You’re staring at nothing again.”
Kirill’s voice pulled me back. He stood in the doorway, barefoot, shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, looking more relaxed than I’d ever seen him.
No gun. No holster visible beneath his clothes.
No tension coiled in his shoulders like a predator ready to strike.
Just a man in his kitchen, watching his woman carry his child.
He’d changed too, in these three months. Not completely; Kirill would always be Kirill, dangerous and lethal and too smart for his own good. But out here, away from the city, away from the violence that had defined us, he’d softened. Just a little. Just enough.
His hair was longer now, curling slightly at the nape of his neck because he kept forgetting to cut it. Or maybe he just didn’t care anymore. Out here, there was no one to impress. No rivals to intimidate. No image to maintain.
Just us.
“I’m staring at everything,” I corrected, turning to face him fully. “The view. The quiet. The life we somehow didn’t die building.”
His mouth curved into that rare smile that made something warm unfurl in my chest. It still caught me off guard sometimes, that smile. For so long, Kirill’s expressions had been weapons, designed to unsettle or intimidate. But this? This was real.
He crossed to me, barefoot steps silent on the kitchen tile, and slid his arms around my waist from behind. His hands settled over mine on my belly, warm and possessive, and I felt the baby kick in response. Like he recognized his father’s touch already.
“Our son is restless today,” Kirill murmured against my ear, his accent thicker in the morning. “He takes after his mother.”
I felt the baby kick against our joined hands and smiled. Every kick still felt like a small miracle. “Jack,” I said, testing the name again like I’d been doing for weeks now. “Maybe he doesn’t like the name Jack.”
Kirill’s hands stilled. Then he turned me around slowly, deliberately, his eyes sharp despite the softness of the moment. “You are naming our son after a whiskey?”
I grinned, couldn’t help it. The look on his face was worth every ounce of trouble I’d get for this. “You’re welcome.”
He squinted at me, jaw working like he was trying to decide if I was serious. I watched the gears turning behind those dark eyes, watched him try to figure out if this was a joke or if I’d actually committed to this insanity.
Then he rolled his sleeves up slowly, deliberately, the way he used to before he’d done something violent. Except now there was amusement dancing in his eyes, and I knew I’d crossed a line, the fun kind.
“Barbara.”
“Kirill.”
“Our son—”
“Will have a strong name,” I interrupted, pressing my palm flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and strong beneath my hand. “Jack. Short. Powerful. American.”
“He is half-Russian,” Kirill countered, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that used to make me want to run. Now it just made me want to push harder.
“And half-stubborn as hell,” I shot back. “He’ll survive. Hell, with you as a father, he’ll survive anything.”
Kirill stared at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then his jaw twitched, and I caught the corner of his mouth fighting a smile. Victory. Small, but sweet.
“We will discuss this later,” he said, but there was no real threat in it. Just resignation. Just acceptance that I’d probably already won this battle.
He pressed a kiss to my forehead, lingering longer than necessary, like he was memorizing the moment. Then he pulled back, gave me one last look that promised retribution later, and headed outside.
I watched him go, watched the way sunlight caught in his hair, the way his shoulders had lost that rigid tension he used to carry like armor. Three months of peace had done that. Three months of safety. Three months of us.
I followed him outside because I couldn’t help myself. Because even after everything, even after all the blood and violence and chaos, I still wanted to be near him. Still craved his presence like oxygen.
The mansion stretched out behind me, white and sprawling and nothing like the blood-soaked penthouse where this had all started. No ghosts here. No memories of violence seeping through the walls. Just space. Just possibility. Just room to breathe.
Kirill had bought it outright, cash, no questions asked. Six bedrooms, four bathrooms, a kitchen bigger than my old apartment, and enough land that our nearest neighbor was half a mile away. Privacy. Security. Peace.
Everything we’d killed for.
Outside, the yard was a riot of preparation.
Illyana and Hailey moved between the oak trees, stringing pale blue streamers that caught the breeze and twisted, ribbons of sky against green.
They were laughing, actually laughing, and for a moment I just stood there and watched them.
Two women who’d been through hell with me, who’d bled and fought and survived.
Now here, hanging decorations for a baby shower like this was normal. Like we deserved this.
Maybe we did.
Illyana looked different too. Less sharp edges, more soft curves.
She’d gained weight in a good way, filled out the gaunt hollows that violence had carved into her.
Her hair was longer, pulled back in a ponytail that swung when she moved.
She looked…happy. Content. Like she’d finally stopped waiting for the next fight.
And Hailey—God, Hailey looked like she’d found religion. She was practically glowing, all smiles and easy laughter, moving with a grace I’d never seen in her before. The haunted look was gone from her eyes, replaced by something lighter. Something hopeful.
We’d all changed. We’d all healed.
“Barbara!” Hailey called, waving me over enthusiastically. “Come tell Illyana the banner doesn’t need to be military-grade secure. It’s a baby shower, not a siege.”
“Old habits,” Illyana said without looking up from where she was tying off another knot with the precision of someone who’d rigged explosives for a living. “Besides, if it falls, you’ll blame me.”
“It’s streamers,” Hailey argued, but she was smiling. “Not a load-bearing structure.”
I walked over, slower than I used to. The baby made everything slower, heavier, more deliberate. Every step was calculated now, every movement measured. I wasn’t complaining, but it was an adjustment.
“Let her secure it however she wants,” I said, reaching them. “If the wind takes it, we’ll never hear the end of it.”
Illyana smirked, satisfied. “Smart woman.”
Hailey rolled her eyes, but couldn’t fight her smile. “You two are impossible.”
“We’re thorough,” I corrected, watching Illyana test the knot with a sharp tug. “There’s a difference.”
We fell into an easy rhythm then, the kind that came from knowing each other’s demons. From surviving them together. Illyana finished securing the streamers while Hailey adjusted the ones already hanging, and I supervised, one hand on my belly, the other shading my eyes from the sun.