Chapter 24 New Beginnings
Chapter twenty-four
New Beginnings
Mariana
Three and a half months later, I'm trying to squeeze behind the wheel of our very practical, very safe, absolutely-not-a-minivan SUV when I realize I can't reach the pedals anymore.
"Problem?" Mikhail asks from the passenger seat, not quite hiding his smirk.
"Shut up."
"I didn't say anything."
"You're thinking it."
"I'm thinking you look beautiful."
"I look like I swallowed two watermelons." I adjust the seat for the third time this week. At four months, I'm already showing like I'm six months along. Twins are no joke.
"Sexy watermelons."
"That's not a thing."
"It is now." He leans over to kiss my temple. "Let me drive."
"I can drive!"
"To Mila's baby shower?"
"It's my baby shower."
"Where Mila has invited half of Chicago's Russian community that don’t even know you?"
I give up, switching seats with as much grace as a pregnant whale can manage. He's right anyway—Mila's turned what was supposed to be a small gathering into an event that probably requires its own security detail.
The drive to the Morozov estate is peaceful. November in Chicago is gray and cold, but the heated seats and Mikhail's hand on my thigh make it cozy.
"Rodriguez called," he says as we merge onto the highway.
"About?"
"Two more trafficking victims came forward. Harrison's network was bigger than we thought."
"How many does that make?"
"Fifty-three confirmed."
Fifty-three women whose lives Harrison destroyed. The number makes my chest tight with rage and sorrow.
"We're testifying next month," I remind him.
"I know."
"Are you ready for that? Publicly being connected to all of this?"
"Ghost is testifying. Mikhail Kozlov is just a security consultant who happened to marry a brilliant FBI agent."
"Former FBI agent."
"You could go back. Williams said the offer stands."
"With twins? I don't think so." I place his hand on my belly where one of them is doing gymnastics. "Feel that?"
His expression softens in a way that still makes my heart skip. "They're strong."
"Of course. They're ours."
"Ours."
"Have you thought more about names?"
"No Russian names."
"No Spanish names that you can't pronounce."
"I can pronounce Spanish names!"
"Say 'Alejandro.'"
"Al... Alex... shut up."
I laugh, and baby B joins the gymnastics routine. They're active, these two. The doctor says it's a good sign, but at 3 AM when they're having a dance party on my bladder, I have doubts.
We pull up to the estate, and I immediately see what Mikhail meant. There are at least fifty cars here.
"Small gathering my ass," I mutter.
"Mila doesn't do small."
"Clearly."
Inside, the house has been transformed into what looks like a baby store exploded. Pink and blue everything, though we haven't told anyone the genders yet. Mostly because we asked not to know ourselves.
"MARIANA!" Mila appears in a cloud of expensive perfume and excitement. "You look amazing! Pregnancy suits you!"
"I look enormous."
"You look fertile. It's very Russian."
"I'm Mexican-American."
"Details." She pulls me into the living room where approximately eight thousand women are gathered. "Everyone! The mother-to-be!"
The next two hours are a blur of gifts, games, and horrifying birth stories that make me want to keep these babies in forever. Mikhail, Alexei, and Boris have wisely disappeared to what Alexei calls his "strategic planning room" but is clearly just a man cave.
"The key," an older Russian woman is saying, "is to curse your husband in your native tongue during labor. They can't get mad if they don't understand."
"Curse in Spanish."
"He's learning Spanish."
"Then make up words. Men are simple—they just need to feel blamed for something."
The women laugh, and I realize something: I have a community now. Not just Mila and family, but these women who've welcomed me despite everything. Despite being American, despite being a former FBI agent, despite being the woman who tamed an infamous criminal.
"Mariana?" A familiar voice makes me turn.
"Mamá?"
My mother stands in the doorway, looking smaller than I remember but smiling wider than I've seen in years.
"Mila flew me in," she says in Spanish. "Surprise!"
I'm crying before I reach her, pregnancy hormones and shock making me a mess. She holds me like I'm still five years old and scared of thunderstorms.
"My baby's having babies," she murmurs. "With a Russian criminal."
"Former criminal."
"Who treats you well?"
"Like a queen."
"Good. Or I'll kill him myself."
"You'd have to get in line. Mila has first dibs."
We laugh through tears, and then she's examining my belly with the expertise of a woman who raised me alone after my father died.
"Twins," she says with satisfaction. "I knew it. You were a twin, you know."
"What?"
"Your brother was stillborn. We never told you."
The information hits like a physical blow. "Mamá—"
"These two will be different. Strong like their father, stubborn like their mother. They'll survive anything."
"How do you know?"
"Because they're already survivors. Look what they've been through already, and still they are growing up."
She's right. These babies have survived gunfights, kidnapping, their mother's near-death experiences. They're either incredibly lucky or incredibly tough.
Probably both.
The party continues around us, but I barely notice. My mother is here. My husband is somewhere in this house, probably teaching Boris Spanish curse words. My found family surrounds me with love and acceptance I never expected.
"Gift time!" Mila announces.
The pile is overwhelming. Clothes, toys, things I don't even recognize. But the last gift, the one Mila hands me personally, is small.
"From Mikhail," she says with a knowing smile.
Inside the box are two things: a tiny pair of baby shoes, so small they fit in my palm, and a note.
For our little wolves. May they run fast, fight hard, and always find their way home. Love, Papa
I'm crying again. Stupid hormones.
"He's going to be a good father," my mother says, reading over my shoulder.
"How do you know?"
"Because he chose to be. Men who choose fatherhood rather than having it forced on them—those are the ones who excel."
Later, after most of the guests have gone home, I find Mikhail in the living room with my mother and Mila. They're speaking in a mix of English and Spanish, my mother teaching Mikhail how to properly pronounce "Alejandro" while Mila laughs at his attempts.
"There you are," I say, lowering myself carefully onto the couch.
"Mija, your husband was just trying to speak Spanish with me," my mother says, smiling. "He's getting better."
"Barely," Mikhail admits. Then he looks at me with an expression I can't read. "Actually, while your mother is here, there's something I need to do."
"Now?" I ask, confused.
He looks nervous suddenly—this man who faced down Pavel Volkov without flinching is nervous about talking to me in front of my mother.
"Mikhail?"
He takes a deep breath, then drops to one knee right there in Mila's living room. My mother gasps, pressing her hands to her chest.
"Mariana," he begins, pulling out a small velvet box. "I did this all wrong. I married you without asking your mother's blessing. Without giving you a proper proposal. Without proving to your family that I'm worthy of you."
"Mikhail—"
"Your mother should have been there from the beginning.
Should have seen me promise to love and protect you.
Should have heard me vow to be the man you deserve.
" He opens the box, revealing a stunning ring—a ruby surrounded by diamonds.
"So I'm asking now, in front of her, with my family as witness—will you marry me? Again? The right way this time?"
My mother is crying. Mila is recording on her phone. And I'm frozen, staring at this man who understands that my mother's approval means everything to me.
"Senora Castillo," he turns to my mother, still on one knee. "I know I'm not what you imagined for your daughter. I have a dark past, a dangerous history. But I love her with everything I am. I love your grandchildren already. And I promise, on my life, to protect them all."
"You already married her," my mother points out, but she's smiling through her tears.
"In a courthouse, alone. She deserves better. You deserve to see your daughter properly married."
My mother looks at me. "Well, mija?"
"Yes," I whisper, then louder, "Yes, of course yes."
He slides the ring onto my finger above our simple courthouse band. "The ruby is passion," he explains. "But also protection in Russian tradition. The diamonds are for strength and forever."
"And the Spanish tradition?" my mother asks.
"The Spanish tradition is me learning to say your grandchildren's names correctly, even if they're called Alejandro and Guadalupe."
My mother laughs, pulling him up and into a hug that surprises everyone, especially Mikhail.
"You'll do," she tells him. "You'll do just fine."
The house has finally quieted. My mother is asleep in the guest room, Mila and Alexei have retired to their wing, and I'm searching for my husband.
I find Mikhail on the balcony, Chicago glittering below us. He's loosened his tie, sleeves rolled up, looking more relaxed than he has in weeks.
"Hiding?" I ask, joining him at the railing.
"Recovering. Your mother is scarier than Pavel ever was."
"She likes you now."
"Because I groveled appropriately."
"Because you understood what mattered—family, tradition, respect." I turn to face him. "You gave her the moment she missed at our courthouse wedding."
"I gave you both that moment." His hands frame my face. "You deserve to be properly asked, properly cherished."
"I am cherished."
"Not enough. Never enough." His thumb traces my cheekbone. "When I thought I'd lost you there, when Harrison had you—"
"Don't." I press my fingers to his lips. "We're here. We're safe. We're having babies who are currently using my ribs as soccer practice."
He laughs, his hand moving to my belly. "They're strong."
"Like their father."
"Beautiful like their mother."
"Flattery will get you everywhere."
"Will it?" His voice drops to that dangerous register that still makes my knees weak.
"Our room. Now."
In our bedroom, moonlight streams through the windows. Mikhail watches me with an intensity that makes me shiver, despite being four months pregnant with twins.
"You're staring," I say.
"You're gorgeous."
"I'm a whale."
"You're carrying my children. You've never been more beautiful." He moves behind me, hands gentle as they span my waist. "Every curve, every change—it's all because of us. What we created."
His lips find that spot where my neck meets my shoulder, and I melt back against him. "Mikhail..."
"Tell me if anything's uncomfortable," he murmurs against my skin. "The babies—"
"The babies are fine. I need my husband."
His hands move with reverent care, relearning my changed body with a tenderness that makes my eyes burn with unexpected tears.
"Too much?" he asks immediately, pulling back.
"Perfect," I whisper. "Don't stop."
He takes his time, worship in every touch.
This isn't the desperate passion of our first week together, when we were running on adrenaline and the constant threat of death.
This is deeper—the steady burn of established love, of knowing exactly where to touch to make me gasp, of trust so complete I don't have to hide anything.
"You're shaking," he observes, steadying me.
"Good shaking."
"There's bad shaking?"
"Mikhail, stop talking and—" My words dissolve into a moan as he finds exactly the right angle, the right pressure.
"That's it, little wolf," he murmurs against my ear, his Russian accent thicker with desire. "Let go for me."
The endearment that once annoyed me now makes heat spiral through my core. I turn in his arms, needing to see his face, to watch his control fracture when I touch him in return.
"Careful," he warns as I pull him closer.
"I'm pregnant, not broken."
"You're everything," he corrects, and the raw honesty in his voice undoes me more than any touch could.
When we come together, it's with four months of practice at reading each other's bodies, at knowing exactly how to move, how to breathe, how to exist in perfect synchronization. He's careful of my belly, creative with positions, attentive to every shift in my breathing.
"Look at me," he commands softly when I close my eyes.
I open them to find him watching me with such intensity, such complete focus, that I feel more naked than skin could ever make me.
"Mine," he says, and it's not possessive—it's a promise. A vow. A declaration that he'll never stop choosing me, choosing us.
"Yours," I agree, then because I know it drives him wild: "Always yours. Only yours."
His control finally breaks, and he buries his face in my neck, my name on his lips like a prayer as we fall apart together.
Afterward, we lie tangled together, my back against his chest, his hand protective over where our twins rest.
"I love you," he says into the darkness.
"Even enormous and hormonal?"
"Especially like that."
"Good answer."
"I'm learning."
And as we drift off to sleep, his steady breathing matching mine, I think about how far we've come—to this moment of perfect peace.