Chapter 25 Two Become Four
Chapter twenty-five
Two Become Four
Mariana
The church smells like roses and incense, a combination that should be overwhelming but instead feels perfect.
Through the small window of the bridal suite, I can see guests arriving—a careful mix of reformed Bratva, FBI colleagues, and my extended family from Texas who still don't quite know what to make of my Russian husband.
"Stop fidgeting," my mother commands, adjusting my veil for the hundredth time. "You'll wrinkle the dress."
The dress—an elegant A-line that somehow makes my five-month pregnant belly look intentional rather than inconvenient. Mila found it after what she called "only" twelve stores.
"I'm nervous," I admit.
"You're already married. What's to be nervous about?"
"This is different. This is..." I struggle for words. "This is the wedding I dreamed about as a girl. The one where everyone watches and judges and—"
"And celebrates," Mama interrupts. "They're here to celebrate, mija. Your FBI friends who respect you enough to attend your wedding to a former criminal. His family, who accept you despite everything. This is love winning."
A knock interrupts us. Mila enters, radiant in her burgundy matron of honor dress, carrying my bouquet.
"The groom is having a moment," she announces.
"What kind of moment?"
"The kind where Boris had to physically stop him from running."
"He's running away?" My heart drops.
"No! Running to you. He wants to see you before the ceremony. Something about not being able to wait." She grins. "It's actually romantic, but Boris is enforcing the whole 'bad luck to see the bride' thing."
Despite my nerves, I smile. Of course Mikhail is impatient. Patience has never been his strong suit, especially where I'm concerned.
"Five minutes," my mother announces. "Then we walk."
Those five minutes feel like hours. I hear the music change, the processional beginning. My mother squeezes my hand.
"Your father would be proud," she whispers. "You found a man who would die for you."
"I'd rather have one who lives for me."
"You have both."
The doors open, and I see the church properly for the first time. It's packed. Rodriguez is there, having finally accepted our relationship. Williams from the FBI. Alexei's legitimate business associates. Even Dr. Jensen, the doctor from Harrison's facility who tried to hint that Mikhail was alive.
But I only have eyes for the man at the altar.
Mikhail stands there in a perfectly tailored black suit, looking like every dangerous fantasy I've ever had. But it's his expression that stops my heart—wonder, love, and something that looks like disbelief, as if he can't quite accept this is real.
The walk down the aisle takes forever and no time at all. My mother places my hand in Mikhail's with a whispered threat in Spanish that makes him grin despite his obvious emotion.
"You look..." he starts, then stops, apparently speechless.
"Giant?"
"Perfect."
The ceremony itself is a blur of English, Spanish, and Russian—a deliberate blend of our cultures. When it comes time for vows, Mikhail surprises everyone by speaking first in Spanish.
"Mariana, mi alma, mi corazón," he begins, his pronunciation still slightly off but the effort clear. "You hunted me for two years, caught me in a few days, and owned my heart from the first moment you pointed a gun at me in that burning warehouse."
Soft laughter ripples through the church.
"I promise," he continues in English now, "to protect you without controlling you, to love you without consuming you, and to give our children the family neither of us had complete. You saved me from being only Ghost. You made me want to be a man worthy of your love."
I'm crying, not even trying to hide it.
"My turn," I manage. "Mikhail, you were supposed to be my greatest catch, my career-defining arrest. Instead, you became my salvation. You showed me that sometimes the law and justice aren't the same thing. That love doesn't follow rules or timelines."
I touch my belly where our twins rest. "You've given me everything—protection, passion, these babies, and a family I never knew I needed. I promise to stand beside you, to trust your strength while maintaining my own, and to never let you alphabetize my food cravings again."
He laughs, and several people who know about his organizational obsessions join in.
"I promise," I continue more seriously, "to love every part of you—the protector, the father, the man who still terrifies others but brings me coffee exactly how I like it every morning."
The priest, who's been remarkably patient with our non-traditional vows, finally gets to the official parts. Rings are exchanged—Mikhail adding a wedding band to match the engagement ring and courthouse ring already on my finger.
"By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you—again—husband and wife."
Mikhail kisses me before the priest finishes, one hand tangling in my hair while the other rests possessively on my belly. It's not entirely appropriate for church, but I don't care. The congregation erupts in applause and what sounds suspiciously like Russian drinking songs from Boris's section.
The reception is at the Morozov estate, transformed into a winter wonderland despite it being late March. Mila has outdone herself—twinkling lights, elaborate floral arrangements, and enough food to feed a small army.
"How are you feeling?" Mikhail asks during our first dance, his hand warm on my lower back.
"Like a whale trying to waltz."
"A beautiful whale."
"That's not the compliment you think it is."
He spins me carefully, mindful of my changed center of gravity. "You're carrying twins. My twins. You've never been more beautiful."
"Smooth talker."
"I’m more like a truth teller."
The music changes, and my mother claims the next dance with Mikhail while Alexei partners with me.
"He's different," Alexei observes as we move. "Softer."
"Is that bad? For business?"
"No. Men fight harder when they have something to protect. And Mikhail would burn the world for you and those babies."
"That's not comforting."
"It's not meant to be. It's just true."
The reception continues late into the night. Russian toasts that get increasingly elaborate and probably obscene. My Texas relatives teaching Boris to line dance. Rodriguez giving a surprisingly touching toast about partnership and second chances.
"You know," Mikhail says as we watch the chaos from our sweetheart table, "I never thought I'd have this."
"A wedding?"
"A life. A real life with family and laughter and too much vodka being passed around despite the pregnant woman who can't drink."
"Regrets?"
"Never." He kisses my temple. "Although I am concerned about Boris learning line dancing. That can't end well."
Sure enough, Boris is now teaching the Texas two-step to several former Bratva soldiers. It's surreal and perfect and absolutely our life now.
"I need air," I tell Mikhail as another wave of Braxton Hicks hits. They've been coming all day, practice contractions the doctor says are normal.
We step onto the terrace, the cool air a relief after the crowded ballroom. Chicago spreads before us, lights twinkling like earthbound stars.
"Our children are going to have all of this," Mikhail says quietly. "Family, culture, choice. Everything we didn't have."
"They're going to be spoiled rotten between your protection and Mila's enthusiasm."
"Probably."
Another contraction hits, stronger this time. I grip the railing, breathing through it.
"Mariana?"
"Just Braxton Hicks. Though these twins better not decide to crash their parents' wedding."
"That would be very them—dramatic entrance, perfect timing to cause chaos."
"Like their father."
"Like both their parents."
We stand there watching our families—blood and chosen—celebrate below. Six months ago, I was hunting him. Now I'm carrying his children, wearing his rings, bearing his name by choice rather than necessity.
"No regrets?" he asks, reading my contemplative mood.
"Only one."
His body tenses. "What?"
"We never got to do the cake cutting properly at our first wedding."
He laughs, pulling me close. "Easily remedied."
We return to the reception just in time for the cake—a magnificent creation that somehow incorporates both Russian honey cake layers and Mexican tres leches. As we cut it together, his hand over mine on the knife, I catch sight of us in the mirror behind the cake table.
We look right together. The former Ghost and the former FBI agent, now just Mikhail and Mariana Kozlov, expecting parents, surrounded by people who love us despite—or because of—our complicated history.
"Ready for the next chapter?" he asks as slices of cake get passed around.
"With you? Always."
Another contraction hits, stronger still. I grip his hand, and his eyes sharpen with concern.
"Hospital?"
"Not yet. But soon maybe."
"The twins want to attend their parents' wedding?"
"The twins have your impatience."
He places his hand on my belly, and I swear both babies respond, settling as if recognizing their father's touch.
"Two more months," he says, part plea, part command. "Stay put for two more months."
But as another contraction rolls through me, I have a feeling our twins have inherited more than just their father's impatience.
They've inherited our inability to do anything the conventional way.