Epilogue I
ASTRID
Five months later…
The Ivanov mansion is quiet, eerily so. No distant shouting from the kitchen staff, no clinking of glasses, no muffled bass line from Lev’s godawful playlist bleeding through the walls. Just soft light through the leaded windows and the hush of old money breathing in its sleep.
I wander slowly, fingertips grazing the polished wood banister.
The house feels less like a fortress today.
I glance down at my huge belly and laugh. The babies are awake and on the move.
A smile starts to bloom. This moment, this body, this life. Against every force that tried to break us, we survived.
A voice cuts through the silence, light and familiar. “Everything alright?”
I glance up. Maura stands at the top of the stairs, hair swept up in soft waves, holding a mug. Her expression is warm and perceptive.
“I’m fine,” I say, smoothing a hand over my bump. “Just taking it all in.”
She studies me for a second, then smiles. “Come up. I need a second opinion on a couple of outfits. Lev thinks everything I wear is perfect, which makes him entirely useless for this.”
I giggle. Maura’s been a godsend lately—steady, smart, and quietly funny. She’s become a true friend, and I’m eternally grateful for her.
I start up the stairs, taking them slowly, one at a time.
“You know, the elevator exists for a reason,” she teases.
I huff out a laugh. “I have to get in my steps somehow. It’s either this or one of those bouncing pregnancy ball things, and I refuse to become that mom.”
Maura chuckles as I walk the rest of the way up. Her room is just down the hall, the doorway open. I can smell her perfume before we reach it, something floral and clean.
She nudges the door wider with her hip, guiding me in. “Alright, fashion judge. Prepare yourself for sequins and one absolutely unhinged jumpsuit Lev picked out.”
I follow her into the dressing room, my heart light.
Maura holds up a dark green dress against her frame, inspecting it in the mirror before turning to me. “Too serious?”
I tilt my head. “Only if you’re planning to deliver a closing argument instead of going dancing. Try the navy with the slit.”
She snorts and tosses the green one aside. Her dressing room is part war zone, part boutique—racks of gowns, heels, a small velvet settee buried beneath silk and sequins. I lower myself into the only chair not drowning in fabric.
Maura glances at me and smiles. “The gown you picked is a showstopper. Trying it on for a test drive before tonight?”
I nod. “I plan to. It's impossible to know what’s going to fit when you’ve got a belly with its own gravitational field.”
She laughs. “You look radiant. Like a dangerously glamorous fertility goddess.”
I smile, her words landing sweet and warm.
Her expression shifts to something more thoughtful. “Nervous?”
I lift a shoulder. “A bit. I mean, the annual Ivanov gala isn’t exactly a book club potluck.”
“True,” she says, slipping into the navy dress and smoothing it over her hips. “Anyone with real power in the Chicago underworld will be there. Along with a few out-of-towners. We’ve got some flying in from New York, and even a few from Moscow.”
“Great,” I mumble. “No pressure.”
Maura laughs as she turns to face me. “You’ll be fine. You’ve got this cool, untouchable elegance to you now. It’s terrifying.”
“I think that’s just third trimester exhaustion,” I reply. “But I’m getting used to it. This world. The rules, the games, the fact that everyone’s either a threat or an ally, depending on the hour.”
She perches beside me. “You’re fitting in perfectly, Astrid. Smart women always do. You’ve got the instincts for it. And you’ve got Yuri.”
The last part quiets me more than I expect. I shift, smoothing the fabric stretched over my stomach, tracing the curve where our twins turn and nudge.
Maura notices. “What’s wrong?”
I hesitate, then shake my head. “It’s silly.”
“Try me.”
I glance at her, then away. “I’ve never been someone who needed the whole big wedding thing. White dresses, toasts… it always felt performative. But now…”
“But now you’re wondering if he’s even thinking about it,” she finishes gently.
I nod. “We’re having twins together. And I know he loves me. But sometimes I wonder if marriage is even on his radar, or if I’m just supposed to assume this is it.”
Maura takes a moment to think about her answer, then says, “The men in this family have a tendency to take their time with that sort of thing. Commitment doesn’t scare them. It’s more that they get stuck inside their heads trying to make everything perfect first. Timing, politics, logistics.”
I smile faintly. “Sounds about right.”
She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “But Yuri? He looks at you like you hang the moon and stars each night. I’d bet my favorite Louboutin heels he’s already thinking about it. He’s just probably trying to find the right way to make it unforgettable.”
I want to believe her, but there’s still a whisper of uncertainty I can’t quite shake.
Maura squeezes my hand again and gives me a knowing smile. “Don’t waste the day worrying. It’ll all work out. Especially with men like ours—when they finally move, they do it big.”
I let out a breath, nodding. “Thanks. For letting me say it out loud.”
She grins. “This is what the Ivanov sisterhood is for. Complaints, fashion advice, and the occasional whispered assassination plot.”
I laugh. “That last one better stay hypothetical.”
“We’ll see,” she teases, rising with a stretch. “Now, get changed. We’ve got a lunch to get to.”
I slip into something a little less glamorous—a soft knit dress with boots and a coat belted over the top. Maura’s waiting by the front entrance, checking her phone. Lev’s voice echoes faintly from somewhere deep in the mansion, something about toddler crayons.
Our driver meets us outside. The sleek, black car glides through the chilly autumn air into the heart of the city.
We’re headed to Le Colonial, a dreamy French-Vietnamese fusion restaurant in the Gold Coast. When we arrive, warm light spills through gauzy curtains, the scent of lemongrass and grilled meat wafting through the air before we even step fully in.
It’s a bit of a tradition, Maura explains as we’re ushered to a private room upstairs. The Ivanov women always take this afternoon before the gala for themselves, one last calm before the storm. The men stay behind, corralling children and finalizing logistics. We eat, we laugh, we breathe.
Elena is already there, stylish as ever in wide-leg trousers and a perfect smoky eye. Dalia arrives next, cheeks flushed from the wind, shrugging off a chic camel coat. Isabella soon joins us, looking effortlessly glamorous as ever.
They talk about their kids—potty training woes, preschool admissions, teen eye rolls. Then they shift to their work—Elena’s new server farm project in Bronzeville, Dalia launching a boutique wine line, Maura’s quietly aggressive plan to take over a rival gallery space near Fulton Market.
I don’t say much at first, just listen. Absorb. Smile.
But the tension inside me loosens. Maybe it’s the warmth of the space or the soft clink of silverware or the way no one here apologizes for being smart, bold, and still wanting family, still building futures.
I find myself jumping in, talking about my consulting work, ideas I’ve had for a small, tech-focused non-profit, how I want the twins to grow up seeing their mother work hard and lead.
When they ask if we’ve picked names, I tell them maybe. It’s a half-truth. I want Yuri to be the first to know.
By the end of lunch, I feel close to whole. Like I’ve been missing this circle of women who fight, dream, and carry so much yet still manage to laugh through it all.
We ride back just as the sun begins to dip, a cool gold settling across the skyline.
By the time we return to the mansion, the shift has already begun—staff bustling about, florists weaving garlands, chefs setting up prep stations, security pacing along the perimeter.
Upstairs, a makeup and hair team waits like a small army, curling irons and eye shadow palettes at the ready.
The next few hours pass in a flurry of foundation, brushes, tiny finger sandwiches, and laughter echoing between dressing rooms.
And then it’s quiet.
I stand in front of the full-length mirror in my dressing room, the gown hugging my belly, hair swept up in soft curls, earrings catching the last light through the windows. My hands rest gently over the twins, and for a breath, I don’t move.
This is my life now.
And somehow, it fits.
The ballroom is alive when I descend the grand staircase, a blush rising to my cheeks as eyes turn toward me. The chandeliers drip golden light, catching the delicate beads on my gown, and for a moment, it really does feel like something out of a dream—except this time, no dread coils in my belly.
Only warmth and awe.
A string quartet plays in the corner, their bows sweeping in perfect rhythm.
The scent of saffron, roasted duck, and sweet figs fills the air, wafting from silver trays passed between tables overflowing with wine and laughter.
Everyone who matters in the city’s shadow world is here.
New York faces. Moscow figures. Yet none of them matter.
I only see him.
He stands across the room, imposing and devastatingly handsome in a black tux that fits him perfectly. His dark hair is neatly styled, a hint of stubble on his cheeks, his silver cufflinks catching the light as he lifts a glass of champagne to his lips.
God help me when he looks up and sees me. The way his eyes change nearly brings me to tears. It’s as if the whole world has narrowed down to just this moment, to just the two of us.
He makes his way toward me, cutting through the crowd.
“You look…” His voice catches, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “There aren’t words, but I’ll try. Radiant. Brilliant. Mine.”
My breath stutters and I smile. “You clean up well yourself, Ivanov.”
He offers his arm, and I take it. “Dance with me?”
The quartet shifts into a slow and romantic waltz as he leads me to the center of the room.
We move together easily, one hand on the small of my back, his other wrapped around mine.
Despite the audience, it feels private, like there’s no one else in the room but us.
People smile as they watch us twirl. I hear Dalia let out a little swoon. Maura winks.
Yuri leans down, whispering, “This is what heaven looks like.”
I laugh softly. “You’re getting sentimental.”
“For you? Always.”
The music fades. A soft clinking of silverware signals something’s about to happen, and then I feel his hand gently leaving mine.
Yuri takes a step back and lifts a hand to gather everyone’s attention.
“Friends,” he begins, his voice clear and confident.
“I could spend the rest of the evening telling you how proud I am of my family, how much this night means to us after the year we’ve had.
But there’s something far more important I want to say. ”
The room is quiet as glasses are raised.
He turns to me. “This woman right here is beautiful, brilliant, and maddeningly brave. She’s outwitted corrupt federal agents, brought down a cartel leader, and taught me what it means to love without fear.
I never saw her coming. And I’ll never stop thanking whatever gods decided to put her on that plane with me. ”
My throat tightens as tears pool.
“There’s only one thing I regret,” he says softly. “I wish I’d done this sooner.”
He drops to one knee. Gasps ripple throughout the room. My hand flies to my mouth.
“Astrid,” he says, eyes full of emotion, “will you marry me?”
Tears blur my vision. My lips tremble as I nod, words catching in my throat. “Yes,” I whisper. “Yes!”
The crowd erupts in applause as he stands and pulls me into his arms. I cling to him, laughing through the tears, heart so full it aches.
He leans into my ear, his breath warm. “I’m going to make you the happiest woman alive.”
I hold him tighter. “You already do.”
The words barely leave my mouth before a strange pressure ripples through my lower belly—deep, urgent, different. My breath catches, and I feel a sudden warmth gush between my legs.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
Yuri pulls back. “What is it?”
I glance down and see the spreading stain darkening the silk of my dress. My cheeks flush as a fresh wave of disbelief crashes into me.
“My water just broke.”
“Oh, shit,” Elena says, setting her champagne down quickly and running over to me.
“Are you sure?” Lev asks as Dalia pulls her phone from her clutch.
“I’m sure.” I half-laugh, half-gasp. “It’s pretty unmistakable.”
Yuri goes completely still, and I see the moment it clicks when calculation, alarm, and protectiveness flashes in his eyes. He snaps into motion, issuing orders. “Lev, get the car. Elena, call ahead to the hospital. I want security doubled along the route.”
Someone grabs my purse. Dalia takes my elbow while Yuri is at my other side, his hand warm and solid at my back.
The next ten minutes are a blur. I don’t even remember getting into the SUV. Just the hum of the engine and Yuri’s fingers tangled with mine as we speed through the city, my body tensing with the start of contractions.
“I’m not ready,” I whisper to him as another contraction tightens low across my belly.
He turns to me, face fierce and loving. “You’re ready. You’ve already fought harder than anyone I know. This?” He squeezes my hand. “This is the beginning of another amazing chapter.”
Hours pass in a blur of sterile white lights, machines beeping, nurses moving with quiet efficiency. I scream. I cry. I threaten to murder him if he keeps telling me to breathe. But he never leaves my side. He murmurs in Russian, in English. I hold onto him like he’s oxygen.
A sudden release of pressure. A few seconds later, a wail.
I barely have a moment to recover before the pressure returns. A few minutes later, another release of pressure and more wailing.
The room shifts from urgency to wonder to joy.
Two tiny babies, perfect, pink miracles.
The nurse places our daughter in my arms first. Her skin is warm against mine, her cries loud and indignant. She has Yuri’s mouth. I can already tell.
Our son follows, swaddled tightly, blinking at the world with quiet confusion, as though unsure how he got here but determined to figure it out. My little puzzle solver.
Yuri wraps his arms around all of us, forehead resting gently against mine.
“We did it,” I whisper.
His voice breaks. “You did it.”
I smile through the tears.
“They’re perfect.”