Epilogue
One month later…
MIKHAIL
The collar of the white shirt is still too tight, but this time, I don’t feel like I’m breathing glass.
I stand in the double doors leading out to the rear garden of the estate, the crisp wind catching the lapels of my black suit jacket. It’s quiet. It’s beautiful.
"You're crooked," I grunt, not looking down.
A small, frustrated huff comes from somewhere near my hip. "I'm trying to fix it. The button is stupid."
I look down. Oleg is standing next to me, dressed in a small, charcoal suit that matches my own.
He’s seven, but he’s already got that stubborn, serious look in his blue eyes that makes my chest tighten with a strange, heavy pride.
His black tie is twisted into a knot that looks more like a bird's nest than a Windsor, his small fingers fumbling with the silk.
I drop to one knee on the stone threshold. I reach out, my large, scarred hands gently swatting his fingers away from the silk.
"Let me do it," I say.
"You're going to make it too tight," he complains, but he stands perfectly still, his chin tilting up so I can reach the collar. "Like the last one."
I slide the knot up, straightening the black silk with a slow, practiced movement. I pat his shoulder, my palm heavy and solid against the wool. "There. You look like a Morozov now."
Oleg looks down at his small polished shoes, then looks up at my face. He reaches out, his small hand patting the bruise on my jaw that has finally faded to a light-yellow shadow. "You look like a Morozov too, Mikhail. But your face is still messy."
"It’s character," I grunt, standing back up and shoving my hands into my trouser pockets. "Women like character."
"My mom likes it," he says, a small, cheeky grin touching his lips. "She said your nose is crooked because you don't know how to duck."
"She’s a liar," I mutter, though the thought of her, the memory of her laughing in our kitchen this morning makes a sudden, warm pressure expand in my chest.
"Brother," Artyom’s voice breaks the silence.
I turn my head. My brother is standing near the garden path, his arm still in a sling but his face looking healthier than it has in months.
Kira is beside him, dressed in a simple, dark green dress, her hand locked in his.
Behind them, Calina and Milana are sitting on the stone benches, Milana already crying into a lace handkerchief while Calina rolls her eyes and sips from a flask of whiskey she’s clearly hidden in her purse.
Konstantin is there, standing silently near the iron gates, his hands clasped behind his back, looking like a gargoyle carved out of gray stone. He doesn't smile, but he gives me a short, respectful nod.
"Is everyone ready?" Artyom asks, walking over. He looks at Oleg, his gray eyes softening just a fraction. "You look sharp, Oleg."
"Thank you, Uncle Artyom," Oleg says, his voice proud.
Uncle Artyom. The words still sound strange in the quiet garden, but they fit.
"She's coming down," Kira says, giving me a soft, knowing smile.
My eyes shift toward the double doors of the estate.
The silence of the garden returns, the wind rustling the dry leaves on the stone path. And then, she steps out.
Irina is wearing a simple, elegant white silk slip dress that falls to her ankles, her bare shoulders exposed to the cool autumn air. Her golden-brown hair is down, falling in soft waves over her shoulders, and her only jewelry is the gold band on her left finger.
She looks so beautiful.
"You're late, Princess," I say, my voice dropping into that low, rough register.
"I was waiting for you to finish grumbling," she says, her blue eyes bright and electric as she walks down the stone steps. She stops two feet away from me, the wind whipping a strand of hair across her mouth. "You look... fine, husband."
"I took a bath," I mutter.
"Her lips twitch into a sweet grin. She looks down at Oleg, her expression instantly softening into something so warm and maternal it makes my throat tight. "Hey, baby. You look so handsome."
"Mikhail fixed my tie," Oleg says, reaching out to grab her hand. "He said I look like a Morozov."
"You do," Irina whispers, her eyes bright with tears she refuses to let fall. She looks back up at me, her gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that has nothing to do with the Bratva or the alliance. "Are we really doing this again?"
"We're doing it right this time," I say.
I reach out, my large hand wrapping around hers, our fingers interlocking in the cool air.
The ceremony is short. There is no priest, no Council members whispering in the back row, no legacy families waiting to see if we’re going to bleed.
It’s just Artyom standing on the grass, his voice a low, steady rasp as he reads the words that make us husband and wife.
But we don't need the words. We already signed the contract in the dark of the ironworks, and we sealed it with the blood of the men who tried to keep us apart.
"I do," I say, my voice loud and absolute in the quiet garden.
"I do," Irina murmurs, her hand tightening in mine.
I pull her close, my arm locking around her waist, my mouth closing over hers in a deep, lingering kiss that tastes of the future we’ve finally won with our own hands. Oleg lets out a loud, dramatic groan making Calina laugh and Milana sob louder into her handkerchief.
I pull back slowly, my thumb tracing the sharp line of her jaw. She looks up at me, her face flushed, her blue eyes dark and settled.
"We’re married, husband," she whispers. "Really married."
"Finally," I say, my hand coming down to rest on Oleg’s shoulder, pulling him close until the three of us are standing together in the pale gold light.
The war is over. The ghosts are gone. And as I look at my wife and my son, I realize that I’ve found my peace.
We’re the best of the bad guys.
Mikhail and Irina survived the blood, the betrayal, and the marriage that was supposed to destroy them. But peace never lasts long in the Morozov world. A new threat is already moving closer. And this time, it is Calina who catches the attention of a monster.