Epilogue
Six months later
GALINA
The buzz of the tattoo needle is louder than I expected, a persistent, angry wasp trapped in a small room. I grip the arm of the chair and breathe through it as the artist works the fine lines into Laszlo’s skin.
We’re in a private studio in Chelsea that Laszlo has used for years. The man doing the work is called Seryozha, built like a wardrobe and quiet as a church. He hasn’t said a single unnecessary word since we arrived, which I respect deeply.
Laszlo sits shirtless in the chair, one arm behind his head, watching me watch him with that particular expression he gets when he knows he’s affecting me and enjoys it far too much.
“Stop staring,” he says.
“I’m supervising.”
“You’re perving.”
“Both can be true.”
The tattoo sits over his heart. Left side. Close enough to the bone that I know it hurts more than he will ever admit.
When he told Seryozha what he wanted, the artist looked at me once, then at Laszlo, and nodded without comment. Professionals in this world know when to ask questions and when to shut up and work.
I run my hand over my growing belly and settle deeper into the leather sofa against the wall. “How much longer?”
“Twenty minutes,” Seryozha says without looking up.
Laszlo’s eyes stay on me. Blue and steady and full of something that still catches me off guard when I’m not braced for it. “You okay? You’re looking a bit green around the edges.”
He’s not wrong. My morning sickness has decided to keep going past the first twelve weeks, and staring at Seryozha, wiping away Laszlo’s blood as he etches our baby’s name into his skin, is making me feel queasy.
“Go and get some fresh air.”
“I’m fine. I’ve sat through this before.”
He smiles and runs his fingers over my name that has been inked across his shoulder. I watched that time, too. Didn’t feel sick then. Just felt something crack open inside my chest that I didn’t know how to close again.
“You’re thinking too loud,” he says.
“I’m always thinking too loud. You married me knowing that.”
“I married you knowing everything.”
“Liar.”
His mouth curves. “Most things.”
Seryozha wipes the area again, and I catch a glimpse of the lettering taking shape. Mila. Our daughter’s name, not yet born, is already permanent on her father’s skin.
My throat tightens. Fucking hormones. I press my fingers to my eyes and breathe.
“Galina.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You’re crying.”
“I’m not crying. Allergies.”
“I fucking love you,” Laszlo says with a soft laugh. “So fucking stubborn.”
“You’d hate it if I weren’t,” I croak.
“I would. If you were dull and boring and compliant all the damn time, I’d be tearing my hair out.”
“Voronov likes the fight,” Seryozha says.
“Always has,” I confirm, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand and giving up pretending it’s anything other than what it is.
“She’s going to be a nightmare,” I say, looking down at the letters forming on his chest. “With you as a father and me as a mother, she doesn’t stand a chance at being normal.”
“Normal is overrated.”
“Normal is safe.”
His eyes sharpen at that, and his grip on my hand tightens by a fraction. “She will be safe. That I can promise you.”
I believe him. Not because he’s never wrong, but because I have watched this man dismantle threats, restructure his entire security network, and install enough bulletproof glass in our house to withstand a small war, all before our daughter has even taken her first breath.
She will be the most protected child in London, and probably the most spoiled, if Leonid has anything to do with it.
“I’m happy,” I say, giving him a smile through tears. “So happy.”
“So am I,” he says. “I never knew what that meant.”
“Sappy bullshit. Save it for later,” Seryozha says.
“Yes, save it for later,” I murmur, reaching for my cup of water and taking a small sip.
But he’s right. I never knew what that meant either.
Now I have the rest of my life knowing I will die the happiest woman on earth to have known this man.
This ruthless man who loves our unborn child and me more than he can express in words, and the feeling is definitely mutual.