EPILOGUE - 5 YEARS LATER
Emma
The late afternoon sun filters through the sheer curtains of the nursery, casting golden light across the pale yellow walls.
I cradle my newborn daughter against my chest, her tiny mouth latched onto my breast as she nurses contentedly.
Her eyes are closed, dark lashes resting against her chubby cheeks, and I can’t help but smile as I stroke the soft down of hair on her head.
Through the window, I watch the chaos unfolding in our backyard.
Artur stands at the grill, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his black t-shirt as he flips burgers with one hand and gestures wildly with the other, probably telling some outrageous story.
Rurik leans against the patio table, arms crossed over his chest, that familiar smirk playing at his lips as he listens.
Eduard moves through the crowd with practiced ease, shaking hands and clapping shoulders, every inch the diplomatic leader, even at a family barbecue.
My heart swells watching them. Five years. Five years since everything changed, since my world turned upside down and somehow landed right-side up in the most unexpected way possible.
The baby makes a soft sound, and I look down to find her milk-drunk and sleepy, her mouth slack. I carefully adjust my nursing bra and shirt, then lift her to my shoulder to burp her. She’s so tiny, so perfect. Our third child. Our little Anastasia.
Outside, I spot my other two running wild with the neighborhood kids.
Mikhail, my four-year-old son, is chasing his older sister Katya around the swing set, both of them shrieking with laughter.
Katya’s dark hair flies behind her like a banner, so much like Rurik’s.
Mikhail has Artur’s stubborn jaw and Eduard’s calculating eyes.
And little Ana in my arms has all three of them wrapped around her tiny finger already.
I never imagined this would be my life. Emma Moore, former FBI agent, now the wife of three of the most powerful Bratva bosses. Mother to their children. Part of a world I once investigated and put behind bars.
But here I am. And I wouldn’t change a damn thing.
A knock on the doorframe makes me turn. Krystal stands there, her blonde hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, wearing designer jeans and a silk blouse. She’s come a long way from being the property of Volkov.
“She asleep?” Krystal asks softly, moving into the room.
“Just about.” I stand carefully, moving to the crib to lay Ana down. She doesn’t even stir as I settle her on her back, tucking a light blanket around her.
“You’re getting good at that,” Krystal observes.
“Third time’s the charm.” I grin at her then link my arm through hers as we head downstairs. “How’s business?”
Her eyes light up. “We just secured another safe house in Connecticut. That makes fifteen total. We’ve helped over two hundred women and children in the last year alone.”
Pride fills my chest. Krystal’s underground network has become something incredible. And the best part? My men support it completely. More than that, they’ve made it part of their business model. Any Bratva caught trafficking on their territory gets eliminated. No questions, no mercy.
“That’s amazing, Krystal.”
“Couldn’t do it without the intel your boys provide.” She squeezes my arm. “Speaking of which, Eduard asked me to look into a rumored operation in Boston. Apparently, they’ve been moving girls through the port.”
My jaw tightens. “What did you find?”
“Enough to bury them.” Her smile is sharp, dangerous. “I’m meeting with your husbands tomorrow to go over everything.”
We step out onto the patio and the noise of the party washes over us.
There must be forty people here, maybe more.
Family, friends, and close business associates.
I even spot Agent Morrison from the FBI near the drink table, laughing at something Artur’s cousin is saying.
The fact that we have FBI agents at our family barbecue still blows my mind, but the alliance my men forged has held strong.
Information for protection. Everyone wins.
“Mama!” Katya barrels into my legs, nearly knocking me over. Her face is flushed and sweaty, her dress grass-stained. “Mikhail said I can’t climb the big tree, but I can, right?”
“Your brother is being protective,” I tell her, smoothing her wild hair. “But yes, you can climb the tree. Just be careful.”
“Ha!” She sticks her tongue out at Mikhail, who’s appeared behind her, scowling.
“Papa said girls shouldn’t climb trees,” he insists stubbornly.
“Which papa?” I ask, amused.
He thinks about this. “Papa Artur.”
Of course. I glance over at the grill where Artur is now arguing with Rurik about proper meat temperature, their voices carrying across the yard. “Well, Papa Artur is wrong. Girls can do anything boys can do.”
Katya beams triumphantly and races off. Mikhail looks uncertain, then shrugs and follows her. I watch them go, shaking my head.
Strong arms wrap around my waist from behind, and I lean back into Eduard’s solid chest. His lips brush my ear. “The baby sleeping?”
“Out like a light.” I turn in his embrace, tilting my head back to look at him. I raise my hand, showing him the baby monitor I’m carrying so I can hear her when she wakes up. Five years, and he still makes my heart race. “You having fun?”
“I’m watching my wife, my children, my brothers, and my family all in one place. Safe. Happy.” His gray eyes soften. “Yes, Emma. I’m having fun.”
I stretch up to kiss him, soft and sweet. He tastes like whiskey and smoke.
“Get a room!” Rurik calls out, and I flip him off without breaking the kiss. Eduard chuckles against my mouth.
When we finally part, he keeps me close, one hand splayed possessively across my lower back. “Krystal told me about Boston.”
“I figured she would.”
“We’ll handle it.” His voice drops, taking on that cold edge that still sends shivers down my spine. “No one moves product like that in our territory. Not anymore.”
This is the reality of my life. Beautiful children and family barbecues, yes.
But also violence and blood and the constant threat of danger.
My men are killers. They’ve done terrible things and will continue to do terrible things.
But they’ve also built something better.
A code. Standards. Protection for the innocent.
It’s not perfect. But it’s ours.
The afternoon bleeds into evening. We eat too much food, the kids consume their weight in watermelon and cookies, and someone breaks out a bottle of vodka that’s probably older than I am. Toasts are made, stories are told, and laughter fills the air.
I find myself sitting between Artur and Rurik on the patio couch, Eduard in the chair beside us, watching the sun set over our property.
The kids are still running around, though their energy is flagging.
Katya sits in Eduard’s lap, fighting sleep.
Mikhail is sprawled on the grass, making shapes out of clouds.
“This is good,” Artur says quietly, his hand resting on my thigh. “This is what we fought for.”
Rurik’s arm drapes across my shoulders. “Damn right.”
Eduard raises his glass. “To family.”
We all drink to that.
Later, much later, after the guests have gone home and the kids are finally, blessedly asleep, the four of us collapse in the living room.
I’m curled up on the couch between Rurik and Artur, my feet in Eduard’s lap as he massages them absently.
Some ridiculous mob movie plays on the TV, and we’re all making fun of it mercilessly.
“That’s not how you dispose of a body,” Rurik scoffs at the screen.
“And you’d know?” I tease.
He gives me a look that’s pure sin. “Baby, I wrote the fucking book.”
Artur snorts. “Your book would be one page. ‘Shoot them, burn them, dump them in the ocean.’”
“Efficient,” Rurik defends.
“Sloppy,” Eduard counters, his fingers digging into the arch of my foot in the most delicious way. “You need to be strategic. Plan ahead and cover your tracks.”
I listen to them argue about the proper way to commit murder and can’t help but laugh. This is my family. Three deadly, dangerous, powerful men who would burn the world down for me and our children. Who love me with an intensity that still takes my breath away.
“What’s so funny?” Artur asks, looking down at me.
“You guys. This. Everything.” I gesture vaguely at the TV, at them, and at our home.
“Five years ago, I was hell-bent on taking down the Bratva to find Krystal. Now I’m married to three Bratva bosses, I have three kids, my best friend runs an underground railroad for trafficking victims, and I’m sitting here listening to you debate murder techniques while watching The Godfather. ”
“The Godfather is a classic,” Rurik protests.
“It’s also completely unrealistic,” Eduard says.
“That’s my point!” I sit up, looking at each of them. “This whole thing is insane. My life is insane. And I love it. I love you. All of you. So much.”
The mood shifts, softens. Artur cups my face, his thumb stroking my cheek. “We love you too. More than anything.”
Rurik presses a kiss to my temple. “You’re our whole fucking world, Emma. You and the children.”
Eduard’s hand wraps around my ankle, squeezing gently. “Everything we are, everything we’ve built, it’s for you. For our family.”
Tears prick my eyes, but they’re happy tears. I pull them close, these three impossible men who own my heart completely. We stay like that for a long moment, tangled together, the movie forgotten.
Eventually, we settle back into comfortable positions. The movie plays on. Rurik makes another sarcastic comment. Artur throws a pillow at him. Eduard tells them both to shut up. I smile, content and warm and so incredibly happy.
This is my life now. Chaotic and dangerous and absolutely perfect. I have my men, my children, my best friend, and a future that stretches out before us full of possibility.
I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.
As the credits roll and Artur starts arguing about what to watch next, I close my eyes and let the sound of their voices wash over me. Home. This is home. These men, this family, this life we’ve built together from blood and bullets and impossible love.
And I can’t wait to see what comes next.