Epilogue
Natasha
On the day Luka turned one month old, the New York sun was almost too perfect to be real.
I held him on a lounge chair on the manor lawn, soaking up the warmth. The little guy had just finished nursing—warm, drowsy, smelling faintly of milk. He slept hard, tiny fists clenched tight, occasionally smacking his lips, long lashes casting shadows on his eyelids. Perfect as a painting.
I couldn't stop staring at him.
Luka's birth had recharged something in me. That hollow-eyed, weepy wreck I'd seen in the mirror—God knows where she'd gone.
As for Dante...
You wouldn't believe it. The man who'd been cold as ice, who'd made all of New York's underworld piss themselves in fear—the Romanov pakhan himself—had turned into a completely different person since becoming a father.
A full-blown super-dad.
Whenever he was home, he fought me for diaper duty, bottle prep, and middle-of-the-night soothing sessions.
He went after those tasks with the same ruthless efficiency he'd once used to claim territory.
Those hands that had held guns and signed death warrants now handled bottles and diaper snaps with surprising competence.
But the thing that really got me—one night, I got up to nurse Luka and caught Dante standing alone by the crib.
He was hunched over, back to the door, using that low, rough voice that usually scared grown men into submission—singing a lullaby to our son.
I almost burst out laughing right there.
Because he was terrible.
The melody careened like a truck with bad brakes, lurching left and right, hitting every note except the right ones. In twenty-plus years, I'd never known this man—who walked through gunfire without breaking a sweat, who decided life and death over dinner—had this one fatal, hilarious weakness.
He was completely tone-deaf.
And he had no idea.
He hummed with intense concentration, brow slightly furrowed, like he was executing some critical mission that required absolute precision.
This man never showed weakness. Not to anyone. But here, with his back to me, completely unguarded, singing like shit for Luka—he didn't care at all.
I covered my mouth, leaned against the doorframe, and watched him for a while.
I'd meant to tease him. The words were right there. But I swallowed them back.
Let him sing.
I backed out quietly, eased the door shut, and left him alone.
Who cared if he couldn't carry a tune? Luka would love it anyway. I knew that much.
Dante wasn't the only one who'd changed.
My father, Nikolai, had changed too.
Since Luka's birth, he'd been showing up at the Manor constantly. Always with some excuse—imported baby clothes one week, "just passing by" the next. But every time, he'd park himself by that crib for hours.
When he held Luka, those gray eyes that used to look at me with nothing but contempt and calculation turned unexpectedly soft. He'd clumsily try to make the baby laugh, murmuring over and over: "That nose—like Natasha. Those eyebrows too."
Once, I found him standing in my studio, holding Luka in silence.
I didn't interrupt.
I knew who he was thinking about. The woman he'd failed his whole life.
The hatred ended with me. It wouldn't flow through my blood into Luka's.
That was enough.
Days melted into each other, sweet and slow, smelling of milk and diapers.
Until that evening, when Dante pulled something mysterious.
He called the nanny early, gave her detailed instructions about watching Luka, then came to me and produced a black silk scarf from behind his back like a magician.
"What's this?" I eyed him suspiciously.
"Don't ask." For once, his mouth curved into an unreadable smirk. "Close your eyes. Come with me. Trust me."
I studied him for a long moment before finally closing my eyes. Cool silk covered my vision. His warm hand took mine, careful as if holding something priceless, guiding me into the car.
The whole ride, blind, I could only feel the smooth motion of the car and his hand—never letting go.
"Dante, where are we going?"
"You'll see."
The car stopped. He helped me out, led me forward. The air was filled with sweet floral perfume, getting stronger with each step.
"Okay." His voice came from behind me as he untied the scarf. "Open your eyes."
I opened them.
And froze.
I recognized this place. The church where Dante and I had first gotten married.
Back then, wearing Vera's dress, carrying Vera's name, I'd married a man who hated me. Back then, the church had been filled with Vera's favorite red roses.
But this time—
This time, white roses filled every inch of the church.
From the entrance, along the red carpet, all the way to the altar—endless white blooms. The pale petals glowed softly in the candlelight.
My favorite flower.
The enormous church stood empty. No guests, no priest. Just me and him.
My nose stung. My eyes burned.
Dante took my hand and walked me down that carpet of white roses, step by step.
At the altar, he stopped, turned, and gathered both my hands in his warm palms.
"Natasha." He looked at me, those black eyes that were usually hard as ice now filled with a tenderness I'd never seen. "The first time we stood here, I humiliated you without thinking twice. Called you a lying social climber. That was the most fucked-up, stupid thing I've ever done."
"That wedding—I didn't do it right." Dante spoke each word carefully. "Marrying you properly, for real—that's what I want most."
His grip tightened.
"Everything you suffered, every hurt you took—that's on me. I can't pretend it didn't happen. Can't turn back time. All I can do is spend the rest of my life paying back every single debt I owe you."
"I swear on my life as Dante Romanov," his voice dropped low and heavy, each word landing like a hammer, "from now on, I'm loyal to you alone. I love you alone. Anyone who touches a hair on your head answers with their life."
Then Dante dropped to one knee and pulled out that ring I knew so well from inside his jacket.
"Natasha Kornilov." He looked up, pronunciation deliberate, eyes locked on mine. "I love you. Love you so much it scares even me."
"I know I don't deserve you." He held up the ring. Those hands that never trembled under gunpoint now shook—just barely. "But I'm asking anyway—Natasha, will you marry me again?"
I looked down at this man kneeling at my feet, and tears streamed down my face like broken pearls.
Every hurt, every sweetness we'd lived through hit me all at once.
I choked out a sob and nodded hard.
"Yes," I said. "Dante, yes."
Dante shot to his feet, slid that ring solemnly back onto my finger, then swept me into his arms, holding me so tight I could barely breathe.
"Natasha." He buried his face in my neck, saying my name over and over like he was carving it into his bones. "My Natasha."
I don't know who kissed who first, but by the time I registered it, we'd already lost control.
His mouth claimed mine—hot, demanding, urgent. Not the brutal claiming from before, but hungry all the same. Desperate. Like he was trying to pour every unspoken promise into that kiss.
I melted into him, fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer. My heart hammered against my ribs as his hands slid down my spine, one settling at the small of my back, pressing me flush against him.
"Dante," I breathed against his lips.
"I've got you," he murmured, and then he was kissing me again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against mine in a way that made my knees weak.
His hands found the zipper of my dress, tugging it down with aching slowness. The fabric pooled at my feet, leaving me in nothing but lace and his hungry gaze.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he said, voice rough. Those black eyes raked over me like he was memorizing every curve, every inch of exposed skin.
Heat flooded my cheeks, but I didn't look away. Instead, I reached for his shirt, fingers fumbling with the buttons until he took pity on me and yanked it over his head.
My hands traced the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of muscle, the old scars that mapped out a lifetime of violence. But beneath my palm, his heart beat steady and strong—alive, here, mine.
He lifted me effortlessly, carrying me to the front pew and laying me down on the smooth wood like I was something sacred. The white roses surrounding us filled the air with their sweet perfume as he covered my body with his.
"I love you," he said against my throat, his lips trailing fire down my collarbone. "Love you so goddamn much."
"Show me," I whispered.
And he did.
His mouth found my breast, tongue circling the sensitive peak through lace until I arched into him with a gasp. He took his time, lavishing attention on every inch of skin he uncovered, peeling away the delicate fabric with reverence.
When his hand slid between my thighs, I was already wet and aching for him. He groaned at the discovery, fingers stroking me with maddening gentleness.
"Dante—"
"Patience," he murmured, but his own control was fraying. I could feel it in the tension of his muscles, the ragged edge to his breathing.
I reached down and palmed him through his pants, drawing a sharp hiss from his lips. "I don't want patience."
That snapped something in him. He made quick work of his remaining clothes, and then he was settling between my thighs, the thick head of his cock pressing against my entrance.
Our eyes met. Held.
"I love you," I said.
He pushed inside slowly, stretching me, filling me completely. We both groaned at the sensation—the perfect fit, the overwhelming intimacy of it.
He stayed still for a moment, forehead pressed to mine, giving me time to adjust. "Okay?"
"More than okay." I wrapped my legs around his waist, urging him deeper.
He started to move—slow, deep thrusts that had me clutching at his shoulders, gasping his name. Not the rough taking from our past, but something tender and claiming all at once.
"That's it, baby," he murmured, one hand sliding under my hip to angle me just right. "Feel me. Feel how much I love you."
Pleasure coiled tight in my belly with each stroke, building higher and higher. His lips found mine again, swallowing my moans as he picked up the pace, driving into me with purpose.
"Dante, I'm close—"
"Let go, Natasha, don't hold back," he commanded, voice ragged. His hand slipped between us, fingers finding that sensitive bundle of nerves and circling with devastating precision.
That was all it took. I shattered around him, crying out his name as waves of ecstasy crashed through me. He followed seconds later, burying himself deep as he poured into me, groaning his release against my throat.
We stayed like that, tangled together, hearts racing in sync. His weight pressed me into the pew, solid and real and exactly where he belonged.
He lifted his head, brushing damp hair from my face with surprising gentleness. "Hi, wife."
I laughed, breathless and dizzy with happiness. "Hi, husband."
He kissed me again, softer this time, and I tasted forever in it.
We lay together in the candlelight, my head on his broad chest, listening to the strong, steady rhythm of his heartbeat. That sound made me feel safe in a way nothing else could.
My fingers traced the old scar tissue across his chest. I thought about the betrayals, the blood, the endless fighting—all those dark days finally behind us.
I closed my eyes. My lips curved into a smile I couldn't suppress. I felt a peace I'd never known before.
And the rest of my life with Luka was finally—finally—full of love.