Epilogue
The wedding reception looks like someone tried to fuse the Kremlin, the Vatican, and the Bellagio into one building and hoped it wouldn’t explode. It’s a miracle it hasn’t. Yet.
Crystal chandeliers glitter above imported white marble floors. Italian roses spill from vases the size of toddlers. The air smells like Prosecco, gunpowder, and Russian cologne so strong it could start a small war.
The Russians stand on one side of the room in their black suits, posture perfect, eyes cold. The Italians stand on the other—loud, animated, gesturing with their hands like they’re conducting an orchestra.
And Stephano and me?
We are in the middle.
Literally.
Figuratively.
Politically.
Emotionally.
My husband’s hand rests low on my back, a touch that tells me I’m here, I’ve got you, and he does.
He always does. Across the ballroom, I spot Mikhail—my newly volunteered sacrificial lamb—scowling so hard he looks like he might crack the marble.
He makes a beeline for me with the grace of an approaching bull.
"You," he growls. "This smells like one of your brilliant ideas."
I beam. "Yes."
He does not beam back. Too bad. He is, after all, my favorite uncle. We're so similar. Mikhail Arsenyev hates many things: disobedience, vodka brands not distilled in Siberia, and—most of all—Voronins.
And now he’s being forced to marry one.
"I hate you," he mutters.
"Only on Mondays," I correct.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. "I don’t want a Voronin bride."
"You’re not getting a Voronin bride," I smile sweetly. "You’re getting a confused twenty-something Italian girl who is terrified of her own shadow."
He groans. "Worse."
"She’s cute," I offer.
"I do not want cute. I want compliant."
"Camilla is compliant," I say, stretching the truth. The truth being that I don't know her at all, and from what I do know, she might appear compliant on the outside, but there's a rebel inside of her. "She just panics and runs away sometimes."
Mikhail narrows his eyes. "She disappeared again?"
I sigh. "Yes."
"You lost her?"
"She’s slippery!"
"She’s human, not smoke!"
"That remains to be seen."
He swears in Russian, so creatively, I actually take mental notes.
"We’ll find her," I promise. "And when you meet her, you’ll see she’s sweet. Gentle. Kind."
He grunts. "I'm none of those things."
"Perfect," I beam. "Balance."
He groans again and stalks off, terrifying a passing waiter. I laugh to myself. He’s going to love her. He’s going to hate that he loves her, but he will.
Across the room, Enrico is deep in conversation with Grigori’s lieutenant, a tall blond man built like a tank. They’re both drunk, both leaning too close, both insisting that their grandmothers made the superior tiramisu recipe.
"You don’t even know what tiramisu is!" Enrico slurs.
The Russian slams his palm over his heart. "I have eaten many tiramisus."
"That’s not the plural."
"It is now!"
Marcello passes them with a glass of champagne, shaking his head. "Idiots."
A sudden crash rings out.
Everyone spins.
Vito—Toni’s consigliere—is sprawled on the dance floor, gripping a fallen speaker stand like it betrayed him.
"Assassino!" he yells drunkenly.
The Russian best man points a finger. "You tripped!"
"Lies," Vito hisses. "The floor moved."
Stephano sighs. "Jesus Christ."
Raf smirks. "He fits right in with the Russians."
Grigori approaches the group, raises one imperious eyebrow, and the entire situation deflates. Even Vito quiets, muttering under his breath about slippery marble.
The music shifts to something soft and romantic. A hush falls as the crowd anticipates Stephano and my first dance. His hand finds mine. He turns me gently toward him, and the world stills. The mafia bosses, the Bratva soldiers, the political machinations, the bloodlines, all of it fades.
It’s just him.
My husband.
My future.
My impossible, infuriating, beautiful man.
He leans down and brushes his lips against my ear. "You look unbelievably beautiful."
"I know," I whisper back.
He laughs under his breath, low and warm. The music swells. He pulls me into the dance. For a moment, I forget politics. Bloodlines. Camilla. Mikhail’s sulking. The looming threat of Alexei. It’s just Stephano and me.
Grigori approaches us when the song ends, his face carved from stone like always, his expression unreadable. He could be about to kill a kitten or go make love to his wife. It's a toss-up.
"Congratulations," he says stiffly. "You did not disgrace the family."
Progress.
Stephano forces a polite nod. "Your presence means a lot to us."
Grigori’s stare could freeze lava.
"Do not thank me," he says. "I’m only here because killing Italians at weddings is considered rude."
Stephano mutters, "We appreciate your restraint."
I nudge him.
Grigori leans in. "Where is the girl?"
"Which girl?" Stephano asks.
Grigori’s eyes slice to mine. "Camilla. The Voronin."
I sigh. "She disappeared again."
He draws in a slow breath. "How does she keep escaping?"
"She just… drifts," I hedge.
"She is not mist."
"She might be."
Stephano pinches the bridge of his nose. "We’ll find her."
Grigori nods curtly. "See that you do. The longer she is unprotected, the more danger she invites."
He walks away, and half the Italians instinctively exhale in relief.
Raf joins us. "He terrifies everyone."
Stephano nods.
Hours pass.
The champagne flows. The Russians toast with vodka. The Italians get louder. Grigori’s men start dancing with Enrico’s cousins. One of Toni’s uncles arm-wrestles a Spetsnaz veteran.
Cat cries three times. Sophia makes Raf dance, badly. Violet takes a photo that will end up in police evidence someday. Even Pippa smiles. Well, twice.
Doc Brown is kept busy putting stitches in various wounds from various squabbles, but at least nobody dies.
And through it all, Stephano never leaves my side for more than a minute.
His hand steady as a rock on my back. His fingers laced with mine.
Near the end of the night, when the music softens again and the guests spill onto the terrace for air, Stephano turns to me, brushing a stray curl from my cheek.
"You’re mine," he breathes.
"Always," I concede.
His lips meet mine in a kiss that feels like a vow.
Behind us, somewhere across the terrace, Mikhail shouts at a waiter about watered-down vodka, Grigori threatens to break a man’s neck for looking at his wife too long, Enrico and the Russian lieutenant plan a joint tiramisu competition, and Raf tries—and fails—to stop Marcello from teaching a group of Bratva soldiers how to gamble badly.
Chaos.
Peace.
Family.
Danger.
New beginnings.
Perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
As Stephano pulls me close, I whisper, "God help all of us."
He laughs softly, kissing my temple. "God help anyone who stands against us."
We step back into the heart of the wedding, the Russians, the Italians, the alliances, the enemies, the future. For the first time since I was a child, I feel something warm and terrifying and wonderful: Home.
THE END (or is it?)
Thank you for falling for the Savage Kings of New York and surviving every twist, betrayal, and scorching kiss along the way. The story of this world is far from over.
Nico, Cammie, and several of your favorite characters will get their own follow-up books and novellas—but for now? We’re packing our bags and heading to Vegas.
Welcome to: Empire of Sin
And who better to open the series than Massimo?
The man with the iron jaw, the lethal calm… and the son he didn’t know existed. Oh—and the mysterious baby mama who’s about to turn his world inside out. Buckle your seatbelts. Grab a very cold drink. Massimo is coming in scorching.