Bonus Epilogue
Osip
I’m awake before the alarm— always am— but today it’s not the ghosts or the restless itch under my skin pulling me from sleep.
It’s hunger.
Raw, uncomplicated need for what I’ve planned to show her.
My wife sleeps against me like she belongs there— because she fucking does.
Her breathing stays soft and even, one elegant hand spread over my heart like she’s staking a claim even in sleep.
The wedding ring catches the morning light— simple platinum we exchanged yesterday, making real what’s been carved into my bones for months.
Moya zhena.
My wife.
Still sends electricity through my chest every time I think it. It feels like a lifetime ago that she was Ilona Katona Shiradze— a woman I loved but couldn’t fully possess. Now, she’s Ilona Sidorova, and something has taken root in me that I’d forgotten could exist.
She stirs against me, eyes fluttering open with the slow grace of someone emerging from peaceful dreams. When she sees me watching her, her lips curve into that smile that’s become my favorite sight in the world— sleepy, content, touched with mischief.
“Morning,” she murmurs, her voice husky with sleep.
I press a kiss to her forehead, breathing in the scent of her shampoo mixed with the lingering traces of last night’s celebrations. “Good morning, Mrs. Sidorova.”
The title makes her laugh, a sound like warm honey that I want to capture and keep forever. “You know, I’ll always love the sound of that.”
“Me too.” I run my fingers through her honey-blonde hair, marveling at how something so simple can feel so monumental.
She stretches against me like a cat in sunlight, and I feel the familiar stirring of want mixed with something deeper— the bone-deep satisfaction that comes from knowing she’s mine. Legally, emotionally, completely mine in ways that no contract or ceremony could fully encompass.
But there are other priorities this morning, plans I’ve been nursing in secret for weeks, waiting for the right moment to unfold.
“Get dressed,” I growl against her ear, though every instinct screams to keep her naked and warm until the rest of the world burns down around us.
She props up on one elbow, studying my face with that careful attention she’s developed for reading my moods. Smart woman. “Already giving me orders? We’re still officially newlyweds, you know.”
The challenge in her voice makes my mouth curve into the smile my brothers know means trouble. “Trust me, malen’kaya . You will like this one.”
Her eyes narrow in suspicion, but there’s curiosity there too, and excitement barely held in check. “What about the kids?”
“Your mom has it covered. I asked her to watch them this morning. She was thrilled.”
That earns me a real laugh, bright and delighted. “You know she’ll spoil them rotten.”
“That’s the plan.” I sit up, already reaching for the clothes I laid out last night with the care of a military operation. “Slava will get pancakes shaped like dinosaurs, and Eszter will be sung to in three different languages.”
“While we…?”
“While we take care of something that’s been in the making far too long.” I turn back to find her studying me with that expression that means she’s trying to solve a puzzle I haven’t given her all the pieces to. “Now, come on. I have something I want to show you.”
“You’re really not going to give me even a little clue?” she asks.
“ Net, ” I respond, already sliding out of bed to get dressed.
The drive through Budapest feels charged, like the air before lightning strikes.
Ilona sits beside me wearing soft blue that makes her eyes look like captured sky, but I can feel her curiosity burning like a fever.
She’s given up trying to guess where we’re going— smart woman knows when I’ve made up my mind about something.
Blyad , I’ve been planning this for weeks. Every detail mapped out, because some things are too important to leave to chance.
We wind through the familiar streets of Buda, past the castle and down toward the river, but instead of turning toward home, I navigate the narrow roads that lead deeper into the hills.
This part of the city is quieter, more residential, where old buildings nestle among trees like secrets waiting to be discovered.
When we pull up to The Scarlet Fox, her breath stops completely.
“Wait…” she starts, staring at the building like it grew wings and started dancing. “Is this…?”
Da.
This is everything I couldn’t tell her, everything I’ve been building while simultaneously tearing the world apart looking for her. And then, after I found her again, the need felt even greater as I realized I was constructing her future one brick at a time.
The building that emerged from months of careful renovation is everything I envisioned when I first bought this place— contemporary glass and steel married to classic stonework, creating something that’s both timeless and thoroughly modern.
The old pub’s bones remain, but everything else has been transformed into something worthy of the vision that’s been burning in my chest since the day I realized I was in love with Igor Shiradze’s daughter.
“ Bozhe moy ,” she breathes, stepping out like she’s afraid sudden movements might shatter whatever magic she’s seeing. “I can’t believe this is where I used to work. It looks completely different.”
Pride burns in my chest as I guide her to doors that were designed to be welcoming. Every detail has been chosen with the care I used to reserve for eliminating problems— the way morning light hits the facade, the balance between elegant and approachable, the sense that important shit happens here.
“You did all this,” she says. Statement, not question. Her fingers trace the brass nameplate like she’s reading braille.
“Péter and his crew did the work,” I correct, though we both know that’s not what she means. “I just knew what I wanted.”
And what I wanted was this— a place worthy of her, worthy of us, worthy of the future I plan to build with my bare hands, if necessary.
The inside smells like money and possibility. Rich wood, expensive coffee, something that might be fresh bread. The kind of place where power changes hands over handshakes, where anonymity comes from understanding rather than masks.
A waiter materializes like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment, carrying enough food to feed half of Budapest. I watch Ilona’s face as she takes it all in— the way light catches crystal, how every surface gleams like it was polished this morning.
We settle into the corner booth I specifically chose for this conversation. She sips coffee prepared exactly how she likes it— because I pay attention to details that matter— and studies the space with the eye of someone who understands restaurants from dishpit to front door.
“Okay, Osip,” she finally says, setting down her cup with care. “This is beautiful, the food’s incredible, but what’s this about? Why bring me here?”
Here we go.
I lean back, letting the moment stretch until anticipation builds in her eyes. “Because I wanted to show you your new place.”
She jolts like I just told her the building’s on fire. “ My new place?”
The words barely make it past her lips, like speaking too loud might break whatever’s happening here.
“If you want it.” I keep my voice steady even though my heart feels like it’s bracing to explode. “We can hire someone else to manage it, but you’re the best choice for the job.”
Her mouth opens and closes without sound. I can see her mind racing, trying to process what I’m offering and what it means for everything we’ve built.
“Plus,” I continue, reaching across to cover her hand with mine, “it’s where we first met. I know the original was in Boston and this one’s in Budapest, but…” I shrug because some things don’t need explaining. “You understand.”
Laughter bursts out of her— startled, delighted, slightly hysterical. “You’re serious?”
“Dead fucking serious.” I squeeze her fingers, feeling warmth and the slight tremor that means emotions barely held in check. “It’s family business now. Symbol of everything I want for us— something stable, something lasting, something that belongs to us .”
Her eyes glisten with tears that threaten to spill, my beautiful wife, who cries so freely. When she leans across the table to frame my face with her hands, something in my chest unlocks that’s been waiting for this moment since I realized I couldn’t live without her.
She leans across the table, closing the distance between us.
“You’re unbelievable, Osip.” She whispers it against my mouth before kissing me, soft and sweet and tasting like coffee and the kind of joy that makes everything else disappear into background noise.
When we break apart, I can see the exact moment when the reality of what I’m offering fully hits her. This isn’t just a gift— it’s a foundation. A future built on something we both understand, something that connects our past to our present in ways that feel like destiny rather than coincidence.
“Come on,” I say, standing and offering her my hand. “Let me show you around.”
The tour unfolds like revealing cards in a winning hand. Each space designed with the obsessive attention I used to reserve for planning hits— every element chosen to create perfect balance between elegance and the kind of comfort that makes people forget to watch their words.
The main dining room flows into a bar where premium spirits line shelves reaching toward coffered ceilings.
The kitchen is visible through strategically placed windows, gleaming with equipment that would make Gordon Ramsay weep.
There are private dining areas for conversations that require discretion, while the main space keeps the energy that comes from people enjoying themselves without fear.
“This is incredible,” she whispers, running fingers along the bar’s smooth surface where crystal catches light like captured diamonds.