Epilogue II
ARTUR
After the front door closes behind Katie and Cherry, Mila immediately removes my watch.
I notice the loss when steel links flash in her fist under the strategy table.
Sasha sleeps against my left shoulder, warm breath dampening the collar of my white shirt, while Leo sits across my thighs attempting to open a folder of revised casino reports.
Beside the documents, sweet cheese pancakes made from my mother’s recipe cool on porcelain, rejected by all three children in favor of paper and expensive machinery.
Six armed men wait around the table in respectful silence as my daughter steals the object that once announced power from my wrist.
“Meeting begins,” I tell the six men seated around the table, none of whom speaks.
Boris looks toward Sasha, whose mouth has fallen open near my ear. Lev lowers his papers without allowing the corners to touch the wood. Two captains remain unnaturally still because each saw what happened last week when a closing cabinet woke all three children before lunch.
“He sleeps through gunfire on television,” I say.
“The cabinet incident suggests inconsistency,” Boris replies.
“We aren’t holding the organization hostage to a nap.”
Leo slaps the folder against my leg, making every man except the baby flinch. I take the casino report before he eats it and substitute a cloth book Katie packed for the shift, which he throws onto the floor before reaching for my pen.
“The northern managers accepted the new oversight structure,” Lev says quietly. “Revenue remains lower than before the split, but stable.”
“The southern routes?”
“Still under the freight partnership created through Pasha’s transfer. Two local operators requested trade agreements. Neither offered restored authority.”
“Accept fair agreements. We aren’t reclaiming the territory through pressure disguised as negotiation.”
Across every reduced report, the loss remains visible; at Dymov Casino, fewer tables operate.
Freight income has moved toward men who once answered my calls, while several captains built independent offices after Ivan died.
At a smaller scale, the organization survives because I signed away a district with no loophole hidden beneath the sacrifice, and even now, I’d sign again.
Lev turns to the next page. “The east security office wants to move its evening convoy onto the road behind this property. It shortens their route by nine minutes.”
I approve the route, and Boris looks up. “Suspended.”
The speed of his answer irritates me until I understand the reason. An evening convoy would pass the studio windows during Katie’s classes, placing armed vehicles close to dancers who chose a private location outside Dymov businesses.
“Katie rejected that route last month,” Boris continues. “You signed the household-access rule afterward.”
I remove Leo’s fingers from the report. “Use the northern road.”
Lev marks the change without reacting to a second man overruling me at my own table; the authority once would have felt diminished. Now it works as designed, interrupting habit before habit becomes another decision Katie has to discover after implementation.
I accuse Boris of enjoying this, and he calls enjoyment irrelevant to the operational finding, which Lev translates as yes for the newest captain. The man writes it down.
Despite reduced territory, the paperwork has not diminished.
Because the old family structure concentrated permission in one man and treated blood loyalty as evidence, Boris rebuilt the chain of command.
Now no family office can alter routes, collect staff records, or inspect a protected residence without a second authorization.
Whenever captains complain that every urgent request requires another voice, I remind them that Ivan used speed and secrecy to kill three soldiers; after that, complaints become shorter.
The slower system keeps more people alive.
Under the table, metal taps against wood because Mila has opened the watch clasp and holds the band between both hands, admiring the shine with criminal concentration.
She has Katie’s brown eyes, my dark hair, and the small, solemn mouth she wears before property damage.
This watch measured negotiations, attacks, and every minute I once believed could be controlled.
Now it disappears into a baby’s fist sticky with mashed fruit, and I find the transformation preferable.
When I lower one hand and tell her to bring it here, she grins.
At Dally’s, a child once grabbed this watch while his mother apologized. I showed him the clasp and let him touch the steel because children shouldn’t learn that wealth makes adults frightening. Mila requires the same patience, though the watch now spends more time covered in mashed fruit.
I slide from the chair without disturbing Sasha, then sit on the rug beside my daughter. The captains continue reviewing the casino arrangement above us, voices kept low enough that the meeting resembles a conspiracy against bedtime.
“This lever releases the clasp,” I explain, guiding Mila’s thumb over the mechanism. “The spring closes it. Pulling the links won’t improve either function.”
Mila watches my fingers and, for one hopeful moment, appears to understand. Then she puts the clasp in her mouth, forcing me to remove it before her teeth close.
“The lesson has failed.”
Boris glances down. “The student rejected its premise.”
While I recover the watch, Leo escapes my lap. At the table support, he pulls himself upright using Lev’s trouser leg. Lev has negotiated labor disputes with armed men without changing expression. At one baby’s touch, he places both hands flat where Leo can inspect them.
Sasha wakes when his breath changes against my neck and one small hand closes in my hair. I prepare for crying, but he uses the grip to climb higher onto my shoulder, placing one knee against an old burn scar while his other foot finds my chest; at the same moment, Mila climbs my back.
Leo releases Lev and returns for the front approach, crawling over my thigh before planting both hands on my stomach.
Within seconds all three children occupy some part of my body.
Sasha sits behind my neck, Mila grips my shoulders, and Leo bounces against my ribs until laughter throws him off balance.
I catch Leo before he tips sideways.
“Revise the household threat assessment,” I tell Boris. “I’m the largest preventable hazard.”
He writes it on the meeting page.
The security-threat classification began when three embryos turned thermometers, coffee, and laundry baskets into possible dangers.
I built rules around every ordinary object because controlling the room felt easier than trusting Katie’s judgment inside it.
Now the house contains stairs, toys, cabinet locks, soldiers, and one father large enough for three children to climb.
The children object loudly whenever I attempt to remove the largest hazard.
I return to the chair with Leo in one arm and Mila beneath the other. Sasha remains across my shoulders, fingers exploring the bent line of my nose.
I tell Lev to continue, but he looks at Boris first. “Are we permitted?”
“The chairman has classified himself.”
The meeting reaches staffing changes while Mila dismantles my cuff.
Leo steals the pen, then strikes it against the table until blue ink marks his palm.
Sasha lies across the back of my neck with one hand resting over my ear, forcing me to hear financial reports through the side once damaged by Ivan’s warehouse blast.
The report continues without anyone mentioning dignity.
After one captain proposes moving the next meeting to the mansion, I look toward the original bedroom visible down the short hall beyond the expanded family room. Because Katie owns this house, meetings happen here only with her approval, under a schedule that ends before the children’s bath.
“Ask Katie,” I say.
The captain writes the question without surprise.
My phone announces that the front gate has opened earlier than expected. Katie’s dinner reservation should keep her away another hour, though Cherry treats schedules as advice and dessert as an emergency resource.
The front door opens while Leo is striking the pen against my hand.
“Shit,” I tell him when ink reaches my shirt.
Every captain becomes interested in the table.
Katie enters wearing the green dress from the studio, followed by Cherry carrying a bakery box. Her gaze moves from the ink to Leo, then reaches the six armed men pretending they heard nothing.
“What are you teaching my children?” she asks.
“Boris used inappropriate language.”
Boris closes his folder. “Cowardly allegation.”
Cherry laughs and leans against the entry wall.
Katie crosses the room, lifting Mila from beneath my arm before kissing Sasha where he hangs over my shoulder. She saves Leo for last, wiping ink from his palm while he beams at her.
“Dinner ended early?” I ask.
“Cherry insulted the waiter’s contouring.”
“He started it,” Cherry says.
Katie sits on my knee after transferring Leo to the other side. Her perfume reaches me beneath baby lotion and ink. I place one hand around her waist, needing contact with the same persistence that survived one child becoming three.
The green dress rises along Katie’s thigh where it crosses mine, baring warm skin above her knee.
My thumb follows the exposed line below the table, slow enough to feel her muscles tighten before she catches my hand.
She glances toward the captains with a warning undermined by the color warming her face and the way her body settles more firmly against my leg.
Around us, reports continue and children make war on a plate of pancakes.
Desire moves through the domestic chaos with all its old force, no longer requiring danger to make it feel alive.
“Solo parenting doesn’t include producing another baby,” she murmurs.
“The medical probability is low with six witnesses.”
“You considered it.”
“I remain committed to complete risk assessment.”
Her fingers close around my tie, promising that the discussion will continue after bedtime if three children permit it.
“I love you,” I tell her.
“I love you too.” She looks toward Leo. “Even though his first clear word is now going to be your fault.”
“He has said several words.”
“Those were sounds.”
Leo pats my ink-stained shirt.
“Shit,” he says clearly.
Katie laughs against my shoulder while Boris records the meeting’s final verdict.