EPILOGUE #3
The Don of Milan looked as though he were actively having a heart attack. His face was pale, his eyes wide with panic, and his chest was heaving. He had walked in just in time to see his wife, six months pregnant, launch herself into the air and drop-kick a two-hundred-pound man.
The recruits instantly scattered, pressing themselves against the far walls as if trying to merge with the concrete. Matteo and Nico suddenly found the ceiling tiles incredibly fascinating.
Sandro sprinted across the gym, dropping to his knees on the mat in front of Zina. His large hands frantically roved over her shoulders, her arms, and finally came to rest protectively over her pregnant belly.
"What are you doing?!" Sandro demanded, his voice cracking with sheer terror. "Are you out of your mind? You are pregnant! You could have fallen! You could have pulled a muscle!"
"Sandro, I am fine," Zina laughed, genuinely amused by his panic. She ran her hands through his dark hair, trying to soothe him. "My balance is perfect. I used leverage, not force. The baby didn't even feel it."
"I felt it!" Sandro shouted, pressing his forehead against her stomach, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. "My God, Zina, you are going to put me in an early grave. I am banning you from this room. Matteo, lock the gym. Change the codes."
"You will do no such thing," Zina scolded playfully, pulling his head up and pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "I am a Kazan, Alessandro. I do not rust."
Sandro let out a ragged, exhausted sigh, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his face in her stomach.
He was at her mercy. The recruits watched in terrified awe as the lethal assassin patted the head of the most dangerous man in Europe, knowing perfectly well that Sherezine Kazan-Moretti was the true, undisputed ruler of the syndicate.
A few weeks later, the chaos of the syndicate and the frantic energy of the days gave way to the deep, insulated peace of the night.
The master suite was dark, illuminated only by the silver moonlight spilling through the tall glass windows. The silk sheets were tangled at the foot of the bed, the room comfortably warm.
Zina was fast asleep, lying on her side with her back pressed flush against Sandro’s chest. Her breathing was soft and even, a picture of unguarded serenity.
Sandro was wide awake.
He lay on his side, his large frame curved protectively around his wife.
One of his arms was tucked beneath his head, and his other hand rested gently, possessively, over the firm swell of her belly.
They knew they were having a boy. An heir to two empires.
The thought of it filled Sandro with an overwhelming sense of purpose.
The room was perfectly still. And then, beneath his palm, Sandro felt a sharp, distinct pressure.
Thump.
Sandro’s breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened in the dark.
He remained perfectly still, terrified to break the magic of the moment.
A few seconds later, it happened again. A strong, rolling kick pressed directly against the center of his palm, as if the child was reaching out to acknowledge his father's touch.
A blinding wave of emotion crashed over the Don of Milan. Tears, hot and unbidden, pricked the corners of his eyes.
He carefully shifted his weight, propping himself up on his elbow so he could look down at Zina’s sleeping face. She didn't stir, a soft, contented smile lingering on her lips even in her dreams.
Sandro leaned down, pressing his lips gently against the warm skin of her stomach. He kept his hand spread wide over the curve of her belly, feeling the faint, fluttering movements of his unborn son.
"I am here, piccolo mio," Sandro whispered in soft, melodic Italian, his voice a feather-light rumble in the quiet room. "I feel you."
Another soft kick answered him.
Sandro smiled, a single tear slipping free to fall against Zina’s skin. For a man whose entire life had been defined by blood, strategy, and cold calculation, this tiny, fragile movement was the most powerful thing he had ever experienced.
"You are going to have a beautiful life," Sandro promised his son, whispering into the dark.
"You are not going to inherit a world of fire and fear like your mother and I did.
I am going to build a fortress of peace for you.
You will know only love. You will know the strength of your uncles, the wisdom of your grandmothers, and the brilliance of your mother. "
Sandro shifted closer, wrapping his arm securely around Zina’s waist, pulling her back against his chest until there was no space left between them. He rested his cheek against her dark hair, breathing in the scent of jasmine and vanilla that always clung to her skin.
He closed his eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of Zina’s breathing and feeling the kicks of his son against his hand.
All the ghosts, the wars, and the shadows of the past had faded into nothingness.
Lying there in the moonlight, holding his entire universe in his arms, Alessandro Moretti knew with unshakable certainty that he was the most fortunate, blessed man to ever walk the earth.