Epilogue I
TERESA
By month eight, I feel like I need a damn forklift to get around.
Vlad and I were married at the courthouse by a long-time friend of Vlad’s who just happens to be a judge. Dimitri was the only one in attendance. It was quick, discreet, and perfect.
I lower myself into the leather chair in Vlad’s office, putting my swollen ankles on the little ottoman he referred to as a “strategic footrest” when he bought it for me. Autumn sunlight spills through the glass walls. From up here, the city looks calm, harmless, and colorful.
“Agenda,” I say, tapping the tablet. “Nine a.m.: call with Odessa freight. Ten: compliance with legal. Eleven-thirty: lunch with Councilman Lyons. Two p.m.: update with Volkov’s nephew. Four: foundation board.”
Vlad listens, steady as ever, already planning three steps ahead. “Excellent,” he says. Then he leans back, smiles, and steeples his fingers. “Now for my agenda. You’re fired.”
I stare at him a beat. “What?”
“Effective immediately.” He pulls a document from his side drawer titled: Termination—Personal Assistant. It’s already signed.
“You can’t fire me,” I say, half-laughing. “I’m practically the most essential employee here.”
He laughs whole-heartedly. “All the same, I don’t want my wife carrying my calendar and our child at the same time.”
“I’m not built for stay-at-home life,” I tell him, patting my belly. “I love you and this baby, but I’m not spending my days making banana bread.”
He smirks. “Terms?”
“After maternity leave, I want to work on your crypto portfolio. You’ve got wallets everywhere with no proper controls. I want the job. I want to build it, secure it, and make it run clean. Part-time. From home.”
He chuckles, like I just quoted his own notes back to him. Then he pulls out a folder, sliding it to me. “Director, Digital Assets Strategy,” the title page reads. Remote work. Profit share. Flexible hours. Infant-friendly scheduling is listed as one of the benefits.
“You wrote this?”
“Two months ago,” he states simply.
“Vlad.” My eyes sting. “You beautiful, controlling man.”
He rests a hand on my stomach, the baby kicking hard in reply. It wrecks him every time. “Deal?”
“Deal,” I whisper, shaking his hand. As we release, warmth floods down my legs. I freeze. “Ummm.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “What?”
“So either I just peed,” I say very calmly, “or my water broke.”
We both look at the growing wetness on the floor. A beat passes.
“Dmitri!” he barks into the intercom. He spins back to me, frantic. “Where are the bags? I packed three—yours, the baby’s, snacks. Are you in any pain? Contractions? Why didn’t you—Nika!” he yells toward the door. “Cancel my day, call the driver—now!”
“Breathe, Vladimir,” I say, gripping the chair as a cramp rolls through me.
He plants both hands on the desk and takes a few deep breaths. “Right. Ground transport. New York–Presbyterian.”
“Lenox Hill,” I correct. “The birthing suite. The one you had security audit three times.”
“Lenox Hill,” he repeats. “Yes. Should I carry you?”
“No, just help me stand. Slowly.”
He offers both hands. I stand, absurdly happy. He looks at the wet floor again, face crumpling with a kind of awe. “You’re… we’re…”
“Having a baby,” I supply, just as the door flies open and Dmitri rushes in, silver tie askew.
“What happened?” Dmitri asks, looking as if he’s ready to fight someone before his eyes land on the wet floor then me. “Ah.”
“My wife is in labor,” Vlad announces, unnecessarily loud.
Dmitri’s gaze flicks to my face. “How far apart?”
“Just started,” I say. “Like, literally.”
He nods, already on his phone. “Car’s inbound. Elevator locked to this floor. Security en route to the garage. I’ll ride up front.”
“Lenox Hill,” Vlad adds, as if Dmitri hasn’t memorized the plan he scripted six weeks ago. “Call Dr. Kornilov, tell him we’re fourteen minutes out. No, thirteen.” He checks his watch like he can bully time. “Someone find the bag with the—”
Nika appears in the doorway holding two sleek duffel bags and a Ziploc stuffed with enough granola and protein bars to feed a small village. “Already grabbed, Mr. Angeloff.”
“Bless you,” I tell her, gritting my teeth as another practice wave rolls through. “Also, apologize to Facilities for the mess. And maybe send someone to bring my rosemary from my desk back home?”
“Consider it done,” she says, and at that moment I love her enough to put her in my will.
Vlad is back at my side, one palm on the small of my back, the other hovering like he’ll catch the baby if it decides to come out right then.
I’ve never seen him so vulnerable. The man who talks down mayors and breaks syndicates is rattled by impending fatherhood, and it is wildly, achingly endearing.
“I’ve got you,” he says fiercely. “I’ve got you both.”
“I know,” I say, meaning it with every fiber of my being.
Dmitri clears his throat. “Car’s at the curb.”
Vlad steadies me and I loop an arm around his neck. We make it to the door as a third, sharper contraction snatches my breath, and I lean into him, forehead to his chest. In this moment, I cherish the fact that the scariest man I know is terrified—and I have never felt safer.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Let’s have a baby,” I reply and he laughs, shaky and helpless, kissing my hair before we take one more step toward the life we’ve been destined for since the day we met.
The drive blurs into lights and contractions. By the time we reach Lenox Hill, I’m sweating through my coat. Vlad looks calm and in control. Nurses sweep me into triage, brisk but kind. A quick check and I hear, “She’s fully dilated. Baby’s coming fast.”
One moment I’m gripping Vlad’s hand, the next I’m rolled into a room that looks more like a luxury hotel suite than a hospital. Large windows open over Manhattan, the skyline hazy with snow and practically glowing. The bed is wide, the lighting soft, the walls hushed in cream and pale green.
Vlad barely registers any of it—he’s glued to my side, thumb stroking the back of my hand.
Then it’s all sound and effort. Breathe and push, squeeze and burn, the world narrowing to a rhythm I fall into on instinct. Vlad whispers encouragements into my ear as the doctor and nurses speak them loudly. His grip is steady and strong, anchoring me through every contraction.
And then—release. A cry, sharp and furious, fills the suite like fanfare. My body collapses.
“He’s here,” a nurse says.
They place him on my chest, slippery, pink, and perfect. My son. Our son. His tiny fists flail, his mouth open, his little body outraged by leaving the warmth and safety of my womb—and I have never seen anything more beautiful.
Tears blur everything but him. I kiss the damp crown of his head, inhaling his scent, and sob without shame. The nurse smiles and asks softly, “Do you have a name?”
I open my mouth but Vlad’s voice cuts in, steady and certain. “Mateo,” he says. “After her father.”
My heart clenches so hard I think it might burst. I nod, unable to speak, and hold my baby boy tighter. “Mateo,” I whisper into his hair.
They clean him, weigh him, and swaddle him while Vlad hovers like a bodyguard.
Once we’re settled, Vlad lets Dmitri in and the big man folds. This man who has killed and bled for us cradles Mateo as if he’s the most precious thing on Earth, because he is.
The sight is perfect.
I’ve never felt such love. And I know without a doubt there’s only more to come.