Epilogue II
TERESA
Three years later, two weeks before Christmas…
Mateo leans against my legs in his tiny black suit, his curls wild. He’s got Vlad’s eyes and my dimples, his cheeks still round enough to pinch.
He fingers the edge of my handbag, then whispers, “Mama, is it time for snacks?”
We’re at a funeral and my son is thinking about animal crackers.
Aleksander Volkov’s service is held in a large cathedral, choir voices rising under domes of gold. The pews are full of politicians and oligarchs, bodyguards at every door.
Nikolai, Aleksander’s nephew and the acting head of the Volkov Bratva, stands near the front with a stoic face and red-rimmed eyes. Time softened the old wolf at the end, and the turnout here reflects it.
After the final hymn, the crowd begins to thin, mourners peeling off into waiting black sedans and SUVs. Snowflakes drift from the bare branches, catching in the wreaths of pine and ribbon tied to the gates.
Nikolai cuts through the crowd and stops in front of us, offering a hand first to Vlad, then to me, then a quick nod to Mateo. His grip is firm, his eyes clear and watchful, as if he’s cataloguing everything and tucking it away for later.
“Thank you for coming,” he says. “It really means something to the family.” He hesitates for half a breath, then adds, “There will be a gathering down the street at my uncle’s legal offices.
Everyone important will be there. We’d appreciate your presence.
” His gaze lingers a beat on me, less request than expectation. “Trust me, you’ll want to be there.”
Vlad nods. “We’ll be there.”
Nikolai gives a half-smile. “Good.” He glances again at our son, tucked against my hip in his tiny black coat, and for the briefest moment, the edges of his composure soften. Then it’s gone, replaced by the unshakable calm as he moves on to the next cluster of mourners.
Our convoy slides to a stop outside the law firm a few minutes later. The place smells like incense and cigars, mahogany paneling polished to a gleam. A garland of pine and gold ribbon winds along the banister, a wreath studded with red berries hangs above the reception desk.
In the conference room, a table stretches, its centerpiece a trio of white candles nestled among evergreen and holly. We sit, and after brief introductions, we get right to it.
The executor clears his throat, glasses low on his nose, and opens the leather folder.
“To Mrs. Teresa Angeloff,” the attorney reads, “I bequeath the controlling interest in Volkov Industries and its subsidiaries, including the Winslow Group—assets once entrusted to my care. I was wrong. I wish to return what should have been yours, and what you will steward better than I did. Seek prosperity without blood.”
My throat tightens. Overwhelmed doesn’t even touch it. It’s awe and terror, grief and wonder, guilt and relief braided into one knot I don’t have the words for.
I glance at Vlad. His expression is steady, unreadable to anyone else, but I see the shadow of pride there, the question that only I can answer.
What will you do with this?
I don’t know that answer yet.
Vlad’s hand finds mine under the table and he squeezes once. Around the room, there are coughs and sideways looks, the quick flicker of recalculation on a dozen faces. Let them recalculate. I sign and initial where indicated.
When we stand up again, I am the new head of Volkov Industries. The Winslow businesses are back where my parents intended—folded into something I plan to run cleanly and fairly.
“Ready, Mrs. Chairwoman?”
“Please,” I say. “I’m still the Crypto Queen.”
Vlad laughs. It’s true. Three years in and the Angeloff digital arm is a fortress—cold storage audited monthly, routes mapped like subway lines, compliance so clean it squeaks.
Nikolai finds me before Vlad can steer me into our car. “Mrs. Angeloff,” he says, dipping his head. His voice is calm, gentle. “It was right, what he did. Putting it in your hands.”
My mouth goes dry. “Right,” I say, still half-stunned.
He glances at Vlad, then back to me. “It’s a great weight, but not one you have to carry alone. If you need help with your new responsibilities, I know the Volkov holdings inside and out.” He lets the words hang, then adds, “You can trust that all I want is peace. And money. In that order.”
A laugh bubbles out. “Refreshing honesty,” I tell him. “I’ll see you at the office Monday, then.”
His mouth crooks, just enough to show he’s pleased. He dips his head once more before stepping back into the flow of mourners, his black coat flapping in the wind.
Vlad’s arm tightens around me. “Peace and money,” he mutters. “We’ll see.”
We don’t go straight home. Instead, our driver peels off at 72nd, and we cut through the park. The city is dressed for Christmas—twinkle lights strung through bare branches, wreaths on every lamppost.
Teo bolts ahead with Dmitri at his heels, pretending not to play tag with a three-year-old while absolutely playing tag with a three-year-old. Vlad tucks my hand into the crook of his arm, the scent of roasted chestnuts and sweet almonds in the air.
“Do you want the bench or the bridge?” he asks.
“Bench,” I say. We sit, and for a minute I just listen. “Vlad,” I finally say, turning toward him. His brows raise, a little tell that means I have his absolute attention. I take his hand and set it on my stomach.
It takes him a minute. Then his eyes widen the way they did the first time, power stripped down to wonder. “You’re…?”
“Eleven weeks,” I say, smiling so hard my face aches. “Doctor says everything looks perfect.”
He swallows, then lets out a breath. He cradles my face between his palms and kisses me—slow and certain, the kind of kiss that says yes to every version of the future. When he pulls back, his voice is rough. “Thank you, kotenok.”
“For what?” I tease. “Doing all the hard work?”
“For choosing me,” he says.
Mateo collides into us, his coat dusted with snow, a large stick in his hand. “Mama, my stick is coming home with us. His name is Sticky.”
“Of course it is,” I say. “We have a very strict stick-adoption policy.”
Vlad clears his throat, playing stern. “Only if it clears security.”
Dmitri, who has materialized with tactical seriousness to accept the stick, nods gravely. “I’ll run Sticky through the scanner.”
We stay until the light is honey-soft, the shadows stretch long, and all we want is a warm fire, the lights of the Christmas tree, and each other’s company.
On the walk back to the car, Vlad’s phone buzzes twice.
He ignores it. Mine buzzes once and I slide it to silent. The world can wait a few more minutes.
We pause at the edge of the path. I think of everything we’ve walked through to get here—death and gun smoke, ginger tea and lullabies. I think of the girl who ran on numb feet with ultrasound pictures in her coat, of the man who killed for her then married her.
We are not saints. We’ve never pretended to be. He’s an Angel of Death, and I’m a financier with a spine like tempered steel. Together we are balanced, perfect.
Vlad tilts my chin and kisses me, a seal on the life we keep choosing. “Home?” he asks against my mouth.
“Home,” I echo.
The End