EPILOGUE
MARIYA
The cemetery is peaceful this morning, sunlight filtering through the old oak trees and casting dappled shadows across the weathered headstones.
I walk slowly beside Andrey, my hand resting on my enormous belly while his arm supports my lower back.
Nine months pregnant, and I feel like I'm carrying a bowling ball that's determined to make every step an adventure.
"You okay?" Andrey asks, his blue eyes following my movements with that protective intensity that's only gotten worse as my due date approaches.
"Fine." I pause to catch my breath, my hand pressing against the small of my back. "Just ready for this baby to come out already."
His lips curve into a small smile. "Any day now."
"That's what you said last week."
"And I was right. Any day means it could be today, tomorrow, or next week."
I glare at him, but there's no heat in it.
The past few months have been surprisingly peaceful.
After the warehouse battle that ended the conspiracy, the Bratva world settled into an uneasy calm.
The families who survived are too busy consolidating power and protecting their own territories to worry about us.
And with my father finally safe and living in a guest house on the estate grounds, I've been able to enjoy the rest of my pregnancy without constantly looking over my shoulder.
It's been nice. Really nice. Almost normal, if you ignore the armed guards patrolling the perimeter and the fact that my husband is a Pakhan.
We reach the section of the cemetery where Andrey's mother and sister are buried. The headstones are simple but elegant, gray granite with their names and dates carved in Cyrillic script. Fresh flowers sit in the vases, evidence that Andrey visits regularly even when I'm not with him.
He stops in front of the graves, his expression shifting into something softer. More vulnerable. I've learned that this is the only place where Andrey lets his guard down completely, where the weight of being a Pakhan falls away, and he's just a man mourning the family he lost.
"Mama, Ekaterina," he says quietly, his voice rough with emotion. "I want you to meet someone."
He turns to me, his hand finding mine and threading our fingers together. The gesture is tender, intimate, and it makes my heart ache with how much I love this man.
"This is Mariya," he continues, looking back at the headstones. "My wife. The woman who changed everything."
I feel awkward talking to gravestones, like I'm performing for an invisible audience. But Andrey's hand tightens around mine, grounding me, and I force myself to speak.
"Hi," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "I've heard so much about you both. Andrey talks about you all the time."
It's true. Late at night, when we're lying in bed and the world feels quiet and safe, Andrey tells me stories about his mother and sister.
How his mother used to make him his favorite soup when he was sick.
How Ekaterina would steal his books and hide them just to annoy him.
The memories are bittersweet, filled with love and loss in equal measure.
"I wish you could have met her," Andrey says, his thumb brushing across my knuckles. "Mama would have loved you. She always said I needed someone who wouldn't put up with my shit."
Despite the heaviness of the moment, I smile. "She sounds smart."
"She was." His voice cracks slightly. "And Ekaterina would have been so excited about the baby. She always wanted to be an aunt."
The baby kicks hard against my ribs, as if responding to the mention. I wince and press my hand against the spot, trying to ease the discomfort.
"Are you okay?" Andrey's attention shifts immediately, his free hand joining mine on my belly.
"Yeah, just—" I stop mid-sentence as a sharp pain lances through my lower back. It's different from the usual aches and pains I've been experiencing. Sharper. More intense.
Then I feel it. A warm gush of liquid running down my legs, soaking through my maternity jeans.
"Oh, no," I breathe.
Andrey's eyes widen as he looks down and sees the puddle forming at my feet. "Is that—"
"My water just broke." The words come out calm, but inside I'm panicking. This is happening. Right now. In a cemetery. "We need to go to the hospital."
He doesn't waste time asking questions. His arm wraps around my waist, supporting most of my weight as he guides me back toward the car. "Can you walk?"
"I think so." Another contraction hits, stronger this time, and I have to stop and breathe through it. "Okay, maybe not."
Without hesitation, Andrey scoops me up in his arms, cradling me against his chest like I weigh nothing. I want to protest and tell him I'm too heavy and he'll hurt himself, but another contraction steals my breath.
"Hold on," he says, his voice tight with controlled urgency.
He carries me to the SUV and settles me carefully in the passenger seat, his hands shaking slightly as he buckles my seatbelt. Then he's behind the wheel, the engine roaring to life as he peels out of the cemetery parking lot.
"Call the hospital," he orders, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "Tell them we're coming."
I fumble for my phone, my hands trembling as I dial. The contractions are coming faster now, each one more intense than the last. By the time we reach the hospital, I'm gripping the door handle so hard, my knuckles ache.
The next few hours pass in a blur of pain and exhaustion. Andrey stays with me the entire time, his hand gripping mine while I scream and curse and threaten to kill him for doing this to me. He takes it all without complaint, his blue eyes never leaving my face.
"You're doing great," he murmurs, brushing sweat-soaked hair away from my forehead. "So strong. So fucking beautiful."
"I hate you," I gasp between contractions.
"I know." He kisses my temple. "You can hate me all you want. Just keep breathing."
The doctor appears between my legs, her expression focused. "Okay, Mariya. On the next contraction, I need you to push."
I do. God, I push with everything I have, my body straining with the effort. Andrey's hand is crushed in mine, but he doesn't complain, just keeps whispering encouragement, telling me how strong I am, how proud he is.
And then, after what feels like an eternity, I hear it.
A cry, high-pitched and angry, the most beautiful sound I've ever heard.
"It's a girl," the doctor announces, holding up a tiny, squirming bundle covered in blood and vernix.
Tears stream down my face as they place her on my chest. She's perfect. Absolutely perfect. Tiny fingers and toes, a shock of dark hair, and when she opens her eyes, they're the same blue as her father's.
"Hi, baby," I whisper, my voice breaking. "Hi, sweetheart."
Andrey leans over us, his hand trembling as he touches our daughter's head. When I look up at him, I see tears streaming down his face. I've never seen him cry before. Not once in all the time I've known him.
"She's perfect," he breathes. "You're both perfect."
They take her away briefly to clean her up and do all the necessary checks. When they bring her back, wrapped in a soft pink blanket, Andrey holds her for the first time. He looks terrified and awed in equal measure, his large hands cradling her tiny body with infinite care.
"We need to pick a name," I say, exhaustion pulling at me.
"I was thinking—" Andrey starts, but he's interrupted by a knock at the door.
My father steps inside, his blue eyes bright with unshed tears. "Can I meet my granddaughter?"
"Of course." I gesture him closer, smiling despite my exhaustion.
He moves to the bed, his gaze fixed on the baby in Andrey's arms. "She's beautiful. Looks just like you did when you were born, Mariya."
"We're trying to decide on a name," Andrey says quietly.
My father is quiet for a moment, his expression thoughtful. Then he speaks, his voice gentle. "What about naming her after your mother and sister? First name from your mother, middle name from your sister."
Andrey goes very still, his eyes widening. "Elena Ekaterina."
The names hang in the air, beautiful and meaningful. I look at our daughter, at her tiny face and perfect features, and know immediately that it's right.
"Elena Ekaterina Melnikov," I say softly. "It's perfect."
My father smiles, then leans down to kiss my forehead. "I'll let you rest. Congratulations, both of you."
He leaves quietly, closing the door behind him. The room falls silent except for the soft sounds of Elena's breathing and the steady beep of the monitors.
Andrey carefully climbs into the hospital bed beside me, mindful of all the wires and tubes. He settles against the pillows and pulls me against his chest, our daughter cradled between us. His arms wrap around both of us, protective and possessive.
"I love you," he murmurs against my hair. "Both of you. More than anything."
I tilt my head back to look at him, seeing the truth of his words written across his face. "I love you too."
I never thought I could be this happy. I never imagined that the man who kidnapped me would become the love of my life. I never dreamed I'd see my father again, or that we'd be safe from the Bratva's violence.
But here I am. With a husband I love more than I thought possible. With a father I thought I'd lost forever. With a beautiful daughter sleeping peacefully in my arms. And with the knowledge that we're finally, truly safe.
Life doesn't get better than this.