Epilogue
Annamaria
Ten years later
Stella was right. I fell in love with Russia the second we landed.
We both did. So much so that we didn’t leave for months.
Misha’s compound was exactly what we needed to regroup and finally catch our breath, giving Matteo and me time to process everything we’d survived over the past six months while settling into the new reality of our lives.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Matteo and I were allowed to simply exist. No war. No bloodshed. No one hunting us down. Just snow-covered forests, quiet nights by the fire, and mornings spent drinking tea while little Nadya waddled around the compound demanding everyone’s attention.
It healed something inside both of us.
But even though I loved it there, especially spending time with Nadya and getting to know the Petrov family better, I knew Russia wasn’t truly our home.
And even though Misha had been an exemplary host, every time he looked at Matteo and me, I could see the grief lingering behind his eyes.
Seeing us so happy only reminded him of everything he had lost. Staying there any longer would’ve only deepened that pain, and I couldn’t stomach that.
Not after all the kindness he had shown us.
So Matteo and I grabbed our backpacks and spent the next year traveling through different parts of Europe, trying to find a place that suited both us and our new life.
Italy was too dangerous.
France was too crowded.
Greece was beautiful, but never quite felt like ours.
Then we found Amsterdam.
And somehow, from the moment we stepped onto its cobblestone streets and watched the canal lights dance across the water at night, we both knew.
This was it.
It became our own little slice of heaven right here on earth. The air was crisp and clean, the people warm and welcoming, and most importantly, nobody batted an eye at two Americans building a life there.
And a life is exactly what we built.
Once we finally stopped running, Matteo got baby fever almost immediately. Though, if you asked my husband, he’d claim he simply couldn’t keep his hands off me now that we finally had privacy and peace.
Either way, nine months later, Matteo Junior came screaming into our world, followed two years later by Marcelina, named in honor of my brother Marcello, the man who made this life possible for us.
Baby number three is still warm and safe inside my belly, while the rest of our little family already counts down the days until her arrival.
Out on the outskirts of the city, we bought a little cottage with an abundance of land on every side. It feels like we carved out our own private corner of the world, one made just for us and our ever-growing family.
A very loud family, at that.
“Matty! Get down from that tree!”
“No, Papa! I want to see my school from up here,” Matty shouts back at his father, using his little arms and legs to climb higher along the branches.
“Papa! I want to climb too,” Lina mutters, tugging at her father’s beard.
“You’re too little, principessa. But one day soon, I’ll teach you how to climb every tree in our estate myself.”
“Promise, Papa?” She pouts.
“Fuck my heart,” I hear him groan under his breath. “I’ll make you any promise you want, sweet girl. Just don’t cry, okay?”
“Okay,” she says, looking pleased as punch before jumping out of his grip and running toward her playhouse.
I let out a chuckle as I continue tapping away at my computer, uploading the new photographs from our trip to Zurich last month onto the cryptic website Enzo and Lucky made for us so our families back in the States could keep up with our latest adventures and shenanigans.
That’s another joy that we get to share with our children.
When Matteo and I were backpacking through Europe, we realized how much we both loved traveling and seeing the world through normal eyes. And by normal, I mean civilians. Because that’s what we are now.
Long gone are the days when we feared going anywhere, terrified someone might gun us down or kidnap us. Those fears no longer have room in our world. Now we get to experience the small joys of everyday life like any other couple.
Matteo and I even have jobs now. My husband owns a food truck that he drives into the city during the lunch rush, while I spend my afternoons giving private piano lessons to neighborhood children.
We make our own schedules and always make sure one of us is home when Matty and Lina come back from school.
Not that money has ever really been an issue for us.
Every few months, one of our family members just so happens to take a ‘business trip’ that conveniently includes a layover in Amsterdam.
Sometimes that layover only lasts a few hours, while other times it turns into a couple of days.
Never more than two, though. We can’t have anyone back home growing suspicious.
But every time they show up at our doorstep, they always arrive with two duffle bags in tow.
One is filled with gifts for the children.
The other is filled with cash.
I think the last bag Niccolò brought with his wife is still buried somewhere in our barn because Matteo and I genuinely ran out of places to hide the money.
It’s not like we can deposit it all into our bank accounts under our false aliases.
A piano teacher and a chef depositing over a hundred grand every few weeks would surely raise some alarms. If not with the syndicates, then definitely with the tax man.
Money bags aside, neither of us minds the impromptu visits.
Those stolen weekends with our family have become some of my favorite memories.
That and the summer months we spend at Misha’s compound, knowing we’ll get to see at least half of my family there.
Even my parents have caught the travel bug. Now that neither of my fathers is tied to the Outfit anymore, they’ve traveled the world more times than I can count. Another great excuse to come see their grandbabies at least every few months.
“Papa!” little Lina calls out, my husband still watching Matty like a hawk in case he falls out of the tree.
“Yes, sweetheart?” my husband replies, his eyes never leaving our adventurous son.
“When is Aunt Stella coming to see me?”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t you mean when is your aunt coming to see us, Lina?” I ask, uploading another picture to the website.
“No.” She shakes her head. “I mean me.” She points a little chubby finger at her chest.
At five years old, my Marcelina is already a force to be reckoned with. Everything revolves around her. I blame her father for that. My sister too.
The moment Lina came into the world with red hair like my mother and Stella, it was love at first sight for both of them. If her father isn’t spoiling her rotten, then Aunt Stella is more than happy to do it for him.
I’m just grateful Lina prefers princess castles over sharp blades.
“Your Uncle Kill promised they’d stop by after they leave Uncle Misha’s. It shouldn’t be too long now. Maybe a week or so,” my husband replies when I take too long to answer our baby girl.
“But I want to see Uncle Misha too,” she pouts, folding her arms over her chest.
“We just saw your Uncle Misha three months ago,” I remind, before my husband caves to her every whim.
“But that was foreeeeeverrrr ago!”
“Let me see what I can do, sweet girl,” my husband says, visibly more relaxed now that Matty has finally climbed down from the tree.
“Mama! What do we have to eat?” Matty asks, running toward me.
“Your father made mac and cheese for lunch. It’s in the fridge, kiddo.”
“Score!” He fist-pumps the air before pressing a kiss to my cheek. “Lina, do you want some too? I can teach you how to use the microwave again.”
“Why do I have to learn how to use the microwave when you can do it for me?” she asks, honestly perplexed by her brother’s offer.
“Do you want mac and cheese or not, Lina?” he asks, rolling his eyes at her.
Marcelina doesn’t think twice before running to her brother, grabbing his hand, and dragging him toward the house.
“I swear that kid is going to give me a heart attack one day,” Matteo grumbles, walking over to me and plopping down beside me on the blanket spread across the grass.
“Instead of worrying about Matty, you should be more concerned about Lina. She’s got you wrapped around her finger,” I reprimand lightly.
“Just like her mother,” he coos, grabbing my laptop, closing it, and pushing it aside so he can rub my belly. “And how is my little Tulip doing today?”
“Don’t call our baby that. I told you I want to name her Paolina after your mother.”
“And I agreed. But considering we made her in a tulip field, I think it’s only fitting that it becomes her nickname. Isn’t that right, Tuli?” he coos, pressing a kiss to my belly.
“You’re incorrigible,” I laugh.
“I’m a great many things, vita mia. As long as one of them is being yours.”
He leans in and presses a sweet kiss on my lips, one that quickly ignites something inside me. Something carnal and hungry. Something that has me imagining all sorts of dirty things.
Damn these hormones.
Anytime my husband so much as touches me, I get the overwhelming urge to shove him onto the ground and have my way with him. A fact that clearly isn’t lost on my husband by the way he’s licking his lips at me right now.
“Don’t you even think about it. My feet are swollen two sizes, my back is killing me, and this baby keeps kicking my bladder like it’s a football.”
“Aw, baby. I hate seeing you so miserable. How can I make it all better?” he asks, positioning himself in front of me, grabbing my bare foot and beginning to rub it.
“That’s a good start,” I sigh, placing my hands behind me and letting his fingers work their magic.
It’s not the earthshattering orgasm I was picturing but when you’re seven months pregnant, a good foot rub sure does come close to it.
“I was thinking about something,” he says, his fingers digging into the sole of my foot in the most glorious way.
“Hmm?” I hum absentmindedly, my head falling back over my shoulders.
“If we name little Tulip after my mother, then it’s only fair the next girl we have gets named after yours.”
I fling my head toward him so fast I almost get dizzy.
“What do you mean ‘the next girl’? Just how many babies are you trying to put in me?”
My husband doesn’t even look apologetic as he continues rationalizing his insanity. “Well, my mother had three boys, and your mother had six kids. By my count, that means between us, we can realistically have ten in total.”
“Ten?! Matteo Donato, you better be screwing with me!”
He laughs so uncontrollably that I instantly know he is.
“That’s not funny. You know how sensitive I get in the third trimester. I can barely handle the kids we already have now.”
He places my foot gently on the ground before crawling up my body. “We can handle anything, wife. What’s a few more rugrats compared to everything we already survived?”
I grab his face in my hands, and I lose myself in his obsidian stare.
“It’s a wonderful life, isn’t it?”
His gaze softens as he brushes his thumb along my bottom lip.
“It’s more than I could’ve ever hoped for, vita mia,” he says earnestly.
My heart skips a beat, just like it always does when Matteo looks at me like this. Like I’m the center of his world.
“What beauty have you seen today, husband?”
“I’m looking at her,” he smiles softly. “And you, wife? What beauty have you seen today?”
I press my temple against his and breathe him in.
“I don’t have to look for beauty anymore. I’m living it now.”
The End