They place him on my chest, slippery, pink, and perfect. My son. Our son. His tiny fists flail, his mouth open, his little bodyoutraged 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.
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 fromthe 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 Industriesand 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.
