"And?" Kostya prompted.
"And we did it. The alliance with the Volkovs isn't just political anymore. It's family. Real family."
"The Belyaev threat?"
"Gone. Anton disappeared. His remaining loyalists either fell in line or were eliminated. Clean absorption. No power vacuum."
Kostya nodded slowly. "So you rebuilt the world. Made it safe for her."
"I'm not marrying her because the world is safe," I said quietly. "I'm marrying her because she's my world. Every calculation I make comes back to her. To keeping her happy."
"You were a cold bastard when she met you," Kostya said, but his voice was gentle. "All control, no feeling. She cracked you open like an egg."
"Best thing that ever happened to me."
Kostya pushed off the wall, moving to stand beside me. His reflection was broader, rougher, scarred in ways mine wasn't. But his expression carried genuine warmth.
"Grandfather will be proud. Hell, I'm proud. You built something real, Kolya. Not just the organization. You." He paused. "You're human. Finally."
My hands had stopped shaking. The anxiety was still there, warm and bright in my chest, but it felt like anticipation instead of terror.
In less than an hour, I'd marry Sophie Volkov in the solarium. Mikhail would officiate. The Volkovs would bear witness to an alliance forged in blood and desperation and unexpected love.
And my world—once organized around strategy and survival—would be centered, officially and forever, on the woman who'd taught me that the strongest position wasn't isolation.
It was surrender.
"Ready?" Kostya asked.
I looked at my reflection one final time. Saw a man who'd learned to be vulnerable.
"Yeah. I'm ready."
Thesolariumwasfullof light. White roses everywhere—climbing the glass walls, arranged in clusters, their scent mixing with April sunshine. Kostya and Maks flanked me, both wearing suits that looked like formal surrender.
Across the small aisle sat the Volkovs. Alexei in the front row, his ice-blue eyes carrying warmth. Approval. Beside him, Clara watched with obvious joy. Ivan sat behind them, his analytical gaze softened, and Dmitry filled the space beside him with barely contained energy and a grin. Dmitry and Ivan’s wives, Anya and Eva, were there too.
They were family now. Not through political alliance but through dinners and collaborative operations and the slow, careful trust that came from surviving chaos together.
Mikhail stood at the front. My grandfather looked strong, fully recovered from his captivity, silver hair catching the light. He was officiating—the retired Pakhan presiding over a ceremony that celebrated the least strategic decision I'd ever made. Falling in love. Choosing vulnerability.
My heart hammered. I could feel it in my throat, my fingertips.
The string quartet started. Simple melody, something classical. The sound filled the solarium, mixed with birdsong from outside.
My breath stopped.
Sophie stood in the doorway with Mikhail's arm supporting her.
Perfect. The word was inadequate. The dress was ivory silk that flowed from her shoulders to the floor, elegant and simple. It clung to her curves, but it wasn't revealing. Just beautiful.
Her hair was down. Honey-colored waves fell past her shoulders, woven through with small white flowers. No veil. No elaborate styling. Just her hair the way I loved it.
But it was her face that destroyed me.
She wasn't wearing the Advisor mask. Wasn't Little. She was just Sophie. Her eyes were bright with tears she was trying not to shed. Her lips curved in a smile that carried joy and nervousness and absolute certainty.
She saw me and the smile widened. Became incandescent.
