The compound is quiet when I arrive. I find Alina in the master bedroom, awake despite the early hour. She's wearing one of my shirts, her red hair loose around her shoulders.
"It's over," I tell her.
She searches my face. "Did you kill him?"
"No. I sent him away. Far away." I sit beside her on the bed. "He won't come back."
"Are you sure?"
I pull her into my arms, breathing in her scent. "No. But if he does, we'll be ready. We'll be stronger."
She tilts her face up to mine, and I see the relief in her green eyes. "I love you."
"I love you too." I kiss her deeply, pouring everything I feel into it. The fear, the relief, and the desperate gratitude that she's safe.
She pulls back slightly, her fingers tracing the scar above my eyebrow. "Take me to bed, husband. I need to feel you."
I don't need to be asked twice.
53
EPILOGUE: ALINA
TWO YEARS LATER
The late afternoon sun bathes the garden in golden light, and I stand on the terrace with Nikolai sleeping peacefully in my arms. His tiny fist curls against my chest, his breathing soft and even. At three months old, he's already showing signs of having his father's dark hair, though his eyes –when they're open—are the same green as mine.
Below, in the manicured garden that stretches across our five-acre estate, Dimitri chases our daughter through the flower beds. Anastasia's delighted squeals carry up to me, her red curls bouncing as she runs on chubby toddler legs. She's wearing a white sundress that's already grass-stained at the hem, and her green eyes sparkle with pure joy.
"Papa, catch me!" she shrieks in a mixture of English and Russian.
Dimitri pretends to lumber after her slowly, his hands outstretched like a monster. "I'm going to get you, little dragonfly!"
She giggles and changes direction, nearly tripping over her own feet. Dimitri catches her before she falls, scooping her up and spinning her around. Her laughter fills the air, and my heart swells so full it almost hurts.
Two years ago, I stood in a burning church in a blood-stained wedding dress, watching a man I barely knew die at my feet. Two years ago, I thought my life was over.
I had no idea it was just beginning.
Nikolai stirs against me, making a small sound before settling back into sleep. I adjust him carefully, pressing a kiss to his downy head. The dragonfly tattoo on my right wrist catches the light as I move. I got it touched up after Nikolai was born, adding two smaller dragonflies beside it. One for each of my children. Symbols of transformation, of beauty emerging from darkness.
The estate looks different now than it did when Dimitri first brought me here. The fortress-like quality remains, the high walls and state-of-the-art security, but I've softened it. Flower gardens replace some of the stark landscaping. Children's toys dot the lawn. A swing set stands near the old oak tree. It's still a place to defend, but now it's also a home.
The past two years have transformed more than just the estate.
The Bratva itself has evolved under Dimitri's leadership. It's still powerful, still dangerous when it needs to be, but the old ways are dying. Forced marriages are banned across all the families. Women sit at the table during important discussions. The violence is more controlled, more strategic, less about ego and more about survival.
Not everyone was happy about the changes. We lost some of the old guard, men who couldn't adapt to a world where theirdaughters had choices. But we gained something more valuable in return. Stability. Loyalty based on respect rather than fear.
I've found my place in this world too. I'm not just Dimitri's wife anymore. I'm his partner, his advisor. The families respect me now, seek my counsel on matters both business and personal. I run several legitimate businesses that provide cover and income for the organization. Real estate development. Import-export companies. A chain of upscale restaurants.
But the work I'm most proud of is the foundation.
The Morozov Foundation for Women and Children helps those escaping abusive situations. We provide safe houses, legal assistance, job training, and relocation services. It's funded quietly by Bratva money, a way to balance the scales, to turn something dark into something that saves lives.
My father would have hated it. The thought brings a grim smile to my face.
I don't think about my father often anymore. When I do, it's without the crushing weight of grief or guilt. He made his choices. I made mine. Katya and I have both made peace with what happened that night in the factory.
