"Each other. This moment. The choice to keep fighting for this family we're building."
His hand slides through my hair. "When I saw you today, with that gun pointed at your head, I understood something."
"What?"
"That there's no version of my life worth living if you're not in it. That I'd rather burn down everything I've built than exist in a world where you don't."
The rawness of the confession makes my throat hurt. "That's a lot of pressure to put on one person."
"I know. And I'm sorry for that too. But it's the truth." He tilts my face up to his. "You and this baby—you're my whole world now. Everything else is just details."
"Even your position as pakhan?"
"Especially that." His smile is grim. "Bogdan can have it, for all I care. As long as I have you."
"You're not giving up your position." The certainty in my voice surprises us both. "You're going to fight for it. You will not let that piece of shit win."
He grins. “Feisty.”
“I’m serious.”
"Hannah—"
"No. Listen to me." I sit up, facing him fully, not caring that I’m naked and his eyes are on my breasts. "I've spent weeks watching you with Mila. I’ve watched how you balance being a father with being who you are. You think those two things areincompatible, but they're not. You're a good father because of who you are, not despite it."
"I'm a killer."
"You're a protector." I correct. "There's a difference."
He pulls me back down against his chest, his arms tight around me. "How did I get this lucky?"
"You didn't. You got a terrible family and saddled with a stubborn woman carrying your accidental baby. And that woman isn’t going anywhere. If you think the last week was bad, just imagine how much worse it will be when I’m nine months pregnant and miserable. I’m going to be unbearable."
His chest rumbles with quiet laughter. "When you put it that way..."
We fall silent again, but it's comfortable now. Peaceful in a way I didn't think was possible after today's violence. My eyes are starting to drift closed, exhaustion finally catching up with me.
"Ya budu lyubit' tebya do kontsa moikh dney,"Dante whispers against my hair.
The Russian words wash over me like a benediction. I don't ask what they mean—some things are better felt than understood. Because although I don’t know the meaning of the words, I feel them. He loves me. He’s going to protect me. That’s enough.
"Sleep,zaika," he murmurs.
I do, falling into darkness with his heartbeat as my lullaby and his arms as my shelter.
For the first time since this all began, I feel safe.
Not because I'm locked away from the world, but because I'm exactly where I belong.
27
DANTE
Ivan talks for three hours straight, and with every word, the scope of the betrayal becomes clearer.
We're in the secure room in the estate's basement—the one with reinforced walls and no windows. It’s our interrogation room. Ivan sits in a chair, his shoulder bandaged but his survival instinct sharp enough to make him cooperative.
He still thinks he’s going to leave this room alive.
