And maybe that's enough.
Maybe his conviction is something I can borrow. Wear like armor tomorrow when we walk into that ballroom.
"Okay," I whisper. "We win."
"Damn right, we win."
We lie there in the darkness, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear. Outside, the city hums—unaware that tomorrow everything changes.
I don't reach for the lighter.
Don't need it.
Because I have something better than fire and grief and ghosts.
I have Sergei's arms around me. His heartbeat under my palm. His absolute certainty that tomorrow we don't just survive—we conquer.
Sleep takes me faster than it has in weeks.
No nightmares.
Just dreams of after.
37
Sergei
“Mr. Orlov,custody is hereby granted in full.”
Judge Galeotti’s gavel comes down with the finality of a bullet, and I feel something in my chest crack open. Not break—expand. Like I’ve been holding my breath for eight years and can finally exhale.
“Thank you, Your Honor.” My voice stays steady despite the earthquake happening inside my ribs.
Diane collects the paperwork with practiced efficiency, but I’m already moving toward the gallery where Mila sits between Andrei and one of his men. She’s wearing the navy dress Izzy bought her last week, dark hair in French braids that took me three YouTube tutorials to master. Her hazel-green eyes find mine across the courtroom, and the hope written there nearly destroys me.
“Papa?”
“Come here,ptichka.” I crouch down when she reaches me, letting her crash into my chest. Her small arms wrap around my neck, strawberry shampoo filling my nose, and I hold on maybe too tight. “It’s done. You’re mine. Officially, legally, permanently mine.”
She pulls back, studying my face with those too-old eyes. “Forever?”
“Forever.” I press a kiss to her forehead, tasting salt—her tears or mine, I’m not sure. “No more court dates. No more lawyers. You’re home.”
“With you and Izzy?”
“With me and Izzy.” The words feel right. Perfect. Terrifying in their permanence.
Elena’s death two weeks ago should’ve complicated things, but it simplified them instead. No contested custody. No parental rights to negotiate. The judge reviewed my home situation—stable marriage, secure income, character references from people who somehow forgot I used to kill for a living—and ruled in my favor within twenty minutes.
My daughter. My home. My family.
My wife waiting outside.
The thought sends heat spiraling through me despite the courthouse’s sterile chill. Izzy’s been wound tight all morning, oscillating between excitement for the custody ruling and terror about tonight’s gala. She left an hour ago to handle last-minute details, but promised she’d be here when we walked out.
She keeps her promises.
Mila takes my hand as we exit the courtroom, her grip tight enough to hurt. Good. I never want her to let go. In the hallway, reporters swarm—drawn by the Orlov name, by Elena’s suspicious death, by the spectacle of The Wolf fighting for custody in family court.
