Gaby raised an eyebrow. "You want Lisa to bring her new boyfriend to our island fortress? The same Lisa who still threatens to destroy you at least once per phone call?"
"I've grown fond of her threats. They show character."
"You're a strange man, Vasily Chernov."
"So I've been told."
She laughed, and the sound was music. I would never tire of making her laugh. Never tire of seeing joy on a face that had known too much sadness before I'd found her.
Yelena appeared with fresh coffee, pausing to coo over Dasha before retreating to the kitchen. She'd appointed herself the baby's unofficial grandmother, a role she took with fierce seriousness. Dasha wanted for nothing under Yelena's watchful care.
"Kirill looked good yesterday," Gaby observed. "Stronger."
"He's been training again. Says he can't protect us properly if he's soft."
"He was shot four times. He's entitled to be soft for a while."
"Try telling him that."
Kirill had recovered fully from the wounds he'd sustained during the attack. The doctors had called it miraculous—four bullets, extensive surgery, weeks in the ICU. But Kirill was stubborn, and he had something to prove. Within three months, he was back on his feet. Within four, he was running island security again, more vigilant than ever.
He blamed himself for what had happened. For failing to protect Gaby when I was gone. I'd told him a hundred times thatthe fault was mine—for leaving, for falling for Pankratov's trap—but guilt wasn't rational. He'd work through it in his own time, or he wouldn't. Either way, his loyalty was unshakeable.
"Any news from Semyon?" Gaby asked, and I heard the careful neutrality in her voice. She knew there was always news from Semyon. Knew that the world I'd built required constant tending, constant vigilance.
"The usual. Business is stable. The New York operations are running smoothly." I paused, weighing how much to share. "There's been some movement from Tigran Pankratov."
Her hand stilled on her coffee cup. "Movement?"
"Nothing immediate. He's been recruiting—rebuilding what his brother lost. Our sources say he's patient, methodical. A long-term planner rather than a man of impulse."
"Is he coming for us?"
"Eventually, perhaps. The blood debt between our families won't be forgotten." I reached across the table and covered her hand with mine. "But not today. Not soon. And when he does come, we'll be ready."
"You'll be ready, you mean. You and Semyon and Kirill and your army of soldiers."
"We," I corrected firmly. "You're part of this family, Gabrielle. Part of this world, whether you choose it or not. When threats come, we face them together."
She was quiet for a moment, her eyes on the sea. Then she nodded, her fingers turning to intertwine with mine.
"Together," she agreed.
In the bassinet, Dasha stirred and let out a small cry. Gaby rose to comfort her, lifting our daughter and settling heragainst her shoulder. I watched them—my wife, my child—and felt something fierce and protective swell in my chest.
Whatever Tigran Pankratov was planning, whatever darkness waited in the future, I would be ready. I would burn the world to ash before I let anyone touch my family.
But that was a battle for another day. Today, there was only this: sunshine and breakfast and the women I loved more than my own life.
The afternoon passed in lazy contentment.
Dasha napped while Gaby read beside the pool, her toes trailing in the water. I made calls, reviewed reports, attended to the endless business of empire—but my attention kept drifting to the window, to the glimpse of her reclining in the sunlight.
She caught me watching once, looked up from her book and smiled. The smile of a woman who knew exactly the effect she had on me and enjoyed it thoroughly.
By evening, the heat had softened into something gentler. We ate dinner on the terrace again—grilled fish, fresh vegetables from the garden Yelena had planted, wine that Gaby only sipped because she was still nursing.
"Do you remember the first time I saw you?" I asked as the sun began its descent toward the sea.
