“Then that’s the one,” I say, turning to the jeweler to confirm.
He claps and I slip him my credit card.
From there, we split up briefly. I leave Molly with her stunned best friend, who can’t believe she’s getting married to a former Bratva boss. I make sure they have security guards with them as they go dress shopping, and I meet Davýd so we can pick out a tux. It’s not ideal to get it off the rack, but I don’t want to wait another moment.
Two hours later, we’re all pulling up at the courthouse. Anya arrives with her nanny, wearing a white dress and a ribbon in her hair. She carries a basketful of rose petals and smiles brightly when she lays eyes on Molly.
The judge is an acquaintance who owes me a favor. He promises all the paperwork will be expedited. He laughs when he sees Anya and murmurs to me that he’s never had a flower girl at his courthouse before.
Davýd pulls out his phone and plays soft music. Anya throws the petals straight up into the air, showering herself in pink and giggling.
Molly walks down “the aisle” to me, and I take her shaking hands.
“I love you,” I tell her again, because I need her to hear it out loud as often as I can say it.
She squeezes my fingers.
“I love you, too.”
We exchange vows, sign the papers, and kiss to the small applause of our assembled group.
It’s a simple ceremony. She deserves so much more, and maybe one day I’ll give her that, but even so, she looks so radiant and so happy. None of it compares to the joy radiating in my chest.
As I grab her hand and lead her out of the courthouse and to the limo waiting for us, I realize that it was never the Bratva that made me a king. It was her.
EPILOGUE I
MOLLY
Eighteen Months Later
There is a sweetness to afternoons now, a softness I didn’t know life could have until Samuil and I built this one together. The sunlight pours through the nursery windows in warm sheets of gold, catching on the tiny dust particles that drift lazily through the air.
Nikolai sits on his play mat surrounded by a chaotic ring of baby toys, banging a soft block against his leg confidently. In his mind, he is doing very important work. His chubby arms move with determination, and every few moments he stops, mid-bang, to look up at me with the sweetest little smile, making sure I’m giving him all my attention.
He has Samuil’s eyes, a deep, warm brown, fringed with lashes that are just unfairly long and thick. But he has my smile, wide and squishy and earnest. He also has a dimple in his right cheek that neither of us can explain. I’ve decided it’s just his little signature on the world.
His laugh bursts out suddenly as I tickle under his chin, so sweet it makes me laugh too.
“Are you having fun?” I ask, reaching for his pudgy foot and pretending to nibble on it. He shrieks with delight, kicking hard enough that his sock flies off.
He loves when I do that, and I love the sound of him laughing. There were days, almost a year ago, when I wasn’t sure I would ever hear anything so pure. That dark stretch of time feels impossibly far away now, like a life someone else lived.
His laughter stops suddenly, replaced by an intent stare at the floating dust motes above him. His mind is always busy. He watches, absorbs, listens, and learns. I wonder if he’ll grow up quiet like me, observing before acting, or if he’ll grow up fierce like Samuil, steady, intentional, and protective.
I’m still smiling when I hear the front door open and close with the soft metallic click Samuil always makes when he’s trying not to wake the baby. A moment later, his footsteps come down the hall.
Nikolai hears him before he sees him. His whole body wiggles excitedly, arms flapping like a little bird.
“Da-da-da-da!” he squeals in a long string of sounds he doesn’t really understand yet.
I roll my eyes at the ceiling even though his excitement always makes me grin.
“It’s so unfair,” I tell Nikolai. “I spend all day playing with you, but you get all excited to see your dada.”
Samuil appears in the doorway, loosening his tie with one hand, his hair slightly mussed from the wind outside. He laughs as he takes in Nikolai and me playing on the floor. His shoulders drop, the tension in his jaw relaxes, and the warmth in his eyes floods the entire room.
“There are my loves,” he says softly.
