We move together with a rhythm that drags out our pleasure, and when Eva comes apart beneath me, my name on her lips, I follow her over the edge with a groan that sounds almost pained.
Afterward, we lie tangled in the sheets, both breathing hard. Eva's hand rests over my heart, and I cover it with mine, feeling the steady rhythm beneath our palms.
"It's really over," she whispers. "Abram's dead. Irina's destroyed. We're safe."
"We're safe," I agree, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Well, as safe as anyone in my business can be.
53
EPILOGUE
EVA
One year later
The first snow of winter falls like whispered secrets against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the master bedroom, each flake catching the afternoon light before settling on the estate grounds below. I stand watching the transformation, the way white gradually blankets the manicured lawns and bare tree branches, turning everything pristine and new. Nikolai shifts against my chest, his small body warm and solid, and I adjust my hold on him instinctively, my hand cradling his downy head.
At six months old, my son is perfect in ways that still steal my breath. He has Roman's piercing blue eyes and my blonde hair, fine as silk and sticking up in all directions, no matter how much I try to smooth it down. When he smiles, which is often, dimples appear in his chubby cheeks, and my heart feels too full for my chest, like it might burst from the sheer magnitude of love I feel for this tiny person we created.
"Look,malysh," I murmur in Russian. "Your first snow. Well, the first one you're old enough to see, anyway."
Nikolai makes a gurgling sound that might be agreement or might just be gas, his small fist waving toward the window. His blue eyes track the falling flakes with the intense focus he inherited from his father, and I smile despite the exhaustion that's become my constant companion since his birth.
Motherhood is harder than I imagined. The sleepless nights, constant worry, and the way my body still doesn't quite feel like my own. But it's also more beautiful than I could have dreamed. Every smile, every coo, every tiny milestone feels like a miracle I don't deserve but am grateful for anyway.
I hear Roman's footsteps behind me before I see him, that controlled power in his movement that still makes my pulse quicken despite a year of marriage and six months of sleep deprivation. His arms wrap around us both, careful not to disturb Nikolai, his chin resting on my shoulder as his warmth envelops us. The scent of his cologne—expensive and masculine—mixes with the baby powder and milk smell that seems to cling to everything now.
"Moy syn," Roman murmurs against Nikolai's head, his accent thick with emotion. "Look at the snow, little one. Soon, I'll teach you to build snowmen and have snowball fights. To appreciate the beauty of this season."
Nikolai turns his head toward his father's voice, and his face breaks into one of those devastating smiles that makes my chest ache. Roman's expression softens in a way I've only seen him look at our son and me, the cold mask he wears for everyone else completely absent in this moment.
"He's going to be spoiled rotten," I say, leaning back against Roman's chest. "Between you and Katya and Babushka's video calls, this child will never hear the word 'no'."
"Good." Roman's lips brush my temple, and heat floods through me despite my exhaustion. "He should be spoiled. He should have everything we didn't. Everything we can give him."
The past year has transformed everything. Roman's empire is stronger than ever, his reputation solidified by how he handled Abram's betrayal. The other families respect him now in ways they didn't before, seeing his ruthless efficiency combined with strategic brilliance. The Moscow delegates returned home satisfied, and word spread throughout the organization that Roman Sokolov is not a man to be tested.
But more importantly, he's changed. Softer with Nikolai and me, though still the controlled, dangerous man who commands absolute respect from everyone else. I've watched him hold our son with surprising gentleness, those same hands that can kill without hesitation cradling Nikolai like he's made of glass. I've seen him pace the nursery at three in the morning, murmuring Russian lullabies his mother used to sing, his voice rough with exhaustion but infinitely patient.
We've found our balance, our own language of love that works for us. He's still the Pakhan, but with me, with Nikolai, he's just Roman. Husband and father.
"Alexei called this morning," I say, watching snow accumulate on the windowsill. "He's coming home for Christmas break. He wants to show Nikolai his latest engineering project. Something about sustainable bridge design that I only half understood."
Roman's chest rumbles with quiet laughter against my back. "Your brother is thriving at MIT. Top of his class, from what his professors tell me."
Pride swells in my chest, warm and fierce. Alexei is living the dream our mother had for him, the future she sacrificed everything to make possible. He's brilliant and kind and exactly the man she would have wanted him to become. And he's doing it debt-free, with Roman's financial support ensuring he can focus on his studies rather than working three jobs like I did.
"He asked if he could bring a girl home," I add, unable to keep the smile from my voice. "Someone from his advanced physics class. He sounded nervous when he mentioned her."
"A girlfriend." Roman's tone suggests he's already running background checks, already ensuring this girl is worthy of my beloved brother. "We'll have to meet her. Make sure she's suitable."
"You're not going to intimidate her," I warn, though I know it's futile. Roman can't help being intimidating. It's woven into his DNA, part of what makes him the Pakhan. "Alexei really likes her. Be nice."
"I'm always nice." The lie is so blatant I laugh, and Nikolai startles slightly at the sound before settling back against my chest with a contented sigh.
My phone buzzes on the dresser, and I see Babushka Sasha's name light up the screen. Right on schedule for her weekly video call. I shift Nikolai carefully and answer, switching to Russian as her lined face fills the screen.
"Vnuchka!" Her voice is strong, vibrant in ways it wasn't a year ago. The surgery Roman paid for saved her life, gave heryears she wouldn't have had otherwise. "And my beautiful great-grandson! Let me see him!"
