EXTENDED EPILOGUE: DIMITRI
Five years later
I stand in the backyard of the estate, watching my children play, and sometimes I still can’t believe this is my life.
Mila is six now with blonde curls and blue eyes and fierce determination that would make a general proud. She’s currently explaining to her four-year-old brother, Mikhail, exactly how to properly build a fort, complete with hand gestures and that tone of absolute authority shedefinitelyinherited from me.
Mikhail, named after the guard who died protecting Vera in the safe room, because some heroes deserve to be remembered, is ignoring her completely because that’s what little brothers do.
“Misha, you have to put the big branches on the bottom,” she insists.
“Don’t wanna,” Mikhail says, adding a small stick to the top of their increasingly unstable structure.
Mila slams her hands onto her hips and gives him a glare worthy of Mrs. Kozlov. “That’s not how physics works!”
Her brother shrugs. “Don’t care about physics.”
“Mikhail Dmitrievich Volkov, you listen to me right now?—”
I bite back a smile. She’s using his full name just like Vera does when she’s exasperated with me.
Mikhail looks exactly like I did as a child—dark hair that refuses to stay combed, sharp gray eyes, and he’s already showing signs of having my build. He’s going to be tall and strong, and based on how often he challenges his sister, probably fearless to the point of giving me gray hair.
But Mila...
Mila looks like Alexei.
The resemblance has become more pronounced as she’s gotten older. She has the same blond hair that curls at the ends and the same striking blue eyes. Even some of the same facial expressions—the way her nose scrunches when she’s concentrating, the tilt of her head when she’s considering something—are all Alexei.
She was about two when I first realized it, and it was like someone had punched me in the gut. A physical reminder of my brother and his betrayal.
I’d stood frozen in the doorway of her nursery, watching her sleep, and for just a moment, I’d seen Alexei’s face instead of hers.
It had scared the shit out of me.
But here’s what I’ve learned over the past six years. Biology doesn’t make a family. Love does.
Mila ismydaughter. She calls me Papa and runs to me when she’s scared. She climbs into my lap for stories and holds my hand when we walk through the city. She has my stubbornness, my sense of justice, and my fierce protectiveness over the people she loves.
When she looks at me, she doesn’t see anyone but her father. And when I look at her now, I don’t see Alexei anymore. I see Mila. My daughter. My little girl who wants to be a doctor and a superhero and possibly the president, and who gets indignant about playground injustice and cries when characters die in books.
We never hid the truth from her. When she was old enough to understand, which was around four years old, Vera and I sat her down and explained (in age-appropriate terms) that I’m not her biological father. Another man was, but I chose to be her father. I chose to love her and raise her.
Mila had processed this with remarkable maturity, her little face serious. Then she’d asked, “But you’re still my Papa, right?”
“Always,” I’d promised, my throat tight. “Always and forever.”
“Good.” She’d climbed into my lap and wrapped her arms around my neck. “Because you’re the best Papa in the whole world.”
And that was that.
Now, watching her boss her little brother around with all the authority of an eldest child, I feel Vincent approach.
My father-in-law has become one of my closest allies and friends over the past years. Together, we’ve run both families with fairness, with Vera as an equal partner in all decisions.The alliance between Volkov and Ashford is stronger than either family ever was alone.
“She’s got your leadership qualities,” Vincent observes, nodding at Mila as she attempts to restructure the entire fort.
“She’s a force to be reckoned with," I respond, but there’s pride in my voice. “She’s six and already running the household. Even Mrs. Kozlov defers to her. Yesterday, she tried to reorganize my office.”
