“Always,” Grandma echoes.
The others nod. Even stoic Dima.
Anton’s arm tightens around my waist. His other hand is on my stomach.
“Always,” he whispers. Just for me.
And I believe him.
Epilogue
Anton
“You’re being weird again.”
I glance at Mary in the passenger seat. She’s wearing a pale yellow sundress that ties over her shoulders, soft fabric brushing the curve of her stomach. The pattern catches the light when she shifts—bright, easy, alive. Her hands rest on that small curve that’s becoming more pronounced every day.
“I’m not being weird.”
“You’re gripping the steering wheel like you’re about to drive into enemy territory.”
“I’m not—” I look down. My knuckles are white. I force myself to relax. “I’m fine.”
“Anton.” She shifts to face me. “Where are we going?”
“I told you. The new house.”
She looks out the window. It’s nothing but desert; miles of pale sand, scattered brush, and the occasional stretch of cracked highway disappearing into heat shimmer.
“Anton,” she says, brow furrowing. “There’s literally nothing out here. Did you drive me into witness protection without telling me?”
A corner of my mouth twitches, but I kill it before she notices.
Truth is, I’m the one who’s nervous. Because I bought a twenty-two-thousand-square-foot fortress without asking her opinion. Because I’m hoping the kitchen and the view will make up for the fact that I’m basically moving her into a Bratva compound. Because I’m terrified that she’ll take one look and hate it.
“Because it’s a surprise,” I say instead.
She narrows her eyes. “I don’t like surprises.”
“You liked the ring.”
“The ring was different. The ring wasn’t—” She gestures vaguely. “A whole house.”
“You’ll like the house.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you.” I reach over, take her hand. “Trust me.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then: “If there’s a stripper pole, I’m leaving you.”
I almost laugh. “No stripper pole.”
“Indoor shooting range?”
“Maybe.”
“Anton!”
