Her head whips toward the window so fast her victory rolls bounce. "Right now? He's here right now?"
"He doesn't let me go anywhere alone. I gave up fighting it. It's honestly easier than arguing with a brick wall that speaks Russian."
Sloane grins wide enough to crack her foundation. "Bring him in. I've been waiting for this moment."
I text Kon. Two words:Come inside.
His response arrives in three seconds:Da.
He walks through the restaurant door ninety seconds later and the entire room shifts. Six-foot-four of tattooed Bratva muscle in a black henley, dark hair pulled back in a low knot and his jaw set in its permanent state of controlled intensity. Every head in the restaurant turns. A woman at the bar nearly drops her drink. The hostess takes one look at him and forgets to school her expression.
He stops at our table. Those dark eyes sweep Sloane with a quick, professional assessment that catalogs everything from the victory rolls to the red heels in under two seconds.
She returns the favor.
"So you're the one who's been cooking my girl breakfast all this time." Sloane tilts her chin up, all five feet of blonde hurricane squared off against six-four of Russian muscle, and the fearlessness in her baby blue eyes would be impressive if it wasn't completely insane.
"Da."
"The eggs must be exceptional."
"They are."
"Modest, too. I like that." She extends her hand across the table. Kon takes it, her small fingers disappearing inside his scarred grip.
"Hurt her and I'll find you." Sloane delivers the threat with a cherry-lipped smile and her sweetest voice. "I've already survived one of your family's beatdowns. I'm not scared of a second."
The corner of Kon's mouth twitches. "I like you."
"Everyone likes me." Sloane releases his hand and gestures to the empty chair beside me. "Sit down. Order a mimosa. We're going to be best friends whether you like it or not."
He sits, looks at our mimosas and then orders black coffee with a plate of the eggs benedict. The second he has coffee in hand, Sloane's rapid-fire questions pop off and he answers every single one of them with the patience of a god.
By the time brunch ends, Sloane has extracted his favorite book, least favorite food, and a promise to teach her how to properly prune roses.
I watch them together and the warmth in my chest spreads until it fills every corner of my body. My best friend. My fiancé. Sitting across from each other in a restaurant in Lincoln Park, arguing about the correct way to make a Bloody Mary, and the fact that both of them are alive and healthy and here feels like a gift I will never stop being grateful for.
Sloane waves from the curb, cherry lipstick and victory rolls and the fiercest five feet of loyalty I've ever known. As Kon pulls away from the curb I wave back until she disappears around a corner.
The Foundry has softened over the past six months. My books on Kon's shelves, mixed in between the Dostoevsky and the Sun Tzu. Framed photos on surfaces that used to hold nothing but operational files. An engagement party photo from Persia sits on the hallway shelf beside one of the surviving typewriters, Kon's arm around my waist, Sloane's champagne toast blurred in the background, Sofia's chubby hand reaching for my hair.
This is home. Not a safehouse, not a cage, not a temporary arrangement governed by contracts and deals. Home. The word doesn't scare me anymore.
I tell him in the kitchen.
Because that's where everything important happens between us. Over coffee and eggs and the quiet rhythms of a life we built from wreckage. He's at the stove, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the barbed wire tattoo exposed, his dark hair loose because it's evening and he only ties it back during the day. He's making thestew I loved from my first week here, the one with rosemary and garlic that fills the loft with warmth.
"Kon."
"Mm." He doesn't turn from the stove. Keeps stirring. Steam curls around his face.
"Put the spoon down. I need to talk to you."
He turns. Reads my expression. Sets the spoon down and gives me his full attention the way he always does when those words leave my mouth, his dark eyes steady, his body going still.
"I'm pregnant."
The kitchen goes silent. The stew bubbles on the stove. The ventilation hums. The distant sound of city traffic filters through the windows.
