Viktor shrugs. "Not if I've got anything to do with it."
I shake my head. "God save us all, Uncle."
He pats my shoulder. "You're one whipped bastard, son. But a happy one."
Truer words have never been spoken.
EPILOGUE: ELLE
Turns out, if you put enough distance between yourself and generational trauma, add a golden retriever, a chubby baby, and a tomato patch the size of a tennis court, you can actually start to feel like life couldn't be better.
Montana's a dream. The sunlight hits different from city light, like God forgot to install a dimmer switch. It's been a year since we moved here, and we've never looked back.
I've got our three-month-old on one hip, his cheeks squished against my collarbone, drooling like a champion. The other arm cradles a basket overflowing with tomatoes, all grown by yours truly in this ridiculous, over-ambitious garden that came with the farmhouse.
Pasha comes flying out of the barn like a little bat out of nerd hell.
"I DID IT!"
My basket almost flips. The baby flinches, then farts loud enough to rival thunder. He is his father's son.
Pasha skids to a stop, hair wild, eyes bright like he's got NASA on speed dial. "The robot! The sensors worked! It moved on its own! I rigged the solar panel to the motor and..."
"Whoa, breathe." I adjust Alexander, who is now very interested in Pasha's monologue. "You finally got it to stop crashing into the barn wall?"
He nods like he's just hacked the Pentagon. "And it didn't explode."
"Low bar, but I'll take it."
From the porch, Nikolai grunts his approval. He's lounging in his chair with a book in one hand and our dog snoring at his feet. A stupidly gorgeous golden retriever named Capone, who barks at butterflies and has a personal vendetta against my garden hose.
Sir Isaac Mewton, the OG of this household, has yet to accept Capone's existence. He glares from windowsills and occasionally throws up on Nikolai's pillow in protest.
It's a work in progress.
Some nights I still dream about the bleach room. About hands grabbing me in the dark, the hood over my face, the sound of a gun going off inches from my ear. I wake gasping, and Nikolai's already there, pulling me close, murmuring against my hair until my breathing slows. He has his own version. Some mornings I find him at the window before dawn, watching the treeline like he's counting shadows. We don't talk about it much. We don't need to. We just hold on tighter.
But the days. God, the days are good.
I take the baby inside for his nap and leave the boys to argue about what to name the robot. Dinner is stupidly perfect. Roasted chicken, potatoes with garlic and herbs I grew myself. I'm starting to feel like a frontier wife and I'm all for it. Nikolai lights candles like it's a Michelin-star date instead of a Thursday with mashed peas on the tablecloth.
Pasha sits across from us, legs swinging. Capone lies under the table waiting for scraps. Sir Isaac has claimed the bookshelf like a furry gargoyle, judging us from above.
Then Pasha's phone buzzes.
He checks it and freezes. Fork halfway to his mouth.
I switch to panic mode. Kids don't freeze unless it's huge.
He looks up, eyes weirdly shiny. "It's Mom."
Nikolai's face doesn't change, but his hand tightens on his glass.
"What did she say?" I ask gently.
"She's in Florida. She started college. Social work." A pause. "She wants to visit in two weeks."
I look at Nikolai. His territory. His son. His call.
