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Vanya draws his gun, the silencer already attached. "Any last words for him, Misha?"
I consider the broken man before me. In the end, Vlad Petrov was nothing but a greedy coward who reached too far. It's not worth the elaborate speeches I've rehearsed in my darkest moments.
"No," I say finally. "Nothing he deserves to hear."
The silenced shot is anticlimactic—a soft bang that barely disturbs the room's heavy silence. Vlad's head slumps forward, his secrets and sins finally silenced.
I feel... nothing. Not the satisfaction I expected nor the weight of another death on my conscience. Just emptiness where vengeance once burned.
"We need to go," Vanya says, already packing up our tools. "The staff will return by morning."
I nod, slipping my jacket back on. "Make it look like a rival hit. The Sicilians, maybe."
"Already planned for it." Vanya's efficiency is comforting, a constant in my chaotic world. "Listen, Misha, we need to talk about the next steps."
"Next steps?" I ask, my mind already drifting to Kira, to the warmth waiting for me at home.
"I need to head back to LA. My men have been without me for too long." He zips the bag closed, wiping down surfaces as he speaks. "Then Mexico City. Inez Bravo expects a personal thank you for her assistance with Petrov’s plans. Her help wasn't cheap."
"When do you leave?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
"Tomorrow." Vanya's expression softens slightly. "No rest for the wicked."
I cast one final glance at Vlad's body, already beginning to cool in the air-conditioned room. Another ghost to add to my collection. Another debt paid in full.
"No, but you’ll be missed.” I follow Vanya toward the door.
The night air hits my face as we slip out through the service entrance. Somewhere across the city, Kira waits, and for a moment, I allow myself to imagine a different life—one where I am simply a man returning to the woman he loves, not a killer with responsibilities heavier than most men could bear.
But such fantasies are dangerous in my world. They make you soft and vulnerable. And I cannot afford to be either.
Not yet. Not until everyone who threatens what's mine is in the ground.
Chapter 21
Epilogue: Six Months Later
Kira
The silk of my dress slides against my skin as I smooth it over the curve of my belly, seven months full with Mikhail's child.
The Tulum sun filters through the gauze curtains of our private villa, casting everything in honeyed light that makes the white stone walls glow like pearls. Salt air drifts through the open terrace doors, carrying the distant sound of waves and the faint music of preparation from the main estate where Inez and Vanya's wedding will unfold in mere hours.
I pause before the mirror, my fingers tracing the emerald necklace Mikhail fastened around my throat this morning, his calloused hands surprisingly gentle against my nape. The stones are cool against my heated skin, a stark contrast to the warmth pooling low in my belly—not from the baby, but from the memory of his lips brushing my shoulder as he whispered how beautiful I looked.
"You're thinking too hard,kisa." His voice rumbles from the doorway, rough with that Brooklyn edge that still makes my pulse quicken after all this time.
I meet his eyes in the mirror—those piercing blue depths that first terrified me are now my sanctuary. "I'm thinking aboutthem. Inez and Vanya." I turn to face him, the silk catching the light. "Two alphas, both used to commanding, both forced into this arrangement. How does it work?"
Mikhail steps closer, his presence filling the space between us like smoke. The white linen shirt he wears is unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the edge of his tattoos, and I can smell his cologne mixed with something darker, more primal. "You questioning arranged marriages now, Mrs. Zhukov?"
The teasing note in his voice doesn't mask the intensity in his gaze as it travels over me, lingering on the swell of our child.
I shake my head, letting my fingers drift to my belly. "Not questioning ours. Just wondering if they'll find what we did."
A ghost of a smile touches his lips as he crosses the room, a predator in repose. His hands, instruments of both violence and tenderness, cradle my face.
"Not everyone gets lucky," he murmurs, thumb brushing my lower lip. "Most unions like ours remain what they are—transactions."