Page 36

SANDY

The gardens of the Avilov estate bloom with color and laughter.

A soft breeze blows through the white chiffon canopies strung between trees heavy with spring blossoms. A delicate string quartet plays beneath a shaded trellis, and little pink butterflies, some real, some sewn into the lace of decorations, dance on the breeze.

It is a celebration straight out of a fairy tale.

Angelina Avilov is turning three.

The transformation of the grounds is even more breathtaking than last year's celebration.

Long tables are draped in shimmering ivory silk stretched across the manicured lawn, each adorned with towering arrangements of white peonies, soft pink roses, and cascading baby's breath.

Crystal candelabras glimmer in the afternoon sunlight, sending prismatic rainbows across the perfectly set china.

Delicate place cards are marked with gold calligraphy on each seat.

Small gift boxes wrapped in lavender ribbon hold miniature music boxes shaped like spinning ballerinas, perfect for every setting.

The centerpiece is a carousel that has been specially installed for the occasion.

It is a vintage piece featuring hand-painted horses and golden poles that gleam in the dappled sunshine filtering through the ancient oak trees.

The carousel’s melodic tune and the live quartet create a symphony of joy that makes the air sparkle.

Angelina stands proudly in the center of the courtyard in a sparkling lilac dress, her chocolate curls pinned into a bun, a crown of tiny roses resting on her head.

The dress is a masterpiece of tulle and silk, with hand-sewn pearls that dance with light with every movement.

Tiny butterfly wings are attached to her back, shimmering with iridescent thread that makes her look like she stepped out of a storybook.

Talia crouches beside her, helping her unwrap one of the gifts.

At the same time, Aleksandr stands nearby, a soft smile tugging at his mouth that few people ever see.

“Look, Mama!” Angelina exclaims, holding up a wooden jewelry box that plays a tinkling lullaby when it opens. “It's like the one in my room!”

Talia's face glows with maternal pride. “It's beautiful, sweetheart. Who is it from?”

Angelina smiles, “Uncle Dima!”

My heart warms as my husband's name tumbles from her lips.

Over the past year, watching him with the children has been a revelation.

The man who could dismantle enemies without blinking has infinite patience for bedtime stories and tea parties.

He softened around the edges, not in his strength or resolve but in how he moves through the world when children are present.

I lean back in my chair under an ivory parasol, gently rocking my son in my arms. Mikhail…our Mikhail.

He is nine months old now, his chubby fist curled tightly around the silver chain Dimitri wears with his Bratva crest. The pendant is warm from resting against Dimitri's chest, and our son seems fascinated by its weight and shine.

Like his father's, his coffee-colored eyes track the light bouncing off the silver surface. My husband doesn’t seem to mind the tugging, not when it comes from his son.

He sits beside me, one arm stretched behind my chair, the other lazily tracing his finger down Mikhail's spine through the soft cotton of his onesie.

Our baby gives a sleepy sigh and nestles deeper into my chest.

Mikhail has his father's strong jaw and determined chin, but he inherited my softer features, the curve of his nose, and the shape of his lips. When he smiles, he often lights up the entire room.

Dimitri kisses my temple without saying a word, and I breathe in his familiar scent. His lips linger against my skin, and I feel him smile when Mikhail gurgles contentedly between us.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask softly, adjusting the baby's tiny cap to shield his face from the dappled sunlight.

“How different everything looks from this side,” he replies, his voice low enough that only I can hear. “How much brighter.”

I understand. The Avilov estate has always been impressive, but seeing it through the lens of our own family gives it an entirely different meaning.

Across the courtyard, Maxim runs by in a tuxedo T-shirt and grass-stained knees, sword-fighting an invisible enemy with a stick.

His dark hair is mussed from playing, but his smile is wide and carefree.

At ten years old, he is growing into himself.

He is still the serious, protective boy we know, but with more laughter in his eyes these days.

Sasha trails behind, holding her lace skirt with one hand and waving a wand with the other, trying to turn her brother into a frog.

Her golden curls bounce with each determined wave of her makeshift wand, and her green eyes sparkle with mischief.

“Ribbit!” Maxim plays along, hopping dramatically before collapsing onto the grass in giggles. Sasha squeals with delight, declaring her magic successful.

They are safe. Happy and thriving.

“Aunt Sandy!” Sasha runs over to us, slightly out of breath and beaming. “Look what Papa gave me!”

She holds up a small wooden sword, beautifully crafted and sized perfectly for her small hands. “It's for when I'm a knight!”

Dimitri chuckles, a sound that still surprises me with its warmth. “And what will you do as a knight, printsessa ?”

“Protect everyone!” she declares with absolute certainty. “Just like you and Papa!”

The simple declaration hits me square in the chest. In her innocent way, Sasha has perfectly captured what our men do. Not just the violence, or the power games, but the protection and the willingness to stand between their families and harm, no matter the cost.

“That's a very important job,” I tell her seriously. “The best knights are brave, smart, and kind.”

She nods sagely, then notices Mikhail in my arms. “Can I touch his hand?”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

Sasha approaches carefully, extending one finger to brush against Mikhail's tiny palm. Our son's fist immediately closes around her finger, and her face transforms with wonder.

“He's so strong!” she whispers.

“All Avilov and Popov children are strong,” Dimitri states, playfully squeezing her arm muscle.

“ Malyshka ,” Dimitri murmurs, his lips close to my ear, “You're quiet.”

“I'm just watching.” I look at him, meeting those coffee-colored eyes that have become my anchor through everything. “So much has happened. Sometimes it still doesn't feel real.”

And it’s true. Sometimes, I have to actively remind myself that this isn’t a dream I'll wake up from. That the man beside me is my husband, that the baby in my arms is our son, and that the threats hanging over us have been eliminated one by one until peace was possible.

The journey to this moment was written in blood and tears.

The fear of losing Talia to Vic or Danny, the agony of Dimitri's imprisonment, and the final confrontation with Morozov left permanent scars on my neck and deeper ones on my soul.

Each challenge had felt insurmountable, but here we are, surviving and thriving.

Dimitri glances around at the estate, the party, and the people who fill the long tables, never realizing how much blood it took to create this type of peace.

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, and I know he is remembering the same things I am.

The late-night meetings, the difficult decisions, the prices paid to secure this tranquility.

“It's real,” he says, then looks down at our son. His expression softens completely, and that transformation still takes my breath away. “This is ours. No one takes it from us.”

The quiet steel in his voice is absolute. This isn’t hope or a wish. It is a declaration. A promise. And knowing Dimitri as I do, knowing what he is capable of, I believe him completely.

I reach for his hand, threading our fingers together. “Do you remember what you told me the first night we spent together?” I ask quietly, careful not to wake Mikhail.

Dimitri's thumb traces across my knuckles. “Which part? I said many things that night.”

I smile, feeling heat climb my cheeks despite everything we've been through together. “You said you'd never let anyone hurt me.”

“I meant it.”

“I know. But I was thinking about something else you said.” I pause, gathering my thoughts. “You said you never had anything worth fighting for before. Just things worth dying for.”

His grip on my hand tightens. “I remember.”

“This,” I gesture around us with my free hand, “is worth fighting for. Living for.”

For a moment, Dimitri doesn’t speak. He watches Angelina across the courtyard, spinning in circles with her arms outstretched, making her butterfly wings catch the light.

He watches Maxim and Sasha playing knights and princesses under the ancient oak tree.

He looks down at our son, sleeping peacefully despite the music and laughter around us.

“Yes,” he says finally, his voice rough with emotion. “It is.”

The string quartet transitions into a softer melody, and I recognize the piece. It is the same song that played at our wedding. Talia had cried happy tears, Aleksandr had given a surprisingly emotional toast, and the children had thrown flower petals with more enthusiasm than accuracy.

But the moment I remember most clearly is when the officiant asked Dimitri to speak his vows. He set aside the paper he'd prepared and looked into my eyes with an intensity that made my knees weak.

“Sandy,” he said, his accent thick with emotion, “you taught me that there is something stronger than fear, more powerful than revenge. You taught me love. And I promise you, on my life, my honor, and everything I am that I will spend the rest of my days proving worthy of the gift you've given me.”

There wasn’t a dry eye in the garden that day.