Page 75 of The Russian's Innocent Prey

Our daughter would grow up knowing this truth, understanding that power and responsibility were two sides of the same coin, that sometimes the people who loved you most were the ones capable of the greatest violence in your defense.

She’d inherit more than the Antonov name—she’d inherit the strength to carry it with honor, the wisdom to wield it with care, and the family to ensure she never had to carry it alone.

As evening light faded to purple and our chosen family settled into the comfortable rhythms of people who belong together, I held onto this moment like a photograph. This peace we’d built from the ashes of war, this love we’d forged in fire and blood and the kind of desperate hope that refused to be reasonable.

Tomorrow would bring its own challenges. The world outside our walls hadn’t become less dangerous just because we’d found happiness. But tonight, in this room full of people who would die for each other and the tiny, perfect life we’d created together, I allowed myself to believe that love might actually be enough.

That families forged in violence can choose peace.

That children born into darkness can still reach for the light.

And that sometimes, just sometimes, the most dangerous people in the world were also the most capable of creating something beautiful.

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THE END