Page 101 of The Pakhan's Captive
I let out a breath I feel like I’ve been holding for half a decade. I slide the ring onto her finger—a perfect fit—and stand up, pulling her into my arms. I bury my face in her neck, holding her tight, while Theo cheers and starts jumping into the pile of balloons, sending them scattering across the foyer.
“I love you,” I whisper into her skin.
“I know,” she says, her arms tightening around my neck. “I know, Superman.”
One Month Later
The morning sun is streaming through the breakfast room windows, glinting off the silver tea service. It’s an ordinary morning, but to me it feels like a miracle.
I’m sitting at the head of the table, nursing a coffee, watching the two people who have become my entire universe. Theo is sitting across from me, perched on two cushions so he can reach the table. He has a brand-new school bag slung over the back of his chair, and he’s currently interrogating me with a level of intensity that is terrifyingly familiar.
“Butwhydo the guards have to wear suits, Dad?” he asks, his eyebrows furrowed in a perfect imitation of my own thinking face. “If they’re fighting, wouldn’t pajamas be faster? They’re stretchy.”
I choke on my coffee, trying to keep a straight face. “Pajamas aren’t very intimidating, Theo. People need to know they’re professionals.”
“I think Lyosha would look funny in pajamas,” Theo muses, tapping his chin. He leans forward, his dark eyes narrowing. “And why do I have to go to school? I already know how to count to a hundred and I know how to take apart your Glock. You said that’s all a man needs.”
I glance at Lena, who is standing by the sideboard, stifling a laugh. She gives me a look that says,“You dug this hole, now climb out of it.”
“I said a man needs to know his tools, Theo. I didn’t say you could skip geography,” I counter. “Besides, if you’re going to be a Volkov, you have to be smarter than everyone else in the room. You can’t outsmart people if you don’t know where they live.”
Theo nods solemnly, processing this information with relentless focus. “Okay. I’ll go. But I want a black bag. Like your car.”
“Done,” I say.
I watch him dig into his pancakes, his small hands moving with a precision that reminds me so much of my father it makes my chest ache. He’s going to be a proper Volkov—strong, focused, and hopefully a much better man than I was for most of my life.
“He terrifies me,” I mutter to Lena as she sits down beside me, placing a hand on my shoulder. “He’s got that look. The one where he’s already three steps ahead of you.”
“He gets that from you,” she teases, leaning over to kiss my temple. “And the stubbornness from me. He’s a dangerous combination, Razvan.”
“He’s perfect,” I say, catching her hand and bringing it to my lips.
The compound is quiet, but it’s a living quiet. There are voices in the gardens, the sound of a distant lawnmower, the clinking of silverware. The ghosts of Mike and our fathers are still there, but they aren’t haunting us anymore. They’re just part of the foundation.
I look at the ring on Lena’s finger, then at the boy who finally calls me Dad, and for the first time in my life, I don’t feel like a man standing on a cliffside. I feel like a man who has finally found solid ground.
“Ready for your first day, big man?” I ask Theo.
He looks up, a bit of syrup on his chin, and gives me a sharp, determined nod. “Ready, Dad. I’ll make the family proud.”
“You already have,” I tell him.
And as I look at Lena, seeing the peace in her eyes and the love that I no longer have to steal, I realize that the war didn’t endwhen Viktor died. It ended here, at a breakfast table, with a school bag and a promise.
We are Volkovs. We are survivors. And finally, we are a family.
EPILOGUE: LENA
“If he asks me to sit down one more time, Nadia, I swear on the Volkov crest I am going to throw a decorative pillow at his very expensive head.”
I shift my weight on the wooden crate in the cellar, leaning back against a cool stone wall that offers the only relief from the humid Moscow afternoon. My stomach is a heavy, restless sphere—our second child is currently practicing what feels like a kickboxing routine against my ribs.
Nadia leans against the wine rack, swirling a glass of dark purple grape juice with a wicked smirk. “Oh, poor Lena. Your devastatingly handsome, terrifyingly powerful husband wants to treat you like a porcelain doll. My heart bleeds for you. Truly.”
“He thinks pregnancy is a physical disability!” I hiss, taking a defiant gulp of my own juice. “I try to reach for a book on the top shelf yesterday. Just a book. He moves so fast I think there is an assassin in the room. He plucks it out of the air, tucks a blanket around my legs, and asks if the ‘effort of standing’ has made me lightheaded. I’m pregnant, not paralyzed!”
Nadia bursts out laughing, the sound echoing off the dusty wine bottles. “Who would have thought? The man who dismantled a criminal empire with his bare hands is defeated by a baby bump. He’d breathe for you if he could figure out the logistics, wouldn’t he?”
