Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 77879 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77879 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Machines beeped wildly. The sharp antiseptic wasn’t enough to cover the metallic scent of her blood.
I looked up at her face, bracing for the absolute worst.
And those beautiful green eyes of hers smiled into mine.
For a moment, I thought I was seeing an angel.
I thought maybe she’d died, and God was gracious enough to give me one last glimpse of her before taking her from me.
Her eyes were still so bright.
Zoya.
My wife.
She wasn’t an angel.
She was here. Alive.
Despite everything—she was alive.
Her face was flushed, but radiant with a thin sheen of sweat over her skin. Her eyes were on me—still so warm, and full of something much deeper than life itself.
She smiled at me, and the world seemed right again.
That smile was the reason I woke up every morning.
“Come here,” she said, her voice hoarse but filled with something fierce and unbreakable.
Her fingers lifted, reaching for me, and the world snapped back into focus.
My feet moved before my brain caught up.
I was at her bedside in a heartbeat, gripping her hand like a lifeline, swallowing hard against the storm of emotions tightening my throat.
She lived.
She was going to be okay.
Then—my world changed forever.
I heard it.
A sound, small and frail.
A tiny gasping cry.
Zoya tilted her head, her smile turning soft, knowing, victorious.
She had fought a battle most thought she couldn’t win.
I had doubted her strength.
I should have known better.
“Come meet your son, husband.”
EPILOGUE
ZOYA
The warmth of our newborn son against my chest should have been the only thing occupying my mind.
After everything we'd been through—the blood, the fear, the miracle of his survival when doctors said it was impossible—this moment should have been perfect.
Roman sat beside my hospital bed, his large hand gently stroking our baby's tiny fingers, wonder and disbelief still written across his features.
We had defied every medical prediction, every dire warning about my condition.
Our son was here, breathing, perfect.
But the peace didn't last.
The synchronized buzz of multiple phones shattered the quiet intimacy of our hospital room.
Roman's phone. Then Gregor's. Artem's. Pavel's. Kostya's. Damien's.
One after another.
The sound sliced through the room, as every single Ivanov man stared at their device with identical expressions of dread.
Roman's jaw clenched so hard I could practically hear his teeth grind together.
"Fuck," Gregor muttered, running a hand through his hair.
Artem was already on his feet, pacing to the window. "This is about that damn senator bullshit, isn't it?"
"Has to be," Pavel said grimly, bouncing his own daughter in his arms as if the motion could ward off whatever storm was brewing.
The wives exchanged worried glances, but they knew better than to ask questions when their husbands reacted this way. Even Yelena, who usually commanded attention in any room, stayed silent.
The air grew heavy, oppressive.
Roman's hand stilled on our son's head, his protective instincts kicking in with whatever crisis was unfolding in those digital messages.
"I'm handling it," Gregor said, his voice tight with barely controlled frustration. "There's no reason for him to come here. Not now."
"Handling it?" Artem's laugh was bitter. "Clearly not well enough if Darius is flying in tonight."
"Tonight?" Roman's voice was deadly quiet.
The kind of quiet that preceded bloodshed.
Gregor nodded, his expression grim. "Private jet lands at eleven."
Whatever was in those messages had shifted the entire atmosphere from celebration to impending disaster.
Fear and fury hung in the air.
I looked between all of them—these powerful, dangerous men who commanded respect and terror throughout the criminal underworld and saw something I'd never witnessed before…alarm.
"Who is Darius?" I asked, my voice cutting through the suffocating silence.
Every head in the room turned toward me.
Roman's eyes met mine, and I watched him wrestle with how much truth to reveal given that our newborn son was only a few hours old. Clearly, he was trying to protect me, but from what?
It was Gregor who finally answered, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority.
"Darius Ivanov," he said, each syllable deliberate. "Our boss. The real head of the Ivanov crime syndicate."
The words struck me in the chest.
Boss? Real head?
I had thought Gregor and Artem were the apex predators.
That the power structure I'd been fighting against, the empire I'd tried to infiltrate and destroy, ended with them.
I was catastrophically wrong.
"He's been in London for the past ten years," Artem added, his voice strained. "Expanding operations. Building new alliances. Hiding in plain sight. We've been running things here under his direction, but..."
"But apparently not to his satisfaction," Roman finished, his arm tightening protectively around both me and our son.
The implications crashed over me.
There was someone above these Ivanovs.
Someone more powerful, more dangerous than any of these men who had already proven themselves capable of unspeakable violence.
Someone who was angry enough to abandon his European empire and cross an ocean to personally handle whatever catastrophe he believed they'd created.
"What does he want?" I whispered.
"To remind us of who's really in charge," Gregor said, his words sharp. "And to clean up whatever damage he thinks we've caused."