Page 124 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

I close my eyes, secure in his embrace, with our son nestled between us.

EPILOGUE

Damir (Two Years Later)

The sun is bright, warming my skin as I sit back in my chair. Laughter reverberates through our backyard, and sometimes, the sound still feels foreign to me even after two years in this place. Two years of peace. Two years without looking over my shoulder or sleeping with a gun under my pillow.

I watch my son chase bubbles across the grass, pumping his little legs furiously when he tries to catch the iridescent spheres floating just beyond his reach. Miran. My son. My future. I never thought I’d have one. Never thought I’d deserve one.

Elena steps beside me, placing a hand on my shoulder. Her touch is familiar now but still sends electricity through me. I glance up at her, taking in the gentle curve of her smile.

“He’s going to sleep well tonight,” she says, her gaze following our boy.

“If we can get him to stop long enough to put him to bed.”

Across from us, Anton sits with a glass of vodka in his hand. The tattoos on his arms are visible beneath his rolled-up sleeves, reminders of our shared past. Beside him, Liv laughs at something he said, and her curls bounce with the movement when she leans against him with clear, unconscious affection.

The sight of them together still surprises me sometimes, and I wonder how a nurse reconciles being married to abratvaman. I suppose it’s how my doctor wife managed it when I was still in that life. Love keeps them together. It feels almost surreal to see Anton, my most loyal confidant, now running what remains of my empire while I enjoy a normal life.

I exhale slowly. This is contentment I never thought possible. Not for someone like me. I hope Anton has some semblance of it. He seems content with running the empire, which absorbed Nikolai’s share, and Liv seems happy with him, so I don’t question it.

Miran spots me watching him and changes direction, stumbling toward me with a squeal of delight. His dark curls bounce with each step, and his blue eyes—my eyes—are wide with excitement. He crashes into my legs, and I lift him easily, settling him on my lap.

“Papa,” he exclaims, patting my face with sticky hands.

I press a kiss to his curls, breathing in his scent of baby shampoo and sunshine. “Happy birthday, little man.”

Two years old today. Two years since I held him for the first time, this tiny boy, who showed me I was capable of more than one kind of love.

“Cake time?” he asks hopefully, his vocabulary still limited but growing every day.

Elena laughs, running her hand through his hair. “Yes, cake time. Should we call everyone over?”

Miran nods enthusiastically, wiggling to get down. I release him, and he runs to the table where Elena has set up his birthday spread. Anton and Liv join us, Anton clapping me on the shoulder as he passes. “He’s got your energy. God help us all when he’s a teenager.”

I snort. “If he has Elena’s brains and my stubbornness, we’re all in trouble.”

We gather around the table, watching as Elena lights the two candles on the cake. It’s shaped like a dinosaur, which is Miran’s current obsession. The boy claps his hands, bouncing in his booster seat as we sing to him. His world is safe and full of love. Everything mine wasn’t.

“Make a wish,” Elena tells him, though he’s too young to understand.

He blows with all his might, spraying more spit than air, but the candles flicker out. We cheer, and his face lights up with pride.

“Good job, buddy,” I say, stroking his hair.

We cut the cake, and he immediately plunges his hands into his slice, smearing frosting across his face. Elena tries to wipe him clean, but it’s a losing battle. I don’t mind the mess. It’s normal. It’s what children do.

After cake comes presents. Miran tears through the wrapping paper with abandon, more interested in the process than the gifts themselves. A stuffed dinosaur from Liv. Building blocks from Anton. Books and toys from Elena and me. Each new discovery brings fresh excitement, his joy infectious.

When the last present is opened, Miran crawls into my lap again, his energy finally beginning to fade. He leans against my chest, thumb in his mouth, and eyelids growing heavy.

“I think someone’s ready for his nap,” says Elena softly.

I nod, reluctant to let him go. I want to freeze these moments, when he’s small and trusting in my arms, to preserve them forever. Soon, he’ll be too big for this, too independent. The time goes too quickly.

She lifts him from my lap, and he goes willingly, resting his head on her shoulder. “Say bye-bye to everyone, Miran.”

“Bye-bye,” he mumbles, waving a chubby hand.

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