Page 77 of Tattooed Heart

I smile at him, this dangerous, complicated, beautiful man who somehow became my everything. “I always was.”

“Now what?” I whisper as we turn to face our guests.

“Now we celebrate,” he says.

Hand in hand, we walk back down the aisle together, past smiling faces and thrown rose petals, past the fountain where the floating roses shine in the afternoon light, and past the cypress trees whose lights twinkle like stars when darkness falls.

We are married. And for the first time, I’m not afraid of tomorrow. I’m looking forward to it.

Dimitri pulls me aside as we reach the edge of the garden, where the reception will soon begin. The sounds of celebration continue behind us, but it is just us in the shade of an old oak tree.

“Any regrets?” he asks, although his tone suggests he already knows the answer.

I look back at the scene we just left. Talia is organizing the children for photos, Aleksandr directs the staff who are already setting up for dinner, and Lev smiles as he talks to some other guests. Our family is chosen, claimed, and fought for.

Then I look up at my husband—my husband—and feel my heart fluttering, just as it has been doing since the day I met him.

“None,” I smile. “Not a single one.”

He kisses me again then, slower this time, deeper, with a promise that makes my knees weak and my pulse race. When we break apart, I rest my forehead against his.

“I love you, Mrs. Popov,” he purrs.

Mrs. Popov. The name will take some getting used to but hearing it from his lips makes it sound like the most beautiful word in any language.

“I love you too, Mr. Popov.”

As we walk toward our reception, toward the first night of the rest of our lives, I realize that I am someone new. Someone who belongs, who is loved, and who is brave enough to stay.

The blackbird on my wrist will always remind me where I came from. But the ring on my finger will remind me where I belong. With him. With this family. With this love that is strong enough to build a future on.

Forever.

EPILOGUE

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.

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