As the sun rises over the city, I finally feel everything slip into place. My city is secured for my bloodline. The path is clean. My family is safe. The knot is tied.
And I am finally free.
EPILOGUE I
SONYA
“You can bring them down when they wake up. Just take them to the kitchen to eat first,” I whisper. Our wonderful nanny nods, then sits in the chair by the window as the twins nap.
I watch them for a moment longer, sunlight pouring through the curtains and painting golden halos around their sweet faces. I trace their small bodies, amazed at how much they've grown in just a year. Their breathing is shallow, peaceful—a stark contrast to the nervous rhythm of my own.
Today is our wedding day, and it feels so much bigger than just vows and rings.It’s the culmination of everything Matvei and I have survived, every secret we’ve kept, every battle we’ve fought. The knowledge simmers beneath my skin, fizzing like champagne in my veins.
I amMrs. Sonya Volkova, wife to the commandingpakhanof the Volkov Bratva and one of Chicago’s most powerful billionaires.
Music drifts up from the ballroom—a blend of Russian folk and something jazzy, the kind of sound only a wedding like ours canproduce. The house is alive, bustling with cousins, uncles, and aunts I’ve never met, their laughter mixing with the aroma of food and the clink of glasses.The Volkovs know how to throw a party. This one is fit for a king—thepakhanand his bride.
I glance at myself one more time in the mirror before I head down, running my hands over the simple white silk of my dress. I descend the grand staircase.Every step echoes with hope and the ghosts of the past.
Matvei waits at the bottom, his suit perfectly tailored, hands folded behind his back. When our eyes meet, he smiles—a small, private smile—just for me. “Ready?” he asks, and I nod. I feel ready for anything with him by my side.
The ballroom is overflowing. People fill every corner, crystal glasses glinting in the light. Tables are dressed in gold and emerald, the centerpieces exploding with white peonies and ivy. My family is in attendance, my aunt still dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. My adoptive mother and father, the Prestons, are all laughter and smiles as they glide around the dance floor.
And so are Kelly, and shockingly, Evgeny.It’s perhaps the first genuine smile I’ve seen on his face since the twins were born, as he leads my sister around the other couples.
They consist of Matvei’s lieutenants and their wives, old friends from the neighborhood, my friends from college, and my colleagues. But there are so many more I don’t know, men and women who speak in low voices and glance at us as if we’re the center of gravity. And in a way, we are.
I move through the crowd, greeting guests, feeling the eyes of Chicago’s light and shadow on me. The atmosphere is both celebration and negotiation, love and loyalty tangled withalliances that stretch back generations. I see Italians, Russians, and a few faces that look fierce in a way I can't put my finger on.
The band starts playing a waltz, and Matvei takes my hand. We dance, surrounded by a circle of family and friends.
As the night deepens, the guest count swells. People arrive in waves, old families from every corner of the city. I watch them size each other up, old grudges simmering beneath polite smiles. But at least for tonight, they are civil. There will be no conflict at our wedding. For now, the alliances hold, stitched together by ritual and respect.
I’m sipping champagne on the balcony when I hear it: a burst of laughter and loud voices, unmistakably south side Irish.
A man approaches me. He’s tall with white hair and a face marked with scars. He walks with the easy command of someone used to giving orders and being obeyed. He stops a few feet from me, eyes locked on mine. There’s an uncanny recognition in his gaze, and I feel my breath catch.
“You must be Sonya,” he says, his voice gentle. “I’mPatrick O’Shea. Your grandfather.”
For a moment, I hear only silence. Matvei wraps a steadying arm around my waist as my knees weaken. “My—my grandfather?”
“Your father was my son. Meant to be my heir, but, well, car accidents don’t care who they take, now do they?”
I shake my head, my vision blurring with tears. “Why now?” I ask. “Why come forward now?”
Patrick’ssmile is sad but kind. “You were happy with the friends of your mother’s, and she wanted it that way. However, I always kept a watchful eye on you, making sure you never wanted foranything. Safer that way, we thought. But it’s time now. You’re family.O’Sheablood runs strong.”
His sad smile transforms into a radiant grin as he extends his hand to me. I take it, but then pull him into a fierce hug. Matvei settles for a handshake.
“You take good care of each other. You will, Volkov, will you not?”
“With all the power I have,” Matvei swears.
The rest of the night blurs into a tapestry of laughter, music, and shared memories. I talk with my grandfather, learning about theO’Shealegacy—stories of courage, heartbreak, and sacrifice, of family feuds and secret alliances—painting a picture of a heritage that was always mine, even when I didn’t know it.
The Italians keep their distance, but I catch sight of their matriarch watching me with what looks like respect. I realize I am no longer an outsider. I am a bridge—a link between worlds that have been at odds for decades. The twins, sleeping soundly upstairs, carry both legacies. They are the future, and for the first time, I feel hope outweighing fear.
Matvei finds me near midnight, when the guests are deep into their third round of toasting. He pulls me aside, his eyes shining. “Come with me,” he says, weaving me through the crowd until we reach a quiet alcove by the staircase.