Page 119 of Bride of Vengeance
"A life. A real life with family and laughter and too much vodka being passed around despite the pregnant woman who can't drink."
"Regrets?"
"Never." He kisses my temple. "Although I am concerned about Boris learning line dancing. That can't end well."
Sure enough, Boris is now teaching the Texas two-step to several former Bratva soldiers. It's surreal and perfect and absolutely our life now.
"I need air," I tell Mikhail as another wave of Braxton Hicks hits. They've been coming all day, practice contractions the doctor says are normal.
We step onto the terrace, the cool air a relief after the crowded ballroom. Chicago spreads before us, lights twinkling like earthbound stars.
"Our children are going to have all of this," Mikhail says quietly. "Family, culture, choice. Everything we didn't have."
"They're going to be spoiled rotten between your protection and Mila's enthusiasm."
"Probably."
Another contraction hits, stronger this time. I grip the railing, breathing through it.
"Mariana?"
"Just Braxton Hicks. Though these twins better not decide to crash their parents' wedding."
"That would be very them—dramatic entrance, perfect timing to cause chaos."
"Like their father."
"Like both their parents."
We stand there watching our families—blood and chosen—celebrate below. Six months ago, I was hunting him. Now I'm carrying his children, wearing his rings, bearing his name by choice rather than necessity.
"No regrets?" he asks, reading my contemplative mood.
"Only one."
His body tenses. "What?"
"We never got to do the cake cutting properly at our first wedding."
He laughs, pulling me close. "Easily remedied."
We return to the reception just in time for the cake—a magnificent creation that somehow incorporates both Russian honey cake layers and Mexican tres leches. As we cut it together, his hand over mine on the knife, I catch sight of us in the mirror behind the cake table.
We look right together. The former Ghost and the former FBI agent, now just Mikhail and Mariana Kozlov, expecting parents, surrounded by people who love us despite—or because of—our complicated history.
"Ready for the next chapter?" he asks as slices of cake get passed around.
"With you? Always."
Another contraction hits, stronger still. I grip his hand, and his eyes sharpen with concern.
"Hospital?"
"Not yet. But soon maybe."
"The twins want to attend their parents' wedding?"
"The twins have your impatience."
