Page 55 of Bride of Vengeance
The bracelet catches the light, sparkling like tiny stars. "Thank you."
"You can thank me by not breaking his heart. I just got him back—I'd hate to have to kill you."
Despite everything, I laugh. "Noted."
Dinner is surreal in the best way. Irina has prepared enough food to feed a small army—beef stroganoff, borscht, fresh bread, salads, dishes I can't even name. The twins are in their high chairs, making spectacular messes while baby Anya sleeps in a bassinet nearby.
"Viktor, no throwing," Mila says for the tenth time as peas go flying.
"He has good aim," Mikhail observes. "Gets that from the Kozlov side."
"The Kozlov side didn't teach him to weaponize vegetables," Alexei says dryly.
It's so... normal. So domestic. Like Mikhail hasn't been dead for them until now. Like I'm not wanted for treason. Like this is just a regular family dinner.
"Mariana, try the borscht," Irina insists, ladling more into my bowl. "You're too thin. How are you supposed to give Mikhail strong babies if you don't eat?"
I choke on my bread. Mikhail pats my back, fighting a smile.
"Irina," Mila scolds. "They're not—you can't just—"
"What? I have eyes. He looks at her the way Alexei looks at you when he thinks no one notices."
"We all notice," Mikhail says. "He's not subtle."
"You’re not being subtle either," Alexei shoots back.
And just like that, they're bantering like family. Like brothers. The tension from earlier has melted into something warmer,something that makes my chest ache with longing for things I didn't know I wanted.
"More wine?" Mila offers, already pouring.
"Trying to get the federal agent drunk?"
"Former federal agent. Currently family-adjacent criminal. Very different rules apply."
By the time dinner ends, I'm full and slightly tipsy and warmer than I've felt in years. This is what family feels like—chaotic and loud and overwhelming in the best way.
"You'll stay tonight," Mila says. It's not a question. "The guest room is ready."
"We can’t—"
"You can and you will. Uncle Misha needs to spend time with us, and make up for lost years."
Mikhail's face does something complicated—grief and joy and guilt all at once. "Thank you, Milochka."
I have to admit that the guest room is gorgeous—soft blues and creams, a bed that looks like clouds, windows overlooking the garden. Mikhail stands in the doorway like he's not sure he's allowed in.
"Today was good," I say. "Hard, but good."
"She forgave me."
"Because she loves you. Love forgives a lot."
He steps into the room, closing the door behind him. "And you? What do you forgive when you love?"
"I don't know yet. Ask me tomorrow."
He moves closer, and my heart starts doing that stupid flutter thing it does whenever he's near. "Mariana—"
