Epilogue II

Lyric

“ T hey’re perfect,” Ivan says, looking down at our sleeping twins.

“I still can’t believe there’s two of them,” Max adds, a somewhat bewildered smile on his face.

“Double the trouble,” I jokingly warn him, then wince from the pain in my lower belly. The painkillers will wear off soon, but it was worth it. I’ll have a quick and seamless recovery, the doctors and nurses assured me. “If we keep this up, gentlemen…”

“We’ll increase the population of Chicago in no time,” Artur quips.

My men slowly approach the bed and take turns holding their newborn sons. I love seeing them like this. I admire their features as they soften, as they practically melt and fawn over the boys, filling my heart with nothing but joy and endless love.

I’m exhausted and still somewhat groggy from the anesthesia, but I’m also hungry and ready to take this new challenge on.

The guys take turns shuffling the babies between them before placing them in their bassinets next to my bed.

Max smiles and comes to my side, eager to kiss me, lovingly caressing my face. “You were incredible, Lyric. You’ve truly blessed us.”

“And I cannot love you more,” Ivan adds and kisses me. Deeply. Sweetly. Pouring his heart and soul through his lips and flooding my heart with his.

I welcome their love. Artur’s delicate pecks on the cheek. His honeylike whispers. Max’s gentle caresses. I welcome everything they’re so eager to give me while our sons sleep soundly in their little beds, warm and comfortable swaddled in their blankets.

“I never thought I’d find myself here,” I say, melting in Max’s embrace.

“Neither did I but I welcome every second,” he replies.

“We have kids now,” Ivan says, laughing as he slowly shakes his head. “I didn’t think we’d ever see this day, to be honest.”

Artur gives him a smile. “Given what we’ve been through, it’s a miracle, isn’t it?”

“Lyric is our miracle,” Max declares. “Our boys are just the first of many bonuses.”

“We never settled on names,” Artur reminds us. What are we naming them?”

Extended Epilogue: Lyric

My father stares at me in sheer disbelief.

“Lyric, why didn’t you tell me?” he asks from behind a thick, bulletproof glass pane. The orange prison jumpsuit makes him look pale and sickly. Then again, he’s been here for almost a year now. Matthew Phelps is but a shadow of the man he used to be, and judging by the healing bruises on his face, his inmates don’t like him much. “You have twins?”

“Sasha and Alexander. Twin boys,” I reply, calmly seated in my chair.

He reaches out, touching the glass with a look of longing in his eyes. “I’m happy for you.”

“They’re Sokolov sons. I’m not sure how happy that makes you ,” I mutter.

“It doesn’t really matter anymore,” he says with a heavy sigh. “I’m spending another nine years in this place. It’s all water under the bridge. I’ve made my peace.”

“Have you, really?”

I don’t believe him. I know from our lawyers that he has been trying to appeal his sentence. Former Director Smith sang like a bird once he was confronted with the prospect of twenty years in general population. As a member of law enforcement, he wouldn’t have survived his first year.

So he sang and then some. About Bowman, about my father, about other state and city officials who worked closely with his group. Heads rolled. Prison sentences were meted out aplenty. My father didn’t stand a chance, though he did try to make a deal with the Attorney General.

But he had nothing of value to give them.

The information that Shelby provided rendered him ripe for the picking. The jury was swift, the judge was unforgiving. Lucky for him, the magnitude of his crimes only got him a decade in prison. It’s better than nothing, our lawyers reiterated.

“What do you mean?” my father asks, looking innocently confused.

“Did you really think you could get away with trying to smear my name?” I reply, smiling and remaining calm, just like Max taught me. “Did you think the editor of Chicago’s biggest tabloid wouldn’t reach out to the Sokolov Corporation when you first approached him with your salacious gossip about me? Are you for real, Dad?”

He leans back, growing increasingly uncomfortable. I hit a nerve. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Calls from prison are recorded,” I say. “And given Max’s connections, rest assured I heard every word you said to that editor. Luckily, he knew better than to attempt a name-trashing campaign against the heads of the Bratva. He told us everything.”

“Lyric…”

“Even in prison as you pay for your crimes, you’re still trying to hurt me.”

“You put me in here!” he snaps.

“No, you put yourself in here. Fucking own it, you coward,” I shoot back, pointing an angry finger at him. “You were supposed to be my father. Instead, you got involved with the worst kind of people. You managed to get Shelby under your spell by manipulating her, almost turning her against me while you did Bowman’s bidding. Everything that happened, it happened because of you and nobody else.”

He shakes his head, downright denying responsibility. “It wasn’t like that.”

“There’s proof, Dad. So much proof, in fact, that the jury took less than an hour to deliberate, remember?” I say. “You let Bowman and Smith do whatever they wanted. To be honest, I still think you knew what they were going to do with me.”

“No, Lyric, I swear to you, I had no idea!”

“Either way, it doesn’t matter anymore. I’m safe now. The FBI is still busy doing its spring cleaning, getting rid of their rotten apples. The city council, too. Everybody’s got a hell of a reckoning to deal with, but it’s looking better and better. The world is a safer place with Bowman dead, with you and Smith behind bars. And it’s breaking my heart to have to say such things.”

My father nods slowly, but not because he agrees with me. He just wants this to be over with. I’m not sure what I’d hoped would happen when I came to see him. A year has passed since he was found guilty. A year, during which time my Sokolov-funded think tank has brought the algorithm to a whole new level of excellence, while the guys and I have been raising our sons and building a wonderful life together.

“How old are the boys now?” my father asks after a long, uncomfortable silence.

“They’re going to turn two next month,” I say, cradling my belly underneath the counter. There’s a third one on the way, but I haven’t told the guys about it yet. The doctor just confirmed it this morning. “They’re strong and healthy. Happy and safe.”

“When am I going to get to meet them?”

I chuckle dryly. “You will never come anywhere near my family.”

“You’re being cruel,” he says. “They should know their grandfather.”

“After you tried to feed me to the wolves? Fat chance. You had plenty of opportunities to be a father to your daughter, Dad. You’re not getting another. This is your life now.”

He’s on edge, restless in his seat. But he can’t bring himself to walk away from me either. Max thinks he’s like this because, deep down, he does love me. I’m his daughter. His only child. But he loves his career and his ego a whole lot more. It’s an ongoing personality clash unfolding within him. It doesn’t make me feel any better, but it does make some sense of his sometimes-contradictory behavior.

“So the Bratva is still running the show, huh?” he asks.

“They’ve gone mostly legit. The businesses that stayed under were passed over to family and friends who chose to keep a more traditional trajectory,” I reply, still remembering that meeting behind closed ebony doors between the biggest Brava families. “The Sokolov Corporation took most of the holdings and refurbished them into legal sectors. What’s left behind is no longer their concern, but they retain their influence and notoriety. People know not to mess with them, and the city is safer because of their business decisions.”

“I find that hard to believe,” my father mutters, looking away for a second.

“Oh, I almost forgot to mention—my algorithm is coming along nicely. I’ll be the only one using it though.”

He gives me a startled look. “What do you mean?”

“Well, as a researcher at UC, I now have free reign over the research department. I also have the Sokolov think tank behind me. Limitless resources to test countless scenarios, including the political field. Oh, the possibilities.”

I can see the life draining from my father’s face. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am serious. See, Dad? Everything worked out for the best. Well, not for you. But it’s what happens when you get drunk on your own power. You lose sight of your own mortality,” I say.

“You seem to be enjoying this a little too much.”

I lean forward and give him a hard look. “I had a gun pointed at my head, Dad. Your best friend was holding it, and he was ready to kill me, convinced that you’d forgive him. That you would choose to believe him. It was in that very moment that I understood we’re not really family. By blood, yeah. But family isn’t blood anymore. It’s in the bonds we build. All you ever wanted to do was use me. Or my algorithm. Or my best friend. You never wanted me as your daughter. Not really. You never even bothered to really get to know me.

“And what hurt me the most, Dad, is that even after you were sentenced, after you were supposed to see the evil of your ways, you decided to double down and try to screw me over some more by giving a Chicago tabloid dirt about me and my supposed relationship with the Sokolov men.”

“Lyric, I didn’t—”

“I have you on tape, Dad,” I cut him off and get up, swallowing back my own tears. I will not let him see me cry. “This is the last time we meet.”

“Lyric, hold on, I want to see them!” he calls out, standing up in sheer despair.

“Who?” I give him an over-the-shoulder glance.

“Sasha. Alexander. My grandchildren.”

I shake my head. “I will not have my sons exposed to criminals such as yourself.”

And with those hard-hitting words, I leave. His incessant pounding on the glass, his strings of words bouncing between begging me and insulting me become mere mumblings that echo on the heels of my red pumps as I walk out of the prison building and get in the passenger seat of Max’s SUV.

“Are you okay?” Max asks after a long minute of watching me breathe deeply, in and out, while I process that entire conversation and the sour taste it left in my mouth.

“I am now,” I say, looking at him.

Artur reaches out from the backseat and gently massages my shoulders. “You’re going to be better than okay. You know that right?”

“I know,” I reply, enjoying the feel of his lips on my cheek. “Where are the boys?”

“Ivan is picking them up,” Max says. “We’re going to that Christmas Wonderland thing.”

“Oh, right,” I reply, feeling better already. “Gift shopping.”

Max leans in, his eyes searching my face. “Lyric, we’re going to do great.”

“I know we are. We’ve been knocking it out of the park so far,” I laugh lightly.

“No, I mean with a third kid. We’re going to do great. Alexander and Sasha will make amazing big brothers.”

I stare at him, my brain feeling suddenly frozen. A system reset is underway, during which time I’m unable to say a word while Artur snorts a chuckle and takes out a copy of the ultrasound I had earlier this morning.

“Oh,” I mumble, breaking into a cold sweat. “I was wondering where I’d left that.”

“On the side table in the foyer,” Artur replies. “It didn’t take a genius to figure you out before that though.”

“You’ve been moody, on edge,” Max adds. “At first, we thought it was about this visit with your dad. But then we saw the baby snapshot and a few other tiny hints sort of added to it.”

“Tiny hints?”

Max and Artur exchange amused glances, then look at me with nothing but love and lust sparkling in their eyes before shifting their focus down to my slightly swollen, increasingly tender breasts. I follow their gaze and realize precisely what they mean.

They can tell that my girls have gotten bigger. “Okay, that tracks,” I whisper.

“It’s the best news you could’ve given us,” Artur says.

“Technically speaking, I didn’t give you the news.”

“Either way, we’re golden, baby,” Max laughs and pulls me into a kiss.

I relish the feel of his lips on mine. I have found safety and love in their arms. Comfort and kindness in their company. They’re fierce protectors but doting fathers. Worshipping lovers but playful friends. When I first stumbled into that hotel room and saw them, when they introduced themselves as the heads of the Bratva, I quivered. But the fear died quickly as I looked into their eyes.

I knew then just as I know now.

Our love is one of a kind.

And we’re about to take it to the next level.

The End