The peace with the Kovacs holds. Uneasy, temporary, but real. Marko retreats to consolidate, to plan, to wait for better opportunities. And Dom and Allie use the time to build, to strengthen, to prepare.
The business grows. Legitimate contracts, international partnerships, the kind of deals that would have been impossible for the old Volkov Bratva. They hire people who know nothing of the syndicate, who work nine to five and go home to families and never worry about shadow courts or blood debts.
The twins thrive. Luna starts kindergarten, actual school, and comes home every day with stories and art projects and new friends whose parents do not know or care who the Volkovs are. Leo enters a program for gifted children, his architecture and security interests channeled into constructive, creative directions.
And Allie? Allie finds her place. Not just as Dom's wife, the mother of his children, but as a partner in the business, an advisor, a strategist. She sits in meetings and offers opinions that are valued, that change decisions, that shape the future.
It is not perfect. There are still dangers, still secrets, still the weight of the past pressing against the present. But it is better. So much better than she dared hope.
On a Tuesday in May, three months after the wedding, Allie feels sick. Not emotional, not stressed. Physically sick, nauseous, exhausted in ways that sleep does not fix.
She takes a test. Then another. Then sits on the bathroom floor and laughs and cries and does not know what to feel.
Pregnant. Again. Twins run in families, the doctor had said, and here they are, running.
She tells Dom that night, after the twins are asleep. She plans it carefully, a quiet dinner, a bottle of wine he will not drink because she cannot, a moment of privacy in their busy lives.
He guesses before she can tell him. Sees it in her face, her hesitation, her joy and fear mixed together.
"You are," he says, not asking.
"I am. We are. Again, maybe. Probably not twins this time, the odds are against it, but"
Dom weeps. Openly, without shame, the tears of a man who has found everything he lost, everything he never knew he wanted.
"Are you happy?" Allie asks, because she needs to know, because this changes everything, because she is terrified and excited and does not know which feeling to trust.
"Happy," Dom repeats, like he is learning the word. "I am... I am overwhelmed. Grateful. Scared. We barely manage with two, and three, four, however many..."
"We manage," Allie says, taking his hands. "We always manage. Together."
They plan. The nursery, the timing, the announcement to the twins. Luna will be ecstatic, already campaigning for a sister to dress up and boss around. Leo will be thoughtful, calculating the logistics, offering to help in ways that are actually helpful.
And the world? The world will know. Another Volkov heir, another target, another reason for enemies to strike. But also another reason to fight, to build, to make the world safer, better, worthy of the children they are raising.
The pregnancy progresses. Allie works as long as she can, then shifts to advising from home, then to full rest as her body demands. Dom hovers, protective, terrified, learning to trust her strength even as he fears for her safety.
And in the background, always, the threat of Marko Kovac. The knowledge that peace is temporary, that war will come again, that they must be ready.
But for now, they live. They love. They grow.
Allie is six months pregnant when the call comes. Not from Marko. From someone unexpected. Someone who should not have her number, should not know her name, should not be part of her world at all.
"Mrs. Volkov," the voice says, female, young, scared. "My name is Elena. Elena Orlov. My father... my father was the man your father-in-law wanted your husband to marry. The alliance. The docks."
Allie remembers. Sergei's first choice, the daughter he wanted Dom to marry for power and connection.
"What do you want, Elena?"
"I want to help you. I want... I want out. Out of this world, out of these arrangements, out of being a piece on someone else's board." Elena's voice breaks. "And I know things. About the Kovacs. About Marko. About what he is planning. I know because my father is working with him, has been all along, and I cannot... I cannot let them destroy you. Not when you have shown there is another way."
Allie listens. She asks questions, careful, testing. She verifies through her own sources, Dom's network, the intelligence they have built.
It is real. Elena is real. The information is real. Marko is planning something big, something final, something that will strike not at the business but at the family. At the children. At the unborn baby growing inside her.
Allie tells Dom. They plan, strategize, prepare. They bring Elena in, protect her, use her information to build defenses they did not know they needed.
And they wait. For the attack they know is coming. For the chance to end this war, one way or another.
The nursery is ready. Pink and yellow, gender unknown, safe and soft and full of hope. Allie sits in it sometimes, in the rocking chair Dom insisted on, and she talks to her belly. Promises. Vows. The same ones she made to Leo and Luna, the same ones she makes to Dom, to herself.
"We will be okay," she whispers. "We will be safe. We will be loved. Whatever comes, we will face it together."
The baby kicks, strong and sure. A response, or a coincidence, or a promise.
Allie chooses to believe it is a promise