Chapter 3
PENELOPE
Lake Como, Italy
My eyes flew open to morning.
Light—soft, golden, almost gentle—filtered through heavy silk curtains, brushing my face like a hand that didn’t mean harm.
I inhaled sharply and bolted upright, panic detonating in my chest so violently the room lurched.
For one horrifying heartbeat, I was back there.
Stone walls pressing in.
The stink of damp earth and rot.
Boots on gravel.
The overseer’s voice, promising punishment, promising pain, promising that death would not be quick enough to save me.
My muscles locked, bracing for chains, for hands, for the sharp bite of a blade meant to remind me that rebellion always came with a price.
But nothing happened.
No shouting.
No pain.
No whip cracking through the air.
Instead—softness.
The mattress beneath me dipped slightly, cradling my weight instead of rejecting it. Clean sheets brushed my skin. Warmth surrounded me.
I sucked in another breath, then another, until my lungs burned and I realized—dimly, incredulously—that the air didn’t reek of blood or fear.
I blinked. Once. Twice.
The room came into focus.
A bed—massive, king-sized—draped in pristine white linen, the kind that whispered money with every fold.
Marble floors veined with subtle gold stretched beneath my feet. Vaulted ceilings soared overhead, a crystal chandelier catching the morning sun and scattering it like fractured stars across the walls.
This room was larger than my entire apartment in Greece.
No.
This wasn’t Greece.
I turned my head slowly, dread and disbelief twisting together, and saw the windows.
Floor-to-ceiling glass framed Lake Como in all its impossible beauty—the water smooth and silver-blue, villas clinging to lush green hillsides like jewels set into velvet.
Snow-dusted mountains rose in the distance, serene and indifferent to human suffering.
The scent hit me next.
Clean lake water. Pine. A faint hint of citrus drifting up from manicured gardens below.
Italy.
My hand flew to my chest.
Pain flared—but it was muted.
I peeled back the edge of my pajama top with shaking fingers.
White gauze covered the long slash between my breasts, expertly cleaned and neatly stitched beneath. Smaller bandages dotted my ribs. Bruises bloomed across my arms and sides—angry purples and sickly yellows—but they were healing, not bleeding.
Someone had taken care of me.
I was wearing black silk pajamas—long-sleeved, high-necked, soft enough to feel obscene against skin that had known only dirt and pain for so long. They fit perfectly. Too perfectly.
A chill slid down my spine.
Someone had undressed me.
Washed me.
Dressed me again.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. My bare feet met cool marble, grounding me just enough to keep my knees from giving out.
Slowly, carefully, I stood and crossed the room, each step tentative, like the world might shatter if I moved too fast.
I pushed the window open.
Fresh air rushed in, filling my lungs until my chest ached with it.
Somewhere below, water lapped against stone docks. Life continued, blissfully unaware that I had almost died in a place no map bothered to acknowledge.
“Someone tell me this is real,” I whispered, my voice hoarse. “That I didn’t just... trade one cage for another.”
My fingers brushed the silk at my wrist. No blood. No grime. No trace of the rag that had barely clung to my waist when I collapsed in that car.
A miracle.
Or the calm before another nightmare.
My thoughts slammed into the others like a physical blow.
Ana.
Sofia.
Christina.
Simona
Carina.
Had they made it? Had the forest swallowed them and kept them safe, or had the Albanians hunted them down the moment the tunnel was discovered?
And Bianca.
The image of her pinned against that wall burned behind my eyes. If I survived and she didn’t—
My breath hitched.
Then another thought crashed through everything else.
Vanya.
My son.
Every night in that cave, I’d tortured myself with the same questions.
Was Dmitri alive? Had he survived the warehouse? Had he kept Vanya safe?
My chest tightened until it hurt to breathe.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
I spun, heart slamming.
Before I could answer—before I could prepare—the handle turned.
The door opened.
Two figures stepped inside.
Seraphina.
And Vanya.
The world tilted violently.
Vanya froze first. His small body went rigid, blue eyes widening as they locked onto mine.
For a split second, he looked older—too observant, too serious—nothing like the child I remembered before I was torn from him at five. Twelve months ago. Now he was six.
My heart seized so violently I thought it might simply stop.
Vanga stood beside her.
He was taller now. His legs were longer, his shoulders broader, his dark hair curling softly at the nape of his neck the way Dmitri’s did when he was young.
He looked well-fed, sun-kissed, undeniably healthy. Dressed in a crisp white shirt and navy shorts, expensive but understated, the uniform of a child raised in wealth and safety.
But his eyes—
They weren’t searching for me.
They weren’t lighting up with recognition.
They studied me with polite curiosity. Careful. Distant. The way a child looks at a stranger whose presence has been explained but not felt.
Seraphina’s fingers were wrapped around his hand.
Possessive. Casual. Familiar.
Her other hand rested lightly on his shoulder, as though staking a claim no one could dispute.
She was immaculate—cream silk blouse tucked into tailored trousers, hair glossy and perfectly arranged, makeup subtle enough to suggest effortlessness.
She looked like she belonged here. Like this house had been built around her.
I couldn’t speak.
My throat closed, lungs locking as though the air had turned to glass.
“Vanya,” I finally whispered.
The sound of his name seemed to echo too loudly in the room.
His brows knit together. He glanced up at Seraphina, confusion flickering across his face before he looked back at me. “She knows my name?”
Seraphina’s thumb brushed the back of his hand, slow and reassuring, the gesture so practiced it made my stomach twist. “Perhaps she overheard your father when he brought her back, darling,” she said smoothly. “She wasn’t fully unconscious the entire drive, remember?”
Darling.
Vanya gently slipped his hand free and took a tentative step toward me, stopping just short of arm’s reach. Not close enough to touch. Not close enough to smell him, to confirm he was real.
“Hi,” he said politely.
“My dad and I found you in the backseat of his car,” he continued, earnest and unguarded. “You were all bloody and... um...” His cheeks flushed pink, embarrassment creeping in. “Not wearing very much. Dad thought it was probably an Albanian trick. He wanted to leave you there.”
My chest tightened.
“But I didn’t want him to,” Vanya added quickly. “You looked really hurt. So I begged him to bring you home. I’m really glad you woke up. Are you feeling better?”
Each sentence landed like a separate wound.
I glanced at Seraphina.
She watched me openly now, no attempt to hide the satisfaction glinting in her eyes. That same small, poisonous smile I’d despised since the day Dmitri first compared me to her.
I swallowed hard. “Vanya... it’s me. Your—”
“Penelope,” Seraphina interrupted gently, but firmly, the way one corrects a child—or silences a threat. “Vanya lost his mother many years ago. In New Jersey.”
Her voice took on a rehearsed softness, every word measured.
“After giving birth to him, her father attempted to kidnap both mother and child. Dmitri arrived too late to save her—but just in time to rescue the baby. New Jersey wasn’t his territory.
” She sighed, shaking her head as though recalling a tragic inconvenience.
“There were limits to what he could do.”
I felt dizzy.
“A few days later,” Seraphina continued, pressing on before I could breathe, “we received word that the mother—Penelope—had succumbed to her injuries.” She crossed herself delicately. “God rest her soul.”
I stared at her.
Then at Vanya.
Then back at her.
My fingers dug into my palm until pain sparked—sharp, grounding. This wasn’t a nightmare. This was the story they’d given him. The lie he’d grown up believing.
“That’s right,” Vanya said solemnly, nodding. “Aunt Seraphina told me. She’s taken care of me ever since.”
Aunt.
“She reads to me every night,” he added proudly. “Helps with homework. Buys me books and toys. She even learned how to cook my favorite foods.” He hesitated, then said, confused, “I don’t know why Dad still won’t marry her. She’s really nice. She’d make a great mom.”
Something inside me cracked.
Not loudly. Quietly. Like a bone fracturing under pressure it could no longer bear.
Seraphina’s smile widened just enough for me to notice.
I forced my lips to move. “I’m... glad you’re safe, Vanya. And healthy.” My voice sounded far away, like it belonged to someone else. “Thank you for helping me.”
He brightened immediately. “Of course! I was really scared you’d die on the drive home.”
He continued. “Dad’s not here right now—he had a meeting. But he’ll be back tonight. You should thank him properly when you see him.”
“I will,” I whispered.
My legs finally gave out.
I sank onto the edge of the bed, the silk sheets cool beneath my fingers.
I couldn’t stop staring at my son—memorizing him all over again. The curve of his mouth. The way his nose wrinkled slightly when he smiled. Searching desperately for any flicker of recognition.
There was none.
Seraphina tilted her head, studying me like a chessboard she already controlled.
And in that moment, I understood with chilling clarity:
They hadn’t just erased me from Vanya’s life.
They had replaced me.
Seraphina glanced down at her watch with deliberate casualness, as if nothing in this room had just been detonated.
“Vanya,” she said lightly, turning toward him with a soft smile, “your French tutor should be arriving any minute now. You’d better go check if Monsieur Laurent is here.”