Chapter 6 #2
“You blamed me for your mother’s death,” I continued. “Believed I’d cheated on you. Believed I betrayed you.” I let out a breath that scraped. “You punished me for sins I don’t even remember committing.”
The car hummed beneath us, engine steady, indifferent.
“You body-shamed me constantly,” I went on, words loosening now that they’d started. “Called me fat. Compared me to Seraphina—her elegance, her posture, her pedigree. You made it sound like I was something you tolerated instead of wanted.”
His jaw flexed, muscle jumping.
“After our first sex,” I said, “you abandoned me. Months, Dmitri. Months of silence. I was married to you and still alone. Then I found out I was pregnant.”
The word landed between us like a dropped glass.
“You left me to carry that terror by myself,” I said. “No calls. No answers. No protection. Just rumors and servants who wouldn’t meet my eyes.”
He exhaled slowly through his nose, as if every word cut deeper than the last.
“You locked me in a dark room,” I said quietly. “For days. No windows. No clock. I lost track of time. Lost track of myself.” My fingers curled against my thigh. “You ordered me to terminate the baby. And when I refused—when I begged you to listen—you sent me away.”
The lake vanished behind trees. Darkness pressed in on both sides.
“So you could marry her.”
Silence swallowed the car. Not the peaceful kind. The suffocating kind. The kind that pressed against the ears until it rang.
The SUV swerved suddenly.
Gravel screamed beneath the tires as Dmitri slammed on the brakes, the car rocking hard before stilling.
Headlights cut long, blinding beams into a wall of dark pines. The engine idled, a low, restless growl.
He turned fully toward me now, forearms braced on the steering wheel, eyes searching my face in the dim glow of the dashboard.
“I did all of those things to you?” he asked.
His voice wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t angry.
It was horrified.
I didn’t look at him. I stared straight ahead at the black ribbon of road disappearing into the trees.
“Yes.”
“Penelope...” The way he said my name—soft, aching—split something open inside me.
The same tone he’d used years ago under that Brooklyn oak tree, when the world had been small enough to outrun.
“What can I do?” he asked. “What do I have to do to earn your forgiveness?”
I laughed once, bitter and short.
“Nothing,” I said. “Forgiveness isn’t a transaction.” I swallowed. “I just want to take my son and go back to Greece. Please.”
“Greece?” He frowned. “I thought you were from New York.”
“My parents are in New York,” I said. “They’re not good people.”
The words tasted old. Heavy.
“After I took that bullet for you in New Jersey,” I continued, “someone in Greece sheltered me. Hid me. Helped me raise Vanya for five years.” My voice softened despite myself. “A real life, Dmitri. Quiet. Safe. No guns. No guards. No lies.”
I finally turned to face him.
“My entire world turned upside down the moment I left Greece,” I said. “The moment I came here to watch you marry Seraphina.”
He closed his eyes briefly, as though the weight of it all had finally pressed through.
A single drop of blood fell from his clenched fist onto the leather gearshift—dark, almost black in the low light, glistening as it spread.
I realized then he’d been driving with white knuckles the entire way, skin split where his nails had dug in. He hadn’t noticed. Or hadn’t cared.
“I’ve caused you so much pain,” he murmured. The words sounded torn out of him rather than spoken. “I can’t remember the details, but I feel it.” His hand trembled where it rested against the console. “Like a weight I can’t shake. Like something rotten sitting in my chest. I feel... horrible.”
The man beside me barely resembled the ruthless figure the world feared. Dmitri Volkov—untouchable, unbreakable, a myth sharpened into flesh—looked like he might shatter if one more truth landed on him wrong.
His eyes were glassy, unfocused, as if he were staring at something far behind me. His breathing was uneven. Controlled only by force of will.
“Seraphina has stolen my son’s love,” I said quietly.
The words didn’t come out sharp.
“Vanya doesn’t remember me,” I continued.
“Not the way he should. Not the way a child remembers his mother. Every day I stay here is another day she tightens her hold. Another day she rewrites me out of his world.” My throat tightened.
“I need to leave with him before it’s too late. Before he forgets I ever existed.”
He flinched as though I’d struck him.
“You want me,” he said slowly, disbelief creeping into his voice, “to help you leave me?”
The last word cracked. Not loudly. But it broke all the same.
I didn’t soften it. “After everything you’ve done to me—everything you took—this is the only thing you can do that might ease even a fraction of my pain.”
He turned away, staring through the windshield at nothing. His jaw worked, muscles flexing as he swallowed hard, again and again, like he was trying to choke down something that refused to go.
When he turned back, his eyes were wet. Not glossy. Wet. Tears threatening, barely restrained by pride and sheer effort.
“If you leave,” he said hoarsely, “what happens to me?” His voice dropped. “I’m Vanya’s father. And you’re the only person I trust right now.”
That hit harder than I expected.
“I’ve hurt you enough,” he went on, words tumbling faster now, urgency bleeding through his control.
“I know that—even without the memories. I don’t want to force anything on you ever again.
Not your body. Not your loyalty. Not your forgiveness.
” His hands stayed clenched in his lap, knuckles white, as if he were physically restraining himself from reaching for me.
“I’m begging you, Penelope. Stay. Please. ”
The desperation in his face was raw. This wasn’t manipulation. This was a man stripped down to fear and regret, offering himself up without armor.
“Let’s fight the Orlovs and the Morozovs together,” he said, voice shaking now.
“Help me take back my power. We drive Seraphina out. We reclaim what’s ours.
” He swallowed hard. “We raise Vanya as a family. I don’t care if I spend the rest of my life on my knees, groveling, atoning—if that’s the price. As long as you stay.”
Seeing him like this—so exposed, so unguarded—shifted something inside me.
Not forgiveness.
Not mercy.
But leverage.
“While I was with the Albanians,” I said slowly, choosing each word with care, “there were six other women in my cell.”
His head lifted sharply.
“Five escaped with me,” I continued. “I don’t know if they’re alive. I don’t know if they made it out or were caught again. The sixth—Bianca—is still there.” My hands curled in my lap. “The Kompania brothers have her.”
His face hardened, something lethal snapping into place beneath the vulnerability.
“If you help me find the others,” I said, “bring them here if they’re alive... and get Bianca out—buy her, steal her, burn the place down if you have to—then maybe we can talk about staying.”
The word maybe hung between us, fragile and dangerous.
He swallowed hard. “I’ll do anything you ask, Penelope.”
“Then start with that.”
He nodded once—sharp, decisive.
He started the engine, the growl low and controlled as we pulled back onto the road.
“Consider it done,” he said. “And after your girls are safe...” His voice dropped, calm and merciless. “I’ll wipe the Albanians off the map. Every last one of them.”
The promise wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.
The rigid determination in his tone sent a shiver through me anyway.
Memories surged without warning—the Albanian cell, damp stone walls slick with mold, chains biting into wrists, the sour stench of fear and unwashed bodies.
Nights when screams echoed until dawn, when silence was worse than noise.
I shoved them down hard, forcing them back into whatever locked compartment I’d survived by building.
Some things weren’t meant to be revisited.
Not if I wanted to keep breathing.
The rest of the drive passed in heavy silence, the kind that pressed against the chest rather than settled it.
When we pulled into the mansion’s private garage, Dmitri killed the engine and turned toward me.
“Don’t forget,” he said softly. “We pretend. For now.”
“I understand.”
I pushed the door open and stepped inside, letting it close behind me with a soft, final click.
He followed a moment later, but I didn’t wait for him. I moved straight through the side entrance, up the narrow service stairs, and into my room like my body already knew the route by heart.
The door shut.
Only then did I draw a breath.
It barely made it all the way into my lungs before a knock sounded—soft, controlled, almost polite.
My spine went rigid.
Better not be Seraphina.
“Who is it?” I called, keeping my voice steady.
“I trust you’re still fully dressed.”
Of course.
Dmitri.
I closed my eyes for half a second, then crossed the room and opened the door.
He slipped inside quickly, closing it behind him without a sound, like a man used to moving unseen.
The air shifted the second he entered—heavier, warmer, charged in a way I hadn’t let myself acknowledge all night.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“No one can know I came,” he said immediately.
Before I could step back, his hands came to my arms.
Not rough. Not claiming. Just firm enough to anchor. Then he pulled me into him.
Hard.
I stiffened for half a heartbeat—pure reflex, muscle memory screaming danger.
Then my body betrayed me.
My arms came up on their own, sliding around his waist. My face pressed into his chest, breath knocking out of me as if I’d been holding it for years.
His heartbeat thundered beneath my cheek—fast, uneven.
His arms tightened, not possessive but desperate, like he was afraid I’d evaporate if he loosened his grip.
I hated how much I’d missed this.
The warmth.
The solidity.