Chapter 8
PENELOPE
FOUR WEEKS.
Four weeks of silence that felt like drowning in slow motion—lungs burning, instincts screaming, yet no surface in sight.
Four weeks of living inside Dmitri’s house like a ghost, present but unseen, careful not to draw attention.
Four weeks of watching Vanya from doorways and shadowed corners, committing him to memory the way one memorizes a face before exile.
The way his laughter rang out when Seraphina praised him.
The way he tilted his head, lower lip caught between his teeth, when he concentrated on a book.
The way he reached for her hand without thinking.
Every detail was a fresh wound.
I smiled when I had to. I stayed quiet when silence was required. I played the part of the obedient, subdued woman Dmitri had ‘rescued,’ careful never to overstep, never to provoke Seraphina’s suspicion more than necessary.
At night, I lay awake staring at the ceiling, counting the seconds between heartbeats, wondering if Dmitri was still alive—or if hope had already turned into something foolish and dangerous.
Then the message arrived.
Short. Encrypted. Delivered by one of Dmitri’s runners who didn’t meet my eyes.
Come to the border. Now.
My men will meet you.
Dress as instructed.
—D
That was it.
No reassurance. No explanation. No proof of life beyond the sharp, familiar economy of his words.
I didn’t hesitate.
I borrowed one of Dmitri’s black SUVs from the underground garage—keys left casually in the visor, as if the house itself understood this was necessary.
No questions asked. No guards stopping me.
Either Dmitri had planned this down to the smallest detail.
.. or he was already dead, and this was the last echo of his will.
The drive north blurred into a tunnel of winding mountain roads and pine forests.
The SUV hugged the curves too tightly as I pushed the accelerator harder than I should have, tires screaming on switchbacks, gravel spraying into the ravines below.
My heart hammered against my ribs, adrenaline burning hot and sharp.
I prayed I wasn’t driving straight into a trap.
The border crossing appeared suddenly—an ugly, desolate stretch of two-lane asphalt boxed in by chain-link fence and concrete barriers.
Albanian flags snapped violently in the wind on one side, red fabric cracking like gunshots. Italian flags on the other side hung limp and tired, as if exhausted by pretending neutrality.
A handful of guards lounged near their booth, rifles slung casually over their shoulders. Too casual. The kind of men who’d seen enough violence that boredom was the only thing left.
I wore exactly what Dmitri had specified.
A full-length black abaya—modest, flowing, ankle-length. A matching niqab that covered everything except my eyes. The fabric was heavy, clinging to my skin, trapping heat and breath. Sweat gathered along my spine, but I welcomed the discomfort. It meant anonymity.
To the casual observer, I was nothing. Just another woman crossing from one side to the other. Unremarkable. Invisible.
I slowed the SUV and rolled past the guards. One of them glanced up, eyes skimming over me without interest, then returned to his cigarette. No questions. No documents checked.
My pulse thundered.
Fifty meters down the road, a man in dark tactical gear stepped out from behind a rusted shipping container. He raised one hand—two fingers extended—then lowered it quickly.
The signal.
I pulled over, killed the engine, and stepped out. My legs felt unsteady, like they might give way beneath me. The guards glanced once in my direction, then looked away again. Still no interest. Still nothing.
The man didn’t speak. He didn’t even acknowledge me beyond a sharp nod. He turned and walked toward a narrow dirt path barely visible between the trees.
I followed.
The moment I stepped off the road, the world changed. The sounds of the border faded behind us, swallowed by the forest. The air grew cooler, damp with moss and earth. My heart pounded so loudly I was sure he could hear it.
We descended a steep slope, loose gravel sliding under my sandals, branches snapping beneath our feet. I fought the urge to rush, forcing myself to match his pace. The sound of running water grew louder with every step.
At the bottom, the trees opened up.
A small fleet of vehicles waited.
Not ordinary trucks—these were beasts. Modified off-road 4x4s with oversized knobby tires, lifted suspensions, reinforced roll cages, matte-black paint that absorbed light instead of reflecting it. Vehicles built to climb impossible inclines. Vehicles built to disappear.
A handful of men stood guard, rifles slung low, faces masked, bodies relaxed but alert. Professionals. The kind Dmitri trusted when everything else had failed him.
The man gestured to the nearest truck.
I hesitated.
Every instinct screamed trap. Screamed run. Screamed don’t get in.
But I climbed inside anyway.
He got behind the wheel. The engine roared to life, vibrating through the frame. Without a word, we lurched forward, bouncing over roots and rocks, following a barely visible trail that hugged the riverbank.
I clasped my hands in my lap so tightly my nails bit into my palms.
Questions burned in my throat.
Is Dmitri alive?
Did he succeed?
Or is this the moment they hand me back—payment for a deal I never agreed to?
The journey stretched on, time losing meaning. The woods thinned into rocky scrubland, the river narrowing into something fast and violent. We crossed a narrow bridge that looked one hard rain away from collapse.
On the far side, the truck slowed.
A massive iron gate loomed ahead—rusted with age but reinforced with fresh steel plating, welded thick and ugly. It looked less like an entrance and more like a warning.
As we approached, the gate swung open.
No guards stepped out.
No checkpoint lights flashed on.
No voices called out.
Just silence.
We rolled through.
The compound stretched out before me like a scar carved into the earth.
Sprawling. Utilitarian. Built for function, not comfort—low concrete buildings squatting under a gray sky, their walls stained with age and neglect. Chain-link fencing ringed the perimeter, topped with coils of razor wire that glinted dully in the light.
A central courtyard lay open and exposed, its cracked surface soaked with old oil stains and something darker.
The smell hit me next.
Diesel. Rust. And beneath it—something sour and unmistakable.
Damp stone. Sweat. Fear.
The stench of the Albanian cells.
My stomach lurched. My lungs forgot how to work for a terrifying second, memory crashing into me with brutal force. I tasted bile.
My fingers curled into the fabric of the abaya, nails digging through the layers like I could claw my way out of the moment.
The truck rolled to a stop.
The driver cut the engine and turned slightly in his seat. “Wait here.”
He didn’t wait for a response.
He climbed out and headed toward the largest building at the center of the compound, his boots crunching against gravel that sounded far too loud in the sudden quiet.
I stayed frozen in the passenger seat.
My pulse roared in my ears, drowning out everything else. My legs shook so violently I had to press my knees together to stop them rattling.
Every breath scraped my chest raw. The inside of the niqab felt too close, too tight. Panic clawed its way up my throat, sharp and animal.
I was back.
Back in the dark.
Back in chains.
Back where they’d broken me piece by piece and called it entertainment.
My gaze flicked toward the gate. It was still open. Just a few dozen meters away.
Run.
The thought flared hot and desperate.
But reality followed just as fast. I was deep in their territory. Surrounded. Watched. Even if I made it ten steps, I’d be dragged down before I reached the fence. Running now wouldn’t be escape—it would be surrender.
So I stayed.
The giant double doors of the main building groaned open, metal protesting as if it knew what lived behind it.
A figure stepped out.
Tall. Controlled. Impossible to miss.
Dressed head to toe in white—crisp linen shirt open at the collar, tailored trousers pressed to perfection, spotless white boots untouched by dust or blood. The contrast was stark, almost surreal against the grim gray of the compound.
Lethal grace in every step.
Dmitri Volkov.
He stopped a few paces away, the wind tugging at his shirt, lifting the fabric just enough to reveal the rigid lines of his frame.
His presence alone seemed to still the air. His eyes—those piercing, merciless blue eyes—locked onto mine through the narrow slit of the niqab.
My chest ached from how hard my heart was beating.
“I did it,” he said simply.
No flourish. No pride. Just fact.
For a moment, I couldn’t speak. My mouth opened, closed. Words refused to form, caught somewhere between disbelief and terror.
“You mean...” My voice finally broke through, thin and unsteady. “The Albanian family that took me... they’re captured?”
“Yes.” He took one measured step closer. “All of them.”
Another step.
“Eighty-nine men and women tied to the operation. Every leader. Every enforcer. Every buyer who paid to use women like property.”
Each word landed like a hammer.
“They’re bound inside,” he finished. “Waiting.”
I stared at him, my vision tunneling. “You’re going to...?”
“Burn it all,” he said quietly. “The buildings. The records. Them.” His gaze never wavered. “No one walks away.”
Something cracked inside me then—something brittle and frozen that had held for over a year. I felt it splinter, slow and painful, sending heat through my chest.
“I want you to see them first,” he continued, softer now. “Before the end. Look them in the eye. Let them see you unbroken.”
My throat closed. I nodded—small, shaky, but real.
He crossed the remaining distance and took my hand. His grip was warm. Steady. Solid enough to anchor me in my own body.