Chapter 8 #4
I pressed my face into Dmitri’s chest and closed my eyes.
I didn’t watch.
I didn’t need to.
I gripped Dmitri’s hand so tightly my knuckles throbbed, the ache sharp enough to anchor me to my body. He didn’t flinch. He held me upright—solid, immovable—while the compound behind us transformed into a living furnace.
Heat rolled outward in suffocating waves, dry and merciless, carrying a stench that turned my stomach
Burning hair. Burning flesh.
I swallowed hard and forced my gaze forward.
Dmitri checked his watch, the glow briefly illuminating his face. “We have to leave,” he said quietly—not rushed, not cold. Practical. Protective.
I nodded, though my head felt full of static.
My legs trembled as we moved, step by step, away from the flames. Each pace felt like wading through deep water. The crackle of fire followed us, punctuated by distant, fading screams that burrowed into my bones even as I told myself it was over.
At the SUV, I climbed into the passenger seat on autopilot. The leather was cool beneath my palms. Dmitri slid in behind the wheel, shut the door, and started the engine. The familiar purr steadied something inside me.
We pulled away.
In the rearview mirror, the inferno shrank—an orange wound against the night sky—until it blurred into a smear of light and then disappeared altogether. I didn’t look back again.
I stared out the side window instead, watching dark trees rush past, their branches clawing at the headlights. The road unwound endlessly ahead of us, smooth and empty, as if the world had decided to give us a narrow corridor of silence.
“I’m worried this will have repercussions,” I said at last. My voice sounded far away, like it belonged to someone else. “You just shattered the truce between Lake Como and the Albanians.”
Dmitri didn’t hesitate. “Except I didn’t leave my signature,” he replied, calm and measured.
There was something almost wry in his tone.
“I left the Morozovs’. Every can of accelerant.
Every spent casing. Every footprint and fingerprint belongs to their men.
Historically, the Morozovs end things with fire.
We Volkovs prefer blades and bullets. When the other Albanian clans investigate—and they will—they’ll see a pattern and draw the wrong conclusion. ”
He reached over and covered the back of my hand with his, thumb brushing lightly across my skin. “I made sure of it.”
I absorbed that in silence, imagining the fallout—the suspicion, the shifting alliances, the quiet wars sparked by misdirection. It was ruthless. Elegant. So very Dmitri.
“I played it smart,” he added.
I nodded, my gaze fixed on the road. “How about the girls?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Just drove, steady and sure, letting the question stretch until my chest tightened.
Then—“Safe.”
The single word hit me like a blow.
My heart lurched violently. “Safe?” I turned toward him. “You mean—really?”
He glanced at me, a flicker of warmth breaking through the hard lines of his face. “I found them. They’re safe. Hidden. I’m taking you to them now.”
The world tilted.
I pressed both hands to my face, trying—and failing—to contain the surge of emotion crashing through me. Relief so sharp it hurt. Disbelief that left me dizzy.
Hope—bright and terrifying—threatening to tear something open inside my chest.
“Tell me this isn’t a prank,” I whispered, my voice cracking around the words.
“This matter is far too sensitive for a prank,” he said softly.
A long pause. Then—
“Even if I can’t remember the full extent of what I did to you... I know it was unforgivable.”
His grip on my hand tightened, just a fraction.
“All I ask is the chance to spend the rest of my life making it right. Serving you. That’s why I put that ring on your finger.”
I stayed silent.
Hated how handsome he still was—how his eyes still had the power to make my pulse stutter after everything.
I turned back to the window, watching Lake Como’s empty streets slide past, villas dark and sleeping, the water a sheet of ink beside the road.
How had he done it? Four weeks. Captured an entire trafficking network. Tracked and rescued six traumatized women. Kept them hidden, protected, fed, watched. The logistics alone were staggering. The risk... incalculable.
The drive stretched on, time thick and elastic, every second testing my restraint.
Then the headlights swept across a lonely bungalow tucked against a tree line—single story, peeling paint, shutters drawn tight. No lights in the windows. No sign of life.
Dmitri slowed.
I was out of the car before it fully stopped. Gravel bit into my bare feet as I ran to the door and tried the handle.
Locked.
“They won’t open for just anyone,” Dmitri said behind me. “They’re hiding. Scared. They don’t trust easily anymore.”
I pressed my forehead to the wood, the grain rough and real beneath my skin. My throat tightened until it hurt to breathe.
“Bianca... Carina... Sofia... Ana... Christina... Simona” My voice shook, breaking apart with each name. “It’s me. Penelope.”
Silence.
Seconds stretched into an eternity.
Then—movement. A faint scuff behind the door. A whisper, too soft to make out.
The lock clicked.
The door opened just a crack.
A single eye peered out—wide, wary, impossibly familiar.
“Penelope?” Bianca breathed.
The door flew open, and suddenly there were arms around me—thin, shaking, real.
Bianca sobbed into my shoulder, her body trembling as if she couldn’t believe I was solid.
Behind her, faces appeared in the dim—Ana’s tear-streaked smile, Sofia’s guarded eyes filling with wet shine, Carina clutching Christina’s hand like a lifeline.
Simona hovered in the back, frozen, until I reached for her and she collapsed into the embrace.
We cried together in a tangled heap on the threshold, grief and relief pouring out in waves.
Dmitri stood a few steps back, silent and watchful, giving us space.
We stayed like that—seven women fused together in a trembling circle—laughing through tears, rocking slightly, whispering each other’s names as if afraid one of us might disappear again if we stopped saying them.
Apologies tumbled out unprompted. Gratitude. Broken sentences. Broken sounds.
The relief was so sharp it bordered on pain.
Eventually Bianca pulled back just enough to look at me. Her hands slid up to cup my face, thumbs brushing away tears I hadn’t noticed falling.
“You came back,” she whispered, awe threading through the words.
“I promised I would,” I said, my voice steady despite the storm inside me.
Her lips trembled. “You kept it.”
Someone tugged gently at my sleeve—Simona, I realized, her eyes soft but insistent.
“Come inside,” she said quietly. “Please. Sit. You shouldn’t be standing.”
They guided me through the doorway as if I might shatter if handled too roughly.
Inside, the bungalow was sparse and dim.
A single lamp cast a warm, uneven glow over the small living room.
Blankets were layered across the floor. A few folding chairs were pushed against the walls.
Bottled water, protein bars, and canned food sat neatly arranged on a card table. It wasn’t comfort—but it was survival. Thoughtful. Intentional.
They settled me onto the only real chair in the room like I was something precious.
Ana knelt in front of me immediately, gripping both my hands between hers. Sofia lowered herself to the floor, resting her head against my knee with a long, shaky exhale.
Christina and Simona took either side of me, close enough that our shoulders touched. Carina hovered nearby, one hand always reaching out. Bianca stayed directly in front of me, unwilling to move far.
“You’re really here,” Ana said again, her voice thick, like she needed to hear it more than once for it to stick.
“I am,” I said gently. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Bianca wiped at her eyes with the heel of her hand. “I thought... after you went through the tunnel...” She swallowed hard. “I thought they caught you. Or killed you.”
“I almost didn’t make it,” I admitted quietly. “But I did. And I never stopped looking for you. Not for a single day.”
Sofia squeezed my knee, her grip firm and grounding. “We’re together again.”
“All of us,” Carina added, her voice soft but resolute.
Bianca studied my face closely, her head tilting. “You look... different.”
I nodded. “I feel different. But I’m still me.”
They all seemed to understand that without explanation. Every face reflected it—the same truth reshaped by survival.
We sat in stunned silence at first, the bungalow’s small living room closing around us like a fragile cocoon.
Six women on mismatched sofas and floor cushions, knees touching, hands clasped or hovering uncertainly, as if afraid to believe this was real.
The dim lamp cast long shadows across the walls, stretching and twisting like the memories we carried.
The only sound was the soft creak of the old wooden floorboards beneath shifting weight and the distant lap of Lake Como against the shore below.
The air smelled faintly of damp wood, pine, and something sweet from the thermos of tea Christina had found in a cupboard. No one spoke. We simply looked at one another—really looked—taking in the miracle of survival etched into each face, etched into every scar and hollow in their eyes.
Then Ana broke.
She pressed both hands to her mouth, shoulders quaking violently.
At first, the sobs were quiet, strangled, like she was testing the world to see if it would let her cry.
Then the sound ripped through the room—a low, keening wail, raw and human, shattering the fragile bubble of stillness.
Carina reached for her immediately, wrapping her arms around Ana’s thin frame, pulling her close, whispering things too low for anyone else to hear.
Sofia’s scarred eye glistened, a single drop catching the lamplight, before she swiped at it angrily with the back of her hand, as if tears were another enemy to fight.
Christina’s chin trembled, her jaw tight, lips pressed together.