Chapter 8 #5
Simona buried her face in her hands, rocking ever so slightly, as if she could absorb the fear and make it vanish.
Bianca—still the thinnest, still carrying that haunted stillness—simply leaned her head against my shoulder and let the tears fall without sound, every drop a quiet release of the months she’d held herself together alone.
I cried too, quietly, steadily. Not the wrenching, gasping sobs of release, but the deep, hollow kind that comes from a wound that never quite closes, a grief that sits beneath the skin.
We cried for the nights we’d survived, clinging to each other in the darkness.
For the nights we hadn’t, when despair had hung in the air so thick it felt like stone.
For the pieces of ourselves we’d left behind in that cold, suffocating hell, pieces we feared we’d never reclaim.
“Thank you, Penelope,” Ana managed at last, her voice rough, thick with mucus and grief, yet somehow firm beneath it all.
She snorted, wiped her nose on the sleeve of her shirt, then laughed wetly at herself, a sound more of disbelief than humor.
“If... if not for you... we’d still be there.
Still being used. Still waiting to die.”
The others nodded, tears still streaming, small, shuddering nods that spoke volumes.
Christina blinked rapidly, Simona’s shoulders trembled, and Sofia’s eyes glistened with unshed tears as she breathed shallowly, as though the very act of surviving had left her winded.
I slid off the sofa and knelt in front of Ana, taking both of her hands in mine, feeling the tremor in her fingers. “Girls,” I said, voice firm yet soft, “we did it. We’re out. That’s all that matters now.”
But even as I said it, I knew the truth hung unspoken between us: we would carry this for life. The memories weren’t gone. They were carved into muscle and bone.
We would wake screaming. We would flinch at sudden touches. We would never again trust silence. But here, in this room, the raw edges of trauma softened just enough for us to breathe together.
Bianca lifted her head from my shoulder. Her voice was small, almost a whisper, yet steady enough to pierce the quiet. “Thank you—and thank you to Dmitri Volkov, who found us before it was too late.”
Carina added, silent tears slipping down her cheeks, “You pushed me through that hole when I couldn’t move. You stayed behind so I could run. I thought... I thought I’d never see you again.”
I squeezed Bianca’s fingers tightly, holding on as if I could anchor her to the present.
I was about to speak when a soft knock at the front door shattered the moment.
We all froze.
A man’s voice—low, formal, respectful—came through the wood. “Mrs. Penelope. Your attention is needed.”
I patted Ana’s back once more, giving her a small, reassuring squeeze, then turned to Bianca. My gaze met hers. “You’re safe now. Truly safe.” And I meant it.
“I’ll be right back,” I told them, voice steady despite the dread curling in my chest.
I stepped outside into the late-morning sun.
The air smelled of lake water and pine, fresh and almost cruelly normal after the stench of fear we’d carried inside.
A tall man in a charcoal suit waited on the gravel path, standing perfectly still, the careful distance and the faint earpiece marking him as one of Dmitri’s discreet operatives.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm, though it quavered slightly.
He cleared his throat. “Vanya.”
My chest collapsed. The words themselves felt like a punch, sudden and brutal. “What about my son?” I asked, voice tight, heart hammering against my ribs.
He hesitated—a single heartbeat that stretched into eternity, enough for panic to flood my veins like ice water.
I screamed, raw and desperate. “What about my son?”
“He was taken,” the man said, forcing his voice to remain steady, though I could hear the weight of it. “By the Orlovs, the Morozovs, and the Ferraros. All three families.”
The world seemed to tilt. My knees nearly buckled beneath me, but I caught myself on the rough gravel. “Taken? When? Where?” My words were sharp, urgent, but barely coherent, as if my fear had stripped grammar from my brain.
“They moved him an hour ago,” the man replied carefully. “He’s alive, but... heavily guarded. They know he’s your son.”
The world tilted.
“The three families ganged up to kidnap my child?” My voice sounded distant even to me, like it belonged to someone else. “Why? Where is Dmitri?”
“With them,” the man replied. His tone stayed professional, but there was no mistaking the gravity beneath it. “He’s defending himself at the council. They’ve accused him of breaking the treaty with the Albanians. They sent me to bring you in as well.”
I stared at him, the words refusing to settle.
Dmitri had sworn there were no traces. No signature. No way to trace the fire back to him. He’d been meticulous. A perfect frame job on the Morozovs. Clean. Elegant. Untouchable.
Yet here we were.
My chest tightened as the implications unraveled one by one. If the council had called him in, then someone had seen through it. Or worse—someone had wanted to use it. The Albanians were only the excuse. Power was the prize. Dmitri had moved too fast. Burned too much. And now they were circling.
I followed the man to his waiting sedan—black, tinted, no plates visible, the kind of car designed to exist everywhere and nowhere at once.
The door closed with a soft, final thud that echoed too loudly in my head.
The drive felt endless.
The lake glittered deceptively calm beside the road, sunlight skimming its surface as though nothing in the world was wrong.
My pulse hammered in my throat, each curve of the narrow lakeside road ticking down like a silent countdown.
Had Dmitri known this was coming? Had he gone ahead with the fire anyway, accepting the consequences? Or had something gone catastrophically wrong that even he hadn’t anticipated?
We pulled up to the Basilica di Sant’Abbondio.
The ancient Romanesque cathedral rose above us, stone weathered smooth by centuries of faith, blood, and secrets.
Twin bell towers loomed against the pale sky like silent sentinels. I’d been here before.
The man opened my door. “The meeting is inside.”
I stepped out, legs unsteady, the gravel crunching beneath my shoes sounding far too loud.
The cathedral doors loomed ahead—dark wood carved with saints and martyrs frozen in agony and devotion. I could already hear the low murmur of voices beyond them, the sound of men who believed themselves untouchable.
I didn’t know what questions awaited me inside. What accusations. What carefully rehearsed lies.
But I knew one thing with absolute clarity.
My son was in there.
And so was the man who had burned an empire for me.
I squared my shoulders.
And walked in.