Chapter 10 #2
I turned my head just enough to study his profile without making it obvious.
The curve of his nose, the stubborn set of his jaw—it was Dmitri all over again, and the resemblance hit like a bruise you don’t realize you’re pressing on until it aches.
“You and I lived there for five years. Before we came back to Lake Como for your dad’s wedding. ”
His eyes flicked to me. “His wedding to who?”
“To Seraphina.” I hesitated, then decided half-truths would only poison this further. “She fainted at the altar. The wedding never actually happened. Later... your father married me again instead.”
Vanya let out a long, dramatic sigh and dropped his head back against the seat. “Again?”
I nodded, lips curving in a tired, rueful smile. “It’s complicated.”
He turned toward me fully now, gaze sharp despite the exhaustion weighing down his small body.
His eyes drifted to my hand resting in my lap, to the platinum band catching the cabin light.
“You’re still married to Dad?” he asked.
I curled my fingers instinctively, thumb brushing over the ring. “It’s...” I searched for the right word, one that wouldn’t fracture him further. “...complicated.”
He slumped deeper into the seat, the fight leaking out of him in stages. “Why can’t I remember anything?” he asked quietly. Not accusing. Just tired. “If you’re really my mom... I’d feel bad for how mean I’ve been.”
The words sliced deeper than his earlier screams ever had.
“It’s okay,” I whispered. “Truly. Anyone would react the same way. You were scared. You still are.”
He didn’t respond right away.
His gaze returned to the window, watching the clouds slide past—endless, untouched, unbothered by human grief.
Then, after a long pause, he said, almost grumpily:
“Can you tell them to unstrap me already? Jeez. I’m not an animal.”
Relief loosened something in my chest.
I raised my hand slightly, careful not to startle him, and signaled the flight attendant. She came immediately—young, composed, the kind of calm that comes from training and repetition.
“Please unstrap him,” I said quietly. “Just the regular seat belt. He’s not going to hurt himself or anyone else.”
She nodded once, knelt beside Vanya’s seat, and released the soft restraints around his wrists and waist.
He hissed as the pressure disappeared and rubbed at his skin, scowling at me the entire time.
She secured the standard lap belt—firm but humane—then stepped away without a word.
Vanya exhaled heavily, shoulders dropping a fraction.
He didn’t look at me, but he didn’t scoot away either. That felt like something. A tiny victory.
The jet leveled off, the low hum of the engines settling into a steady rhythm.
Sunlight poured through the oval window, bathing his face in soft white.
“You still didn’t answer my question,” he said after a moment.
I waited. Let him ask it properly.
“Why are you leaving Dad?”
I took a slow breath. “Your dad did things in the past that I can’t forget,” I said carefully. “Things that hurt me very badly. Leaving him is the best option—for me.”
His brow furrowed. “What things?”
“Grown-up things,” I replied gently. “Things you’re too young to understand right now. But bad enough that I can’t stay.”
He considered that, lips pressed into a thin line. Then he said something that made my breath hitch.
“If you told him you were leaving, he would’ve stopped you. He always stops people from leaving.”
I looked at him—really looked this time. At the certainty in his voice. The quiet knowledge no child should have.
“Yes,” I said softly. “That’s why I didn’t ask. Your dad can be very possessive of the people he thinks belong to him. If I’d tried to leave openly, he never would have let us go.”
Vanya went quiet again. The kind of quiet that meant his mind was working overtime.
After a few seconds, he muttered, almost under his breath, “I know.”
The words weren’t dramatic. They weren’t loud.
But they told me everything.
I turned back to the window, watching the clouds roll endlessly beneath us.
The rest of the flight passed in heavy, almost sacred silence.
Vanya pressed his small face to the oval window, tracing the clouds with wide, unblinking eyes.
Each puff of white against the endless blue seemed to carry a question he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—voice.
Every passing minute on that jet felt stolen from the chaos we’d endured, suspended between a past that hurt and a future that terrified me.
The engines began to descend over the Aegean, and through the window, Greece unfolded like a dream I’d tried to bury, a memory stubbornly refusing to fade.
Whitewashed villages clung to terraced hillsides, their roofs glinting in the sun; olive groves shimmered silver-green; and the deep turquoise of the sea stretched endlessly, sparkling beneath us like shards of glass scattered across the earth.
The scent of salt and pine seeped through the vents as we neared the ground, carrying me back decades in an instant—the smell of summer, of freedom, of a life before chains, before betrayals, before loss.
We touched down on a private airstrip just outside Athens. Small. Discreet. No commercial gates, no crowds, no curious eyes.
The tires rolled over tarmac that gleamed like dark glass, and the jet’s engines wound down with a low, satisfied hiss.
I stepped onto the steps into the warm, honeyed Mediterranean air.
Vanya froze halfway, gripping the handrail with white-knuckled fingers. I crouched slightly, offering my hand, steady, patient.
He looked at it for a long, deliberate moment.
Then, surprisingly, he took it. No fight. No pulling away. Just quiet, cautious acceptance. A small victory, but one that felt monumental.
We walked across the tarmac toward a car waiting at the edge of the strip: a 2026 Mercedes-Maybach S680 Pullman, matte black, windows tinted to near opacity.
The license plates bore the subtle mark of diplomatic immunity.
Two men in black suits flanked the vehicle, their posture casual but ready, as if they could neutralize a threat with a single motion.
Vanya’s grip on my hand tightened once, then relaxed.
The driver opened the rear door without a word.
Vanya climbed in first, sliding into the supple leather seat like he had been trained for it, then turned to glance at me, unsure, wary, and then I followed.
The car’s interior smelled faintly of new leather and citrus polish. The partition was already raised. Privacy, unspoken and absolute.
As we pulled smoothly onto the coastal road, Greece unspooled itself before my eyes like a carefully preserved memory.
Narrow streets of our old village in Crete, the white houses with their blue shutters, bougainvillea spilling down walls in riotous magenta, the distant, lazy clang of goat bells across terraced fields.
I could almost hear the echo of my own laughter as Vanya, three years old, darted across the courtyard chasing lizards, holding them up like trophies, grinning with pure, unfiltered joy.
At four, we had sat together on the stone wall at sunset, eating figs until juice dripped down our chins, his endless questions about stars and seas spilling into the pink-orange dusk.
The car wound along cliffs that dropped sharply into the glittering sea.
After nearly an hour, the car slowed to a stop before a massive wrought-iron gate set into a high stone wall.
Armed guards—black tactical gear, rifles slung low, eyes scanning everything—stepped forward.
One approached the driver’s window; another swept under the vehicle with a mirror; a third ran a handheld device along the doors, checking for explosives or trackers.
They moved with precision, controlled and unhurried, each motion deliberate and exact.
I squeezed Vanya’s hand.
He glanced up at me, anxiety flickering briefly in his dark eyes. Then, with a small exhale, he pressed closer..
The gate slid open smoothly.
The car rolled forward into a compound that seemed impossibly vast. Manicured gardens, groves of olive trees, white villas tucked into rolling hills like secrets, discreet guard posts hidden among ornamental follies.
There was no ostentation here—no gaudy displays of wealth. Only quiet, lethal control.
The vehicle descended into the underground garage, cool and echoing, lined with matte-black SUVs and a single matte-gray helicopter.
The scent of polished concrete and leather wrapped around us.
I stepped out first, feeling the weight of the air, the faint hum of engines, the stillness of security at every corner.
Vanya followed, still holding my hand, small fingers entwined with mine.
He looked up at me, eyes wide and cautious, the muscles in his jaw tight.
I gave him a reassuring squeeze.
A tall figure stepped out from the shadows at the edge of the courtyard—Ruslan Baranov himself.
He didn’t look like the kind of man who needed an entourage, yet he always had one.
Today he wore a simple charcoal shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, dark trousers pressed to perfection. No tie. No visible weapons.
No jewelry except a thin platinum watch that caught the light when he moved his wrist.
Everything about him spoke of restraint—of power so absolute it no longer needed display.
His left hand was occupied.
Yannis—eight years old now—stood close to his side, fingers curled tightly around his father’s. Taller than I remembered, thinner too.
His dark eyes were enormous in his pale face, fixed on us with quiet intensity. Mute since his mother passed, Yannis has since spoken through his gaze and sign language. A good friend of Vanya’s while we lived here, his eyes now held something like recognition... and something like caution.
Three men in sharp suits and mirrored sunglasses flanked Ruslan at a discreet distance, positioned just close enough to intervene if necessary. Security was never far from him. Never optional.
“Mr. Ruslan,” I said, stepping forward and offering a small, genuine smile.
In the five years he had hosted me here, I had seen him only once—brief, formal, unforgettable.
A man like Ruslan did not involve himself personally unless something mattered. For him to be standing here now, waiting for us, meant more than words ever could.
“Penelope,” he replied.
His voice was low and even, neither warm nor cold.
No smile touched his mouth, but there was no hostility either. Just acknowledgement. Respect, perhaps. From him, that was rare.
His gaze shifted to Vanya.
“Vanya,” Ruslan said calmly. “Do you still remember your friend?”
Vanya blinked, clearly thrown by being addressed so directly. He glanced at me, then back at Ruslan, then at Yannis. Slowly, uncertainly, he shook his head.
Yannis didn’t move. He stayed pressed to his father’s side, silent, observant.
His fingers tightened briefly, then relaxed again.
Ruslan exhaled—a sound so faint it barely registered, but I caught it. A sigh, restrained and weary.
“I had to see you today,” he said, his attention returning to me. “After this, it may be some time before we meet again.”
I straightened slightly. “You’re leaving?”
“Yes. California.” His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “There’s a woman I need to find.”
There was no bravado in his words. No threat. Just fact.
“It shouldn’t take more than a month,” he continued. “But these things can be... unpredictable.”
I nodded, understanding far more than I said aloud. “Thank you,” I replied quietly. “For everything. For protecting us. For letting us come back.”
He inclined his head once. “Your new butler will show you to your old apartment. It’s been kept exactly as you left it. Nothing was moved.”
My throat tightened. “That means more than you know.”
“If you require anything,” he added, already turning away, “dial one hundred. Day or night.”
Then he paused.
Yannis lifted his free hand and waved shyly at Vanya—just a small flutter of fingers, hesitant and hopeful.
Vanya stared for a second too long, then raised his own hand in response. His wave came late, awkward, uncertain.
Ruslan didn’t look back.
He and his men disappeared down the corridor, their footsteps soundless against stone.
“They seem to know me,” Vanya said quietly once they were gone. His voice was low, thoughtful. “But I don’t remember them.”
I smiled at him—soft, aching, carefully controlled. “That’s okay,” I said. “Memories don’t always come back all at once. Sometimes they need time. And safety.”
He didn’t answer, but he didn’t argue either.
Edward approached then—the butler. Tall, slim, silver-haired, dressed in an immaculate dark suit that looked as though it had never known a wrinkle in its life. He inclined his head respectfully.
“Miss Penelope. Welcome back.”
The words landed harder than I expected.
“Thank you, Edward.”
He led us along shaded stone walkways, past fountains murmuring softly, jasmine blooming thick and sweet in the late afternoon air.
Everything looked the same. Painfully, comfortingly the same.
The white villa came into view—stucco walls glowing in the sun, blue shutters flanking the windows, the terrace just beyond where Vanya used to chase lizards until he collapsed laughing.
Edward opened the door and stepped aside. “I trust you remember the layout. If you need anything—anything at all—dial one hundred.”
“I remember,” I said softly.
He bowed once more and withdrew, leaving us alone.
Vanya and I stepped inside.
The living room smelled of lemon polish and sea air, exactly as it always had.
The low white sofa sat beneath the window.
The shelves were still filled with Greek poetry, children’s books, old notebooks.
The small kitchen beyond held the faint scent of sugar and oil—ghosts of loukoumades I’d made him on rainy afternoons.
Vanya stood in the center of the room, turning slowly, as if afraid something might disappear if he looked too closely.
“It feels like I broke into someone else’s house,” he said.
I swallowed. “It used to be yours.”
He hesitated, then asked quietly, “So... that’s it?”
I knelt in front of him, meeting his eyes. “What do you mean, sweetheart?”
“I’ll never see Dad again?”
The question hit harder than any accusation.
“You will,” I said firmly. “When he understands that I need space—real space—you’ll see him. Visits. Holidays. I promise I won’t keep you from your father.”
He studied my face, searching for cracks. “You swear?”
“I swear.”
A long pause.
Then he nodded—slow, uncertain. Not convinced, not reassured. But not fighting anymore.
Progress.
As he walked past me toward the terrace doors, I let myself breathe.
He’s my son, I thought fiercely.
After all this. After everything.
He would remember.
He would come around.
He had to.
Because I wasn’t giving up.
Not on him.
Not ever.