Chapter 11 #2
“Not when you’ve locked my family inside your fortress,” I shot back. “Don’t overestimate yourself. I wiped out the other three families in Lake Como. I rule this territory now. I don’t think you want to test me.”
Another pause.
I dragged a hand through my hair, breath coming hard. “Do you want war, Ruslan? Because I will not sit here while you keep my wife and son from me. I won’t.”
“Again,” he said mildly, “you speak without respect. Once I end this call, you will not reach me again. Do not waste access.” A beat. “You know who I am. I can end you in under five minutes from where you stand. I am not your usual mafia boss. I rule continents.”
The truth of it landed like a blade between my ribs.
I swallowed, tasting blood where I’d bitten my cheek raw. Forced the rage down. Forced control.
“Fine,” I said, voice lower now, steadier. “How do I get my family back?”
“You will apologize to me.”
The word scraped my pride raw.
My hand curled into a fist. Every instinct screamed against it. I bit harder into my cheek, welcoming the pain.
“I’m sorry, Ruslan,” I ground out. “Now tell me how I get my wife and son.”
The pause that followed was longer this time—long enough that my pulse spiked, long enough for dread to creep in beneath the anger.
When he spoke again, his voice crackled faintly through the line—still calm, still unyielding, still absolute.
“Go to Greece.”
I stilled.
“My men will grant you safe passage,” he continued, “and ensure you are not... disrupted. You will arrive unarmed. Alone. You will not bring soldiers. You will not bring threats.”
I clenched my jaw but said nothing.
“Then,” Ruslan went on, “you will see if you are capable of earning her forgiveness.”
His voice hardened—not angry, but implacable.
“She left you because of how deeply you broke her, Dmitri. The pain you inflicted did not wound her—it shattered her. If you had a sister in Penelope’s position, you would advise her to do the same: run far and fast.”
Each word struck like a hammer.
“I will not allow you to take her or the child by force,” he said. “Ever. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not under any circumstance.”
My chest heaved. “And if she refuses to see me?”
“Then you leave.”
Silence stretched between us.
“If,” Ruslan continued, “fortune smiles on you—and that is a very large if—you will have one year. One year to prove you are worthy of being in her life again. Not as her jailer. Not as her owner. As her husband.”
My throat tightened.
“At the end of that year,” he said calmly, “if she has not chosen you of her own free will, my men will escort you out of Greece permanently. And I will make damn sure you never set foot here again.”
I closed my eyes.
This was worse than war.
This was surrender.
“And my son?” I asked hoarsely.
“He will not be weaponized against you,” Ruslan replied. “You will not poison him with guilt or fear. You will not pressure him. You will be a father—not a conqueror.”
The line hummed softly.
“Do you understand me, Dmitri Volkov?”
I exhaled slowly. “Yes.”
“Good.” A pause. Then, quieter: “For what it’s worth—I hope you succeed. Penelope deserves peace. If you can give her that, you may yet keep your family.”
I clenched my jaw so hard my molars screamed.
Ruslan paused on the line—just long enough to make sure I was listening—then continued with that same infuriatingly calm precision.
“Meanwhile,” he said, “should Penelope ever complain to her butler—or to anyone in my employ—that you are frustrating her in any way, harassing her, or making her uncomfortable, you will be removed immediately. No explanations. No appeals.”
My grip tightened on the phone.
His voice dropped an octave—not louder, not angrier, just colder. Deadlier.
“And Dmitri—if you ever threaten me again, one of your toes will be the price. Consider it a down payment on what could follow.”
The threat slid under my skin like a blade. Ruslan never bluffed. When he named a price, he fully intended to collect.
I swallowed hard, bile rising in my throat, forcing my breathing to slow. Rage would get me nowhere—not with him.
“Now,” he continued, almost conversational, “do you have anything else to say, son? Because my boy has been kidnapped, and I need to hunt down the bastards who dared lay a hand on him.”
The word son landed like a gut punch.
He used it the way generals used medals and chains—something that bound as much as it honored.
He was treating me like family even as he stripped me of leverage, boxed me in, and reminded me exactly how small I was in his world.
I forced the words out, my voice tight and stripped bare of pride.
“That will be all.”
The line went dead.
For half a second, the room was silent.
Then the rage detonated.
I hurled the phone at the far wall with everything I had.
It exploded on impact—plastic and glass shattering across the marble floor like shrapnel.
A sound tore out of my chest, raw and animal, echoing off the vaulted ceilings. I paced the room like a caged beast, hands fisting and unfisting, breath ragged, vision red.
How dare he.
How dare anyone dictate terms to me—Dmitri Volkov. The man who had clawed his way out of nothing. The man who had destroyed empires.
“Boss.”
Giovanni’s voice cut through the haze.
I whipped around, fury still blazing in my eyes. Giovanni stood in the doorway, tall and broad-shouldered, posture steady, unflinching as ever.
The scar along his cheek—earned in a knife fight we’d survived together years ago—pulled slightly as his jaw tightened. He wasn’t afraid of me. Never had been.
“What?” I snapped.
He held up a tablet, expression neutral but eyes sharp. “We found them.”
My pulse stuttered. “Found who?”
“Marco and Isabella.”
Penelope’s parents.
The names hung in the air like a promise and a curse.
For years—years—I’d had my people scouring the globe.
Bribes. Blackmail. Ghost accounts. Dead drops. We’d hacked government systems, leaned on traffickers, turned informants inside out from New York to Eastern Europe. And now—
A dark, vicious satisfaction coiled in my gut.
“Where?” I asked.
“Brooklyn,” Giovanni replied. “Different names. Low profile. But it’s them. We’re certain.”
I didn’t hesitate. “I’ll handle them personally. Capture them. Prepare to send them over.”
Giovanni’s fingers tightened on the tablet. “That’s where it gets complicated. New U.S. government policies are cracking down hard on extraditions and cross-border operations. Transporting them here would light up every system we’ve avoided for years.”
He hesitated, then added carefully, “We may have to go there and deal with it cleanly.”
“We?” I echoed, arching a brow.
He met my gaze without flinching. “No. You’re right. You go. I’ll hold the fort here. I know the operations inside out.”
Then, quieter: “But boss—be careful. New York isn’t our territory anymore.”
I waved him off, the decision already made. “You stay. Manage things here. Keep Lake Como stable.”
I turned away, already calculating flight times, routes, contingencies.
“I’ll fly to New York tomorrow,” I said coldly. “And I’ll end this chapter myself.”
Giovanni nodded once. He didn’t argue. He never did when my voice took that tone.
As he left, the room felt colder.
Marco—Penelope’s father—made an attempt on Penelope’s life in a desperate bid to kidnap our newborn. Did he really think I would never find him, even if it took ten decades?
Well. Here I come, Marco.