Chapter 2
PENELOPE
The Romano estate loomed over New York’s skyline, a fortress of stone and secrets perched on the top floor of a skyscraper that screamed mafia power.
The study where I stood beside my father, Marco, was a shrine to our family’s legacy—mahogany walls lined with leather-bound ledgers, a crystal decanter of whiskey glinting on a sideboard, and a massive window framing the city’s glittering chaos below.
It was the day after the half-finished wedding that Dmitri Volkov had shattered, leaving me humiliated, betrayed, and terrified of the future.
Yesterday, after Antonio’s cruel words and Dmitri’s chilling intervention, I’d been driven home in a daze, the limousine’s leather seats cold against my trembling body.
I’d stumbled to my bedroom, buried my face in the pillow, and sobbed until my chest ached, the silk pillowcase soaked with tears.
My mother, Isabella, had knocked softly, her voice gentle through the door. “Penelope, tesoro, come eat dinner. You need your strength.”
She’d left a tray of lasagna—my favorite, fragrant with basil and ricotta—outside my door, but I couldn’t touch it.
Later, she slid a handwritten note beneath the crack, her perfume clinging faintly to the paper: We love you. Please eat. Please talk to us.
But I only curled tighter into the pillow, whispering, “I need space,” the words dissolving against the cotton.
Outside, I heard Marco pacing, his measured steps betraying the storm inside him. His low murmurs to my mother weren’t anger—they were fear. Fear I’d never heard from him before. They were worried, desperate to reach me, but the betrayal I’d suffered was a wound too raw to share.
Antonio’s words replayed in my mind, each one a dagger:
Your belly looks swollen ... your arms soft and jiggling. You look like a bloated mess.
For three years, I’d loved him, blind to his deceit.
I remembered our first date, under a canopy of stars at the rooftop restaurant he’d chosen, his hand warm in mine as he promised, “ You’re my forever, Penelope .”
I’d believed him, my heart soaring when he’d surprised me with a locket on our first anniversary, engraved with Always Yours .
Lies, all of it.
His mocking laughter at the altar, his confession of sleeping with my cousin Sofia, tore through those memories, leaving my heart battered and bleeding.
Yet, a small, grudging part of me was thankful for Dmitri Volkov.
His interruption had stopped me from binding myself to a monster, but at what cost? His claim— Penelope is mine —echoed like a threat, and I couldn’t shake the fear of what he wanted from me.
Now, still standing beside my father, I stared out the study’s towering window, “So, Papa, will I get an explanation now?” I asked, my voice sharp.
“What debt do we owe Dmitri Volkov, Papa? And why in God’s name must I be the one to pay it by marrying into his family?
Don’t forget—we already signed a contract with the Bellantis.
I’m bound to Antonio, and his family will not let me go so easily.
So tell me everything. No more half-truths. No more silence. Explain it to me—now.”
Marco leaned against the window. His reflection in the glass looked older, his hands clasped behind his back as if that could hide the faint tremor running through them.
“Sit, sweetheart,” he said quietly, his voice heavy with a weight I’d rarely heard.
“No, Papa.” I stayed where I was, bracing myself against the edge of his desk. “I deserve answers.”
His sigh was long.
When he turned to face me, his eyes were shadowed—eyes that had stared down rivals, killers, even federal agents without a flicker of fear. Now, for the first time, they carried something else. Dread.
“I promised you’d choose your own husband,” Marco said, his voice rough. “I swore you’d never be another mafia princess sold for power. But the situation is no longer in our hands. You have to marry into the Volkov family. There is no other way.”
“Why?” My voice cracked, sharper than I intended. “What debt could possibly bind us to them?”
His jaw tightened. “The Volkovs... they are not like the us. They do not bargain. They do not forgive. The four brothers are dangerous—each in their own way. And Dmitri...” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Dmitri is the worst of them all.”
The fear in his eyes was palpable.
His broad shoulders, once a wall of certainty, hunched as if he were bracing for a blow. Fingers twitched restlessly against the glass pane, betraying nerves he would normally mask with a drink or a smirk.
Marco Romano—the unyielding head of the Romano family, the man even his enemies whispered about in hushed tones—was afraid. And that chilled me more than Antonio’s betrayal ever could.
“But you haven’t answered my question, Papa,” I pressed, my voice rising despite the lump in my throat.
He dragged in a long breath, his gaze fixed on the glittering city below as though its lights might give him courage. “It’s better if you don’t know.”
“Why? Because you think I’m too naive?” My fists clenched at my sides.
“Sweetheart,” he said, his voice low, weighted with affection and anguish. “You’re far from naive.”
He turned then, and I saw it—the strain carved into the lines of his face, the effort it took to keep his mask intact. “It’s the only way to keep you safe.”
“Safe?” My laugh was sharp.
I stepped closer, my pulse hammering in my ears. “Your hands are trembling, Papa. What agreement could possibly make a man like you—a Romano—shake like this?”
My chest tightened, words spilling out like fire. “I can’t blindly marry into the Volkovs without knowing why.”
He crossed to his leather chair and sank into it, his movements heavy, as if the weight of his secrets was crushing him.
I knew my father better than anyone—his stoic mask couldn’t hide the fear in his eyes, a rare crack in his armor I’d only seen once before, a decade ago during a turf war.
“Fine,” I snapped, spinning away from him.
My pulse hammered in my throat, “Unless you give me reasons, I’m not marrying into their family—or any family.”
The words cracked the air like a whip.
Marco said nothing.
He only sat there, still and unreadable, his silence louder than any curse. That silence of the man who’d always had answers—left me exposed.
My breaths grew ragged.
The more I stared at him, the more the walls seemed to close in.
Antonio’s betrayal, my father’s secrets, Dmitri’s chilling claim of me—everything crashed together in my chest, a storm I couldn’t contain.
My lungs seized, a sharp burn clawing up my throat.
I staggered back toward the desk, my hands trembling as I ripped open my backpack. Papers crumpled, pens scattered, until my fingers finally closed around the cold plastic I was desperate for.
The inhaler hissed, the mist rushing into my lungs, icy and sharp.
I clutched the desk edge, dragging the air deep inside me, willing the tight band around my chest to loosen. Slowly, the world stopped tilting, my vision clearing as breath returned in ragged waves.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my father rise, his hand halfway extended—but I jerked away, waving him off. I didn’t want his comfort. Not when every second he kept his secrets buried felt like another knife in my back.
Relief seeped in, but the fury didn’t fade. It boiled hotter, fueled by the tremor in his hands, the fear he thought I hadn’t noticed. Shoving the inhaler back into my bag, I stormed toward the elevator, my legs carrying me before my thoughts could catch up.
The doors of the elevator slid open with a soft ding, and I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirrored walls—cheeks flushed, eyes wide, hair clinging to my damp temples.
I barely recognized the woman staring back.
Maybe Antonio never loved me because there was nothing to love.
Even in high school, boys had chosen my slimmer, prettier friends, while I’d been the one left waiting by the lockers, pretending I didn’t care.
When Antonio came into my life, whispering promises and making me feel seen, I thought I’d finally found a man who wanted me for who I was. Foolish. He hadn’t wanted me—just what marrying me would give him.
Now even that illusion was gone, shattered in front of everyone.
What trouble was my father in? Why had Dmitri Volkov left Italy, where he ruled like a king, only to come here? It couldn’t be for me—I was nothing to a man like him. Nothing but a pawn in a game I didn’t understand.
The elevator opened to the garage, the air cool and heavy with the scent of oil and concrete.
I hurried to my car, a sleek black Audi my father had gifted me on my twentieth birthday, my mind a storm of questions.
I slid into the driver’s seat, the leather stiff and cold, and pushed the key into the ignition—only to freeze as a voice, low and gravelly, rumbled from the backseat.
“Follow my instructions.”
I whipped around, my heart lurching.
A burly man filled the backseat, his massive frame straining the seams of a black suit stretched over muscles like stone.
His face was a battlefield of scars, his dark eyes flat and merciless.
Ink crawled up his neck while a silver wolf’s-head ring glinted on his thick finger, marking him Italian mafia.
A gun rested casually on his lap, the barrel aimed at the console. He didn’t need to lift it—the message was clear.
Panic clawed at my chest, my lungs hitching for air, but I strangled it down, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles blanched. I wouldn’t let him see me break.
“Drive,” he ordered, his voice a low growl that vibrated in the stillness.
The gun didn’t so much as twitch.
For years, my father had promised I was untouchable—shielded from the blood and danger that stalked every other mafia heirs. While others were locked away behind guarded gates, I had gone to college, traveled, tasted freedom.
I believed him.
But now the threat had come for me.
Was it the Bellantis, furious over Antonio’s humiliation? Or Dmitri Volkov himself, the devil who’d stood in that church and claimed me as his?
I knew better than to fight when the odds weren’t mine.
I reversed slowly out of the garage, the tires crunching on gravel. “Where to?” I asked, my voice steadier than I felt.
“Keep driving straight,” he said, his tone flat.
I swallowed my fear, pretending calm as I glanced at him in the rearview mirror, his scarred face impassive. “So... who do you work for?” I asked, forcing a lightness into my voice.
He didn’t answer, his silence a wall.
“The Bellantis?” I pressed, my mind racing to Antonio, who’d likely want me back to secure his claim to our wealth.
“Dmitri Volkov?” I tried again, but he remained stoic, his eyes fixed on the road.
“To the left,” he commanded.
I hesitated, tempted to defy him, but the gun’s glint kept me compliant.
Whoever sent him needed me alive—for now.
I turned left, the city’s lights blurring past as my phone buzzed in my pocket. I reached for it, but his voice cut through. “Don’t tempt me.”
I let the phone ring, unanswered, and followed his next order: “Pass that side.”
The car rolled into a dark marina dock, the air thick with salt and diesel, the water lapping against rusted containers stacked like tombstones.
I’d overheard my father and uncles whispering about these docks—smuggling hubs for weapons and cash, hidden in plain sight.
They’d tried to shield me from the mafia’s underbelly, treating me like a fragile doll, but I was their only daughter, heir to the Romano empire, and I’d learned more than they thought.
“Stop here,” he said.
I shifted the gear into park, my fingers stiff on the wheel. When I stepped out, the cool air hit me.
Shipping containers towered on either side, their rusting walls tagged with codes and faded numbers, like silent sentinels.
Somewhere in the distance, a ship’s horn moaned, low and mournful.
“Come with me.”
He didn’t wait to see if I’d obey—he just strode forward, boots crunching against gravel, his broad shoulders cutting through the shadows.
His confidence was absolute, the kind that came from knowing no one ever dared run.
My pulse hammered, every instinct screaming to turn and bolt. But I wasn’t stupid. Men like him didn’t bark orders without backup lurking in the dark. If I tried, I’d never make it past the nearest container.
My heart thundered as I trailed him, every step pulling me deeper into the labyrinth of steel and silence. My mind scrambled for answers. The Bellantis? Maybe. But Antonio never had this kind of reach, this kind of ruthless precision. No—this felt bigger. More calculated.
And the glint of the wolf’s head ring on his hand haunted me.
Could it be the Volkovs?
Dmitri Volkov.
The devil who had stood in that church yesterday and claimed me like I was his due. The man who ruled Italy with blood and fire. The thought of him being behind this sent a shiver crawling up my spine.
Why me?
And worse—what did he intend to do once he had me in his grasp?