Chapter 4
PENELOPE
At twenty-five, I was no pawn. At least, I had believed I wasn’t. But their words sliced through me, unraveling the promise my father had whispered so many times—that I would choose my own path, my own man, my own husband.
“Nikolai is twenty-six, Viktor twenty-seven, Alexei twenty-eight, and Dmitri, the eldest, twenty-nine,” Uncle Rocco said, his voice low but commanding, the tip of his cigar glowing in the dim light.
“Penelope turns twenty-five in two weeks. Alexei or Dmitri might be the best fit for her—older, more established.”
My chest tightened, nausea twisting in my stomach.
Established? Like I was a business deal, a bargaining chip to be slotted neatly into the Volkov dynasty.
Papa’s voice followed, tight with strain. “Dmitri is a monster, and we’re indebted to him. That devil won’t take money as payment. I would rather consider Alexei.”
The name hit me like a slap. Alexei. My pulse spiked.
Was Papa really weighing which Volkov brother I should belong to, as if there was no choice left to me?
Uncle Carlo’s reply came smooth, careful, his words laced with warning.
“From my research, Alexei’s no better. He gunned down an entire rival crew in Naples last year—left their bodies hanging from a pier for fishermen to find at dawn.
And two months ago, he torched a traitor’s warehouse with the man still inside.
Screams carried through the whole quarter. If that’s who you want for Penelope...”
My hand flew to my mouth, bile rising.
They spoke of it so clinically.
Carlo exhaled slowly before continuing. “Nikolai, the youngest, is our best bet. Only a year older than Penelope. The baby of the Volkov family. No rumors of kills, no confirmed missions, no trail of bodies to his name. Clean, at least on the surface.”
My stomach churned, their debate a knife twisting deeper with every word.
They were deciding my life—trading me like currency—without even daring to ask me.
My father had promised I’d marry for love, not be shoved into some cold-blooded alliance like the other daughters of other mafia families. Whatever debt or threat had shackled them didn’t erase the betrayal. It didn’t erase the fact that they were ready to sell me.
But I wasn’t a child anymore. In two weeks, I’d turn twenty-five. A woman. My own woman. And I’d burn before letting them hand me over to a Volkov—or anyone—without the truth.
The air shifted. Thickened.
My skin prickled, instinct screaming before I even saw him.
Dmitri Volkov.
He entered as though the room already belonged to him, his presence a storm of menace and power
His black suit fit like armor, his broad shoulders blotting out the doorway, his strides smooth yet predatory.
His hair, dark and slicked back, gleamed under the chandelier, but it was his eyes—icy blue, unyielding, merciless—that froze the blood in my veins.
The room seemed to contract around him, the chandelier’s golden glow paling under the weight of his shadow.
And in that instant, I knew: Dmitri hadn’t just come for a deal. He had come for me.
The three men froze, shifting in their seats, the color draining from their faces.
“I’ll marry her,” Dmitri said, his voice a commanding growl that seemed to rattle the very walls.
“Dmitri...” my father began, his voice faltering under the weight of the moment, but Dmitri silenced him with a step forward. His boots whispered over the Persian rug, each stride a threat in itself.
“Or I’ll collect my payment another way.” He loomed above them, tall, his icy gaze glinting with cruel amusement. “Choose.”
Rocco’s cigar burned down to ash between his fingers. Carlo’s jaw twitched, his hand twitching near his cuff where a gun usually hid.
My father’s knuckles whitened against the armrest of his chair, the silence stretching until it suffocated.
“You can’t owe me and consider war, Marco,” Dmitri went on, his voice smooth as velvet but edged like a blade. “Penelope has been mine for years—you’ve always known it. So I’ll marry her. Make the arrangements. Call me when it’s done.”
I stiffened, heat rising to my face.
Mine? I was standing right here, and he spoke of me like a possession—like cattle to be traded.
He turned to leave, his presence a vacuum that dragged all the air from the room. How the fuck had he even breached the estate? Romano soldiers guarded every gate—yet here he was, unbothered, untouchable.
“Wait.” My father’s voice broke the silence, desperate but steady. “If she marries you... the debt is gone? Cleared, once and for all?”
Dmitri’s lips curved into a slow, merciless smirk. He glanced back over his shoulder, eyes gleaming with malice. “She’s not payment, Marco. She’s leverage. Until I find a better way to make you pay for your sins.”
My chest clenched. Leverage?
I wasn’t a daughter. I wasn’t even a bride. I was a weapon in his hands.
His boots struck the floor like gunfire as he strode out, the doors closing in his wake. Only then did the three men breathe again, shoulders sagging as though the room itself had survived a hurricane.
“We don’t have a choice, Marco,” Rocco muttered, his voice rough with dread. “You remember what he did to the Morettis—slaughtered the patriarch, strung his sons up in their own casino, and burned their empire to ash. Do you want that to be us?”
My father’s head bowed, his silver hair catching the chandelier’s glow, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “I promised her...” he whispered, his voice breaking under the weight of his own words.
“We all love Penelope,” Carlo said darkly, “but it’s her or everything. Dmitri’s a demon—we can’t risk it.”
Their words struck like blades, cutting deeper than Dmitri’s hands ever could.
A tide of sadness, anger, and betrayal surged inside me, so strong it threatened to drag me under.
My father, my uncles—the men who’d sworn to protect me—were ready to hand me over like tribute to the devil.
I hated him. I hated Dmitri Volkov with every ragged breath in my lungs.
He’d stormed into New York, crushing every clan beneath his boot, forcing even the Romanos to tremble.
Did he think himself untouchable? Did he think his cruelty bound me?
Never.
I’d never marry him—not the monster who’d nearly strangled me at the dock, who’d whispered about chains in Italy like they were a promise.
I would run.
I would vanish.
Better to disappear into the shadows of another city, nameless and forgotten, than bind myself to a man I no longer recognized.
Death itself would be kinder than belonging to Dmitri Volkov.
Two weeks later, I woke to the sound of my mother and Nonna singing “Happy birthday to you,” their voices warm and melodic, drifting through my bedroom door like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
The scent of sugar and vanilla carried with it a weight of normalcy I hadn’t felt in weeks, coaxing a small, reluctant smile from me.
Nonna swept in first, her silver hair pinned into its usual bun, a cluster of pink balloons bobbing above her as if she carried a piece of joy no one—not even the Volkovs—could steal. “Buon compleanno, tesoro!” she sang, her eyes twinkling with pride. “Twenty-five—such a beautiful age.”
Behind her came my mother, Isabella, balancing a tray of cannoli dusted with powdered sugar, their creamy filling glistening.
Her navy dress was elegant but practical, her pearls glinting against the morning light.
She smiled for me, but her eyes betrayed the strain of the last two weeks, carrying the same worry I’d seen etched into my father’s face.
Their love wrapped around me like a blanket, fragile but fierce, and for a fleeting second, I wanted to let myself sink into it. To pretend I was just a daughter and a granddaughter on her birthday, not a pawn in a brutal game of debts and bloodlines.
“Come, Penelope, let’s celebrate you,” my mother urged, her voice steady, but the tiny tremor beneath it betrayed everything she tried to hide.
I slipped from bed, my silk pajamas brushing against my skin, my bare feet silent against the marble floor as I followed them down the hall.
The living room was a burst of joy against the dread that had haunted me: pink and gold streamers cascading from the chandelier, a banner reading Happy 25th, Penelope! catching the morning light.
A three-tiered cake gleamed on a polished table, its white frosting swirled into roses, the scent of buttercream filling the air.
Gift boxes wrapped in silver paper were stacked neatly beside it, and in the corner, a hired quartet played something soft and melodic, their notes curling into the air like fragile threads of peace.
My chest tightened—not from asthma this time, but from the bittersweet ache of it all.
My family wanted so badly to protect me, to give me joy. But the shadow of Dmitri Volkov lingered, uninvited, over every ribbon, every balloon, every note of music.
Emotion swelled in my chest, tears pricking as I folded myself into my mother’s arms.
Her perfume—lavender, soft and familiar—grounded me, reminding me of every safe moment in a world that was anything but. “Thank you, Mom,” I whispered, my voice thick.
Then I turned to Nonna, pulling her close.
Her body was frail, yet her embrace held the strength of generations, steady and unshakable. “And you, Nonna. This is perfect.”
“Don’t cry, tesoro,” she murmured, cupping my cheek with a trembling hand. “Today is for joy.”
My father stepped into the room, silver hair perfectly combed, his suit immaculate—but his eyes betrayed him. Heavy. Haunted.
Guilt pressed into the corners of his expression, a weight even his crisp attire couldn’t disguise.
I hugged him quickly, feeling the tension coil through his shoulders, and whispered, “I’ll be back for the party, Papa. There’s something I need to do first.”
Because today wasn’t just my birthday. Today was Dmitri Volkov’s wedding—or so I believed.
A week ago, the invitation to Dmitri’s wedding had arrived—thick paper, gold script, as if it had been crafted to mock me.
I had refused him, I had sworn I’d never belong to him or his brothers. My mother had stood by me, fierce in her support. And yet... curiosity gnawed at me.
Who had he chosen to marry? After claiming Penelope is mine not once but twice, whose name would he tie to his in that church?
Jealousy—sharp, unwelcome—cut through me, tethered not to the monster who threatened to chain me in Italy, but to the boy I’d once loved.
The boy with sunlit laughter, who’d stolen cupcakes and teased me about marrying him at twenty-five.
My heart twisted.
Back then, I’d made the promise like any foolish child—believing that by twenty-five I’d be finished with school, building a career, living freely. And for a while, I was. I graduated from NYU, started consulting for my own clients. I was free. I was done.
What I didn’t know was that Dmitri would come back. That he would remember. That the words I’d spoken as a girl would bind me as a woman. And still, I had to see his bride—with my own eyes. To understand why he’d threatened to claim me... only to let me go.
“Penelope, cut the cake before you leave,” my mother urged, guiding me to the table. Her smile was warm, but her eyes betrayed strain.
“Stay a little, cara,” Nonna coaxed, her voice gentle, her eyes sparkling. “This day is yours—don’t hurry off to that man’s chaos.”
I forced a smile. “Don’t worry, Mom, Nonna. I won’t stay long. But if I skip Dmitri’s wedding, he might take it as a personal vendetta.” My words were light, but the fear beneath them was sharp. “And we all know storms like him don’t forgive insults.”
“True,” my mother murmured, her voice tightening. “We don’t need that monster’s wrath. Go, but come back soon. We’ll be waiting.”
I hugged her again, clinging to her warmth, then kissed Nonna’s cheek, her wink a fragile comfort.
The scent of sugar and cake lingered as I left them behind.
Upstairs, the shower’s heat washed away the tremors in my body, but not the dread in my chest.
I slipped into a sleek emerald dress, its fabric hugging my curves like armor. Sliding my inhaler into my clutch, I straightened my shoulders and stepped into the living room where Mama and Nonna lingered—Papa was gone.
Their laughter spilled through the foyer as they gossiped about Nonna’s 80th birthday feast in Miami—platters of baked ziti, limoncello toasts, and Nonna dancing barefoot with her cousins under string lights.
“Mom, how do I look?” I asked, giving a small twirl, the dress catching the light.
“Stunning, my darling,” my mother said, her eyes shining with pride.
“Like a queen, tesoro,” Nonna chimed, clapping her hands, her love wrapping around me.
“I’d better not keep you starving,” I teased, slicing a piece of cake, careful not to ruin the 25 banner. I handed them each a portion, their smiles bright as they nibbled.
“Don’t miss me too much,” I said with a grin, masking the weight in my chest.
“Hurry back, cara,” Nonna mumbled through a mouthful of cake, mischief twinkling in her eyes. “This old lady needs her dance partner.”
I leaned in, kissing mother’s cheek, then Nonna’s. “I will. I’ll be back,” I promised, looking them both in the eye. “Soon. We’re cutting that cake properly when I return.”
“Drive safe, Penelope,” my mother said. “Text when you arrive.”
“Stay fierce, my queen!” Nonna added, laughing.
I bit into my own slice of vanilla cake, its sweetness clashing with the bitterness curling in my stomach, and walked out to my Audi.
The morning sun glinted off the hood as I checked my reflection in the mirror, spotting a smear of frosting at the corner of my lip. I wiped it with my thumb, chuckling softly—an ordinary moment before walking into the extraordinary storm of Dmitri Volkov.
Two weeks ago, I had braced myself to be forced into marriage after his threats at the dock, especially with my father and uncles pressing so hard.
But then... silence.
Their persuasion had stopped abruptly, too abruptly, as if they’d given up.
That wasn’t the Romano way. Why had they backed off?
And why, of all people, had Dmitri invited me to his wedding?
I started the ignition, the city blurring past as I drove, curiosity, jealousy, and dread knotted tight in my chest.