Chapter 6
PENELOPE
The priest’s hands shook so violently I thought the book might slip from his grasp. His voice cracked as he forced the words out.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to unite Dmitri Volkov and Penelope Romano in holy matrimony...”
My stomach churned.
Gathered? This wasn’t a gathering—it was a trial, an execution, a performance staged for mafia wolves and their jeweled wives.
The priest’s voice faltered as he turned to Dmitri. “Dmitri, do you take Penelope to be your lawfully wedded wife...?”
Dmitri’s gaze speared through me. His answer came low and guttural, echoing like a predator’s growl.
“I do. Penelope is mine—now and forever.”
The crowd rippled.
His words weren’t vows—they were chains locking around my throat.
Then the priest’s gaze shifted to me.
His face was pale, almost pleading, as though begging me to play along, to survive this.
“Penelope Romano, do you take Dmitri to be your lawfully wedded husband... until death do you part?”
The air thickened. Dmitri’s grip clamped around my hand, his thumb pressing into my pulse until I winced.
My lungs screamed for air, the phantom edge of an asthma attack clawing at me.
Every cell in my body howled No.
But my lips parted, my voice a whisper drowned in ash.
“I... I do.”
The priest exhaled shakily.
From a velvet tray, an attendant presented two platinum rings—bands carved with wolves, snarling guardians of Dmitri’s empire. Symbols not of love, but ownership.
Dmitri plucked my ring with steady fingers, brushing mine with deliberate slowness, his touch searing.
He slid the band onto my trembling hand, the cold weight anchoring me to him. A brand. A shackle.
When it was my turn, I could barely grip the band.
My hands trembled so violently I nearly dropped it, but Dmitri held his hand steady, forcing me to complete the ritual. I slid the ring onto his finger, mechanical, numb.
Then, with a flourish so theatrical it felt mocking, Dmitri dropped to one knee. His eyes locked on mine, burning with obsession and madness, and he brought my hand to his lips.
His kiss lingered, deliberate, a twisted vow written in heat and possession.
My stomach turned, my skin crawling.
The priest swallowed hard, his voice breaking as he forced the words out.
“By the power vested in me... I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
He hesitated, darting a glance at Dmitri, then back to me, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“You... may kiss the bride.”
Dmitri rose, his hand clamping around my jaw like iron, tilting my head back as his mouth slammed onto mine, a storm of possession and fury in every movement.
He kissed me with an intensity that stole my breath—hungry, claiming, his lips bruising mine as if marking his territory. A claim made in front of kings and killers.
I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, as he swallowed my protest and forced the crowd to witness his possession.
Cheers erupted, glass clinking, voices rising in approval as if we were some fairy-tale couple.
The kiss ended, leaving my lips raw, my dignity in ashes.
Dmitri didn’t release me, not even when the priest muttered the final blessing.
His grip was a shackle as he pulled me down the aisle, the marble floor gleaming beneath my faltering steps.
Whispers cut through the air like daggers.
“Who weds in a sleek emerald dress?” a jeweled woman sneered, her diamonds catching the chandelier’s light.
“Poor girl—didn’t even know it was her wedding,” another whispered back.
Her companion smirked. “He’ll rape her to death tonight, mark my words.”
Laughter, sharp and cruel.
“I’ve heard the rumors—he’s a monster in bed.”
Their words pierced deeper than any blade. My lungs tightened.
I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t let Dmitri destroy me, not like this.
The heavy doors groaned open, spilling us out into the open air.
Outside, the whir of rotor blades split the sky—the waiting chopper crouched on the helipad, its floodlights slicing through the darkness.
The downdraft whipped my hair across my face, my emerald dress plastering to my body. Dmitri tugged me forward, but I dug in my heels, my shoes scraping against the concrete.
“Where are you taking me?” I shouted, my voice almost swallowed by the roar of the blades.
Dmitri stopped, his icy gaze drilling into me.
“To Italy.”
The word slammed into me like a gunshot. Italy—his empire, his fortress, the place where he ruled with absolute power. Where no one could save me.
“No.” My voice cracked, desperation tearing through me. “And just like that? Against my will, without warning? First you forced me into marriage, and now you’re dragging me to a foreign land?”
My throat burned, the words ripping raw from me.
Tears stung my eyes, hot and helpless. “Today’s my birthday, Dmitri! My mom and Nonna are waiting at home to cut the cake. They don’t even know I’m married—or that you’ve completely lost your mind!”
Frantic words escaped me, my chest tightening, panic rising like a storm ready to drown me.
His eyes burned with that glacial fire as he leaned close, his breath brushing my cheek.
“I gave you the only gift that matters, Penelope,” he murmured, his voice velvet and venom. “I gave you my name. My ring. My protection. Your cake, your balloons, your silly little candles—forget them. Today, you became mine. That’s the only celebration that matters.”
I wrenched against his iron grip, but his fingers only tightened, bruising my wrist. “Please, Dmitri,” I begged, my voice breaking.
He brushed his thumb along my jaw, not tender but claiming, the touch branding. “Your mother and Nonna can light a hundred candles, sing a thousand songs—it won’t change the truth. You wear my vows now. You breathe under my rule.”
“Let me at least say them goodbye,” I begged, my voice cracking, desperation tearing through me.
Dmitri’s jaw flexed, his icy eyes narrowing as if I’d insulted him.
“Goodbye?” His voice was a low growl. “No, Penelope. There will be no goodbyes. Not to your mother, not to your Nonna, not to anyone. You think you’re leaving one life for another?
” He shook his head, a cruel smirk tugging at his lips.
“That life is over. Dead. Buried. Today, you were reborn—my wife, my possession. You don’t say goodbye to ashes. ”
He traced his thumb over my lips, forcing my gaze to his. “You’ll speak to them again—but only when I allow it, and only as Mrs. Volkov. Not as Penelope Romano. That girl no longer exists.”
I twisted away, fury blazing through my veins. “No. This is madness. I won’t go.”
His mouth tilted, not in warmth but in mockery—like a wolf baring its teeth before the kill.
In a flash, his hand snapped to my arm, grip bruising. “How far do you think you can run with those pretty little legs, Penelope?” His gaze raked down my body, deliberate. “And do you really think Dmitri Volkov needs anyone’s consent to get what he wants?”
The implication struck deeper than his grip—this wasn’t just about marriage.
He was threatening every inch of me, including my body.
My stomach lurched.
I yanked harder, panic and rage clawing inside me, but his hold was unshakable.
“No!” My voice cracked, desperation breaking through. “No, please, no!”
His answer was brutal in its simplicity.
He bent, scooping me up with one swift motion, and slung me over his shoulder as if I weighed nothing.
My world inverted, the ground tilting and swaying beneath me.
I screamed, thrashing, pounding my fists against his back. “Let me go! Let go!”
The crowd from the hall lingered at the edges—men with power, women dripping in jewels—but not one soul moved to help me.
Their eyes followed, wide and horrified, yet their bodies stayed frozen.
No one dared challenge Dmitri Volkov.
Humiliation burned hotter than fire in my chest. I was a Romano—not some prize to be paraded. Anger surged sharper.
A sharp crack split the air as his palm landed on my ass.
I gasped, shocked, the sting searing through my humiliation.
“Be still, Penelope,” he growled, his voice vibrating against my body.
“Fuck you!” I screamed, kicking wildly, my dress riding up my thighs, my hair a mess around my face.
The more I fought, the steadier his stride became, as if my resistance fed his dark amusement.
The helicopter loomed, its blades whipping the night into a frenzy.
He carried me up the steps and into the waiting cabin, then dropped me into the leather seat like a caged bird.
The interior was luxurious—cream leather, a polished bar stocked with crystal decanters—but all I saw was confinement, my prison gilded in wealth.
I lunged for the open door, shoving against the frame, my voice hoarse with rage. “Let go! Let me out now!”
Two of Dmitri’s soldiers blocked the way, immovable walls of flesh and muscle.
Their scarred faces betrayed no sympathy, their black suits straining over broad shoulders.
Their silence was worse than mockery—it was confirmation that escape was hopeless.
My chest heaved.
Anger and panic clashed as Dmitri stepped in behind me, shutting the door with a final, metallic thud.
My asthma hit like a freight train, my lungs seizing, the air turning thick as molasses.
I clawed at my chest, wheezing, panic lancing through me as my vision blurred.
My hands fumbled for my clutch, searching—praying—but the inhaler wasn’t there.
Shit. It must have fallen when he slung me over his shoulder.
“I... can’t breathe,” I rasped, my voice cracking like brittle glass.
My knees buckled, the plush carpet biting into my palms as I collapsed.
My body shook violently, every gasp shallow, ragged, useless. The world tunneled to black, the roar of the chopper blades distant, muffled.
Dmitri stood a few meters away, unmoving, his broad frame backlit by the chopper’s lights.
His silence suffocates me as much as my failing lungs.
He leaned to one of his men, murmuring something low. The man bolted, but Dmitri stayed rooted, watching.
Did he think I was faking? Or worse—did he not care if I died right here on his jet-black carpet?
“Please...” I gasped, my voice shredded, tears burning hot tracks down my cheeks. “It probably... fell when you carried me. Go check. I’m dying!” My throat seized, my body convulsing, darkness creeping in at the edges of my sight.
For a fraction of a second, I thought he’d let me go.
His jaw flexed, his fists clenching at his sides, a war raging in those frozen eyes.
Then, the door burst open. One of his men shoved the inhaler into my hand, the small device glinting like salvation.
With trembling fingers, I jammed it to my lips. One deep press, the mist filling my lungs, cooling the fire. Another. Then another. Slowly, the vise around my chest loosened. My lungs opened, pulling in precious air. The world came rushing back—lights, sound, movement.
I slumped against the leather seat, drenched in sweat, my body weak, trembling with aftershocks. Tears blurred my vision, but defiance burned hot through the humiliation.
“You’re a monster,” I croaked, my voice hoarse.
Dmitri’s gaze locked on me, unblinking. Inhuman.
He didn’t flinch, didn’t argue, didn’t deny. He simply uttered, low and final:
“Buckle up. We’re leaving.”
Rage surged despite my weakness.
My hands shook as I tore at the belt instead of fastening it. “I’d rather die than be yours,” I spat, fumbling for the latch, my body trembling.
“Penelope,” he warned, but I shoved at him with all the strength I had left, clawing weakly at his chest.
“I’ll never be yours,” I hissed.
The exertion stole the last of my breath.
My lungs tightened, the cabin tilting, black spots dancing in my vision. I swayed, fighting it, but gravity betrayed me—I crumpled forward.
Strong arms caught me before I hit the floor.
My cheek pressed against his chest, the scent of smoke and sandalwood wrapping around me, unwanted yet dizzying.
My body betrayed me, limp in his embrace, while the steady thrum of his heartbeat anchored me against the void.
He didn’t release me.
His hand cradled the back of my head, his lips brushing my hair as he murmured in Italian, words I couldn’t understand but felt like a vow.
The last thing I heard before darkness claimed me was his whisper, low and certain, meant for me alone:
“You’re mine—whether you fight or fall.”
I woke disoriented, my body heavy, my mind fogged from the asthma attack and exhaustion.
Silk sheets tangled around my legs, cool against my clammy skin, the air scented faintly of lavender and sea salt.
Blinking against the sunlight, I sat up, my heart slamming when I realized—thank God—I was still in my emerald dress, untouched.
But this wasn’t New York.
Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a turquoise sea, sunlight glinting on waves that crashed against a private stretch of sand.
Beyond, olive groves rolled toward the horizon, the hills impossibly green.
My stomach dropped.
Italy?
“No,” I whispered, scrambling out of bed, my bare feet hitting marble so cold it stung.
I pressed my palms to the glass, my breath fogging it, desperate for some illusion I was wrong.
But the Mediterranean stretched endless before me, beautiful and merciless. My prison had a view.
I spun, searching—my phone, my clutch, anything. The inhaler sat neatly on the nightstand, placed there deliberately. My phone was gone. My freedom, gone.
“Someone tell me I’m not in Italy,” I choked to the empty suite, the words ricocheting back at me.
I bolted for the door, yanking the gilded handle. Locked.
My fists pounded until they ached. “Let me out!”
Silence mocked me.