Chapter 14
PENELOPE
I slipped into new clothes and hurried toward the door—then halted, ear pressed to the wood, anchoring myself as I eavesdropped, desperate for answers.
“I’m sorry,” Dmitri’s voice came, low and raw, muffled through the door. “I’m fucking sorry, Mama.”
My heart sank, a knife twisting in my chest.
Mama?
Hadn’t he killed his parents with his bare hands? And yet now—he apologized? Did he regret it? Hate himself so much he was breaking under it?
A crash split the silence—his fist slamming into the wall, again and again, the sound reverberating like thunder, as though he’d bring the whole house down.
I imagined him unraveling, broad shoulders heaving, waging war with demons I couldn’t see.
I stormed off and snatched the house phone from a gilded console table, the receiver cold in my grip. I dialed Giovanni, my voice edged with steel. “I need to take a walk.”
“I’ll be with you shortly, ma’am,” he replied, calm, professional.
I sat at the mahogany dining table, its polished surface gleaming under the light, while confusion and curiosity gnawed at me.
My thoughts betrayed me, dragging me back to how easily my body had yielded to him earlier.
I hated myself for it—for craving Dmitri’s touch, for remembering the heat of his mouth on mine, the way his hands claimed my breasts, the ache in my hardened nipples, the moans I hadn’t been able to silence.
He was obsessed with me—hated me, wanted to kill me, yet needed me alive all the same. I wanted to hate him just as fiercely, to recoil from his touch. But why couldn’t I? Why wasn’t his touch repulsive, why did it burn instead of freeze?
“Easy, ma’am,” Giovanni’s voice cut in from behind, startling me. I turned, following his gaze down to my hand. Blood dripped from my palm, my nails dug too deep into flesh, the pain drowned out by rage.
He offered a handkerchief, its fabric soft against my trembling fingers. I pressed it to the wound, wiping the blood as he silently guided me outside.
The estate sprawled under Lake Como’s moonlight, its waters shimmering, hills looming like silent sentinels.
The air was crisp, scented with jasmine and lake mist, the gravel path crunching under my sneakers.
This place felt like the end of the world, a prison of beauty, its isolation absolute.
No vehicles could navigate these winding paths—only a chopper could offer escape, a truth that sank like lead in my stomach.
The street was empty at first, but as we approached a bend, a club emerged, its neon sign flickering in jagged blue letters: Lupo Nero.
Tattooed men in leather jackets slipped in and out, their eyes sharp, their movements predatory, the bass of music pulsing faintly through the walls.
I paused, Giovanni a shadow behind me. “Does this club belong to Dmitri?” I asked, my voice steady despite my turmoil.
“He’s one of the owners,” Giovanni said, his weathered face unreadable.
“Lake Como belongs to four mafia families. Their clans have lived in harmony here for decades. The first sons inherit the titles, and the territory remains beyond the reach of the law. To the government, this place doesn’t exist—the families pay more than a state’s worth of taxes every year to ensure that. ”
“I see,” I murmured, letting his words sink in.
This was an open prison, governed by rules and traditions, yet rotten beneath. “And the laws here... they’re called traditions?”
Giovanni nodded, his eyes guarded. “Exactly, ma’am.
Traditions are laws carved in stone by the generations before us.
They’ve been dutifully followed by everyone—at least on the surface.
Anyone caught breaking them pays the penalty.
Doesn’t matter how powerful they are, even the boss of a clan. .. even Dmitri.”
He hesitated, then added, “For example—forcing a marriage is an abomination here. Dmitri is currently under trial for it.”
My stomach dropped. “What? I had no idea. Did I... did I put him in trouble?”
“A big one,” Giovanni said bluntly. “Unless he wants a war—which is unwise—he may have to forfeit half of what he owns. And that could include you, depending on the judges’ verdict.”
“You have judges?” I asked, my voice small.
“Yes. Like I said, Lake Como is like an independent state of its own—only it isn’t ruled by the Italian government. The consequences for breaking tradition are so severe that everyone fears them.”
Guilt burned hot in my chest. My outburst at the ball, exposing our forced marriage, hadn’t just humiliated Dmitri—it might destroy him. I hadn’t known, hadn’t realized the punishment could be this brutal.
“Is that why he hates me?” I whispered, shame weighing down the words.
Giovanni’s expression didn’t change. “I do not know the nature of his feelings for you—or if even he understands them,” he replied.
I hummed faintly, my mind racing, tangled with guilt and questions. “Who is Seraphina?” I murmured at last.
The question slipped out, desperate, my need for answers overriding everything.
His expression dropped, a flicker of unease crossing his face.
“Why are you quiet? I asked you a question,” I pressed, my voice firm.
“I don’t know,” he said finally, but his hesitation screamed lies, his eyes avoiding mine.
“Of course you do,” I snapped. “You just won’t tell me. Is she his mistress?”
“I answered you, ma’am,” he said, his voice steady but strained. “I have no idea who Seraphina is.”
I swallowed, my fist clenching the bloodied handkerchief.
I’d find out, one way or another.
I didn’t bother arguing further and marched toward the club, its exterior unhinged, a chaotic blend of sleek black steel and neon, pulsing with blue light that bled into the night.
Inside, the air was thick with cigarette smoke and sweat.
Loud techno music blared, the bass vibrating through the floor, bodies swaying.
“You can watch from afar,” I told Giovanni, my voice sharp. “Give me space.”
He nodded, stepping back, his presence still looming like a predator.
I sighed, hating his vigilance, and sat at the bar, its black marble slick under my elbows.
I needed someone—anyone—to talk to in this godforsaken territory.
“A Negroni,” I demanded, my voice firm, craving the bitter burn of gin and Campari to dull my anger.
The bartender, a wiry man with a scar slashing his neck, slid the drink over, his eyes avoiding mine.
A man beside me, tattooed and leather-clad, glanced my way, then stood abruptly and walked off, his drink untouched.
I frowned, confused.
Why would he leave? I sipped the Negroni, its citrus bite sharp, and another man sat nearby, ordering a whiskey. But as his eyes met mine, he froze, then bolted, his glass clattering.
“Why are they leaving?” I asked the bartender, my voice rising over the music, his avoidance obvious as he polished a glass.
He leaned closer, his voice low. “Dmitri’s warning went across the territory: anyone who touches you dies. Everyone knows his temper, ma’am. Don’t talk to men—you’ll get them killed.”
My jaw dropped, anger flaring.
Dmitri’s control extended even here, isolating me, caging me in a crowd.
I scanned the club—women in tight dresses clung to men, their laughter forced, their eyes vacant.
No groups of female friends, just women tethered to their captors, likely kidnapped like me, their wills broken.
Was this my future, a life of submission, my identity erased?
My chest tightened, not from asthma but from despair.
“We meet again, whale,” a voice sneered, dripping with malice.
I turned, my heart lurching.
Antonio Bellanti sat at the bar, his hoodie shadowing his face, his dark eyes glinting with cruelty.
My ex-fiancé—the man who’d humiliated me at the altar with his body-shaming jeers: Paraded up here like a pig in lace. Even the gown can’t hide it. Your belly looks swollen.
His words had cut deep, a prelude to the cruelty I would later face from Dmitri. And now here, in Dmitri’s territory.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I snapped, my voice shaking, his presence a violation.
Italy was vast, yet he’d found me in this mafia stronghold.
He took a sip of his wine, his gaze fixed ahead, casual but menacing.
“You really thought I wouldn’t find you?
” he taunted, his voice low, dripping with contempt.
“I still wonder what Dmitri sees in a fat bitch like you—why he’d marry you in public, no less.
My family’s bounty is on your head, Penelope.
Sooner or later, you’ll be dragged back to my father’s estate.
.. and when that day comes, you’ll be mine. My slave.”
My fist clenched around the glass, anger coursing through me.
His betrayal—three years of lies, using me as nothing more than a pawn for his family’s ambitions—crashed over me.
I pushed to my feet, ready to walk away. But Antonio only downed the last of his wine and leaned closer, his breath sharp with liquor. “I can help you out,” he murmured, his voice slick, serpent-like. “If you help me.”