Chapter 15
PENELOPE
Antonio’s words hung in the air like poison, his hoodie casting shadows over his cruel smirk.
“We’ve heard the whispers—Dmitri forced you into marriage,” Antonio said, his tone low, taunting.
“The first time he’s broken the traditions of his precious territory.
Men are questioning him. His loyalists are thinning.
He’s already on trial, Penelope—one wrong verdict, and everything he’s built for decades will be stripped from him. ”
He pulled out a sleek device, no bigger than a coin, holding it between two fingers like an offering.
“Plant this on his phone. Magnetic, invisible—just stick it to the metal. We’ll handle the rest. Do this, and you’ll be on a plane back to New York, to your mourning parents still searching for you. ”
My heart lurched. Mama. Papa. Their faces flashed in my mind.
They didn’t know. They hadn’t heard about Dmitri’s public marriage? They should have guessed he whisked me away like a prize, yet still they searched.
My twenty-fifth birthday—a milestone they once prepared for—was now nothing but a fading memory.
“And you think I’ll trust you?” I asked, my voice sharp, my eyes narrowing at the man who’d once betrayed me at the altar.
Antonio let a tiny metallic device clink onto the bar, followed by a folded slip of paper. Both glinted under Lupo Nero’s pulsing blue lights—like promises laced with poison.
He straightened, tugging the hood of his sweatshirt into place, his voice slicing low and cruel. “I’ll be counting on you, whale.”
He slipped into the crowd, his figure swallowed by the pulsing techno and haze of smoke.
I glanced around, my heart racing, knowing Giovanni’s eyes were on me from somewhere in the club’s shadows.
I stood casually, stretching as if bored, and swept the device and paper into my hand with a flick of my wrist, tucking them into my back pocket, my movements smooth, practiced, like the mafia heiress I was raised to be.
“Where’s the women’s restroom?” I asked a nearby staff member, a lanky man with a nervous twitch.
His eyes widened, fear flickering as he pointed to a dimly lit corridor.
“There, ma’am,” he muttered, stepping back as if I were a bomb.
I clenched my jaw.
Why was Dmitri making everyone fear me?
Friends in Lake Como were impossible, my isolation a cage within a cage.
I strode to the restroom, its black tiles slick, the air heavy with cheap perfume and dampness.
Locking myself in a stall, I pulled out the device—a flat, transparent metallic disc, barely noticeable, perfect for spying.
The paper came next. My fingers trembled as I unfolded it, bracing for instructions, a plan, an escape route. Instead, a single word glared back at me in bold ink: SERAPHINA.
My breath snagged in my throat, my chest clenching.
That name. Again. Whispering through shadows, staining my thoughts. The same name tied to the phantom hickeys on his skin.
Who was she? His mistress? His true love? The slender, graceful perfection I could never measure up to?
I shoved the device back into my pocket. It burned there, heavier than metal had any right to be—an unspoken betrayal I couldn’t bring myself to commit.
My father, Marco, had drilled it into me: loyalty is the mafia’s lifeblood .
Even in a marriage I despised, Dmitri was my husband. Planting that bug would end him—his empire, his life. The Bellantis weren’t offering rescue; they wanted revenge for their humiliation, for my stolen wedding.
And yet, despite Dmitri’s cruelty, a flicker of the boy he’d once been still haunted me: the boy who shared gelato, who tied ribbons in my hair.
Foolish hope whispered that maybe, somehow, he could return to the sweet boy I once loved—the one who made me laugh, who felt like home. Not the devil he had become, cloaked in power and cruelty.
I tucked the device deep into my pocket, my resolve firm: I wouldn’t betray him. Not yet.
“Ma’am, are you okay?” Giovanni’s voice came from beyond the door, calm but edged with concern.
“Yeah... just a minute,” I called back, shredding the paper into strips and flushing them away.
My pulse thundered as I stepped out of the restroom, colliding with Giovanni’s guarded stare. He said nothing, only inclined his head before guiding me back into the hall.
“Can I dance with you?” I asked suddenly, desperate for something human, even from him.
His jaw tightened, his tone clipped. “You can dance with your husband, ma’am. Invite him here, and I’m sure he’ll agree.”
I sighed, defeated. “Let’s go home.”
This place—where everyone feared me, where I was a demon in their eyes—was suffocating.
Giovanni led me to the car, and drove in silence, his serious face a wall I couldn’t breach.
At the estate, I stepped inside.
Dmitri’s suit jacket hung over a dining chair, its crimson tie pin glinting.
I headed to the bedroom but paused at a slightly ajar door, the study, its oak frame glowing faintly.
Curiosity pulled me closer, and I peered inside, my breath catching.
Dmitri stood, his tie loosened, his shirt unbuttoned, a vivid red lipstick stain smeared across his neck.
He scrubbed at the stain with a handkerchief, his movements almost frantic, the feminine scent—jasmine and vanilla, not his sandalwood—hitting me like a slap.
My anger flared, my heart racing. “So how do you explain this?” I stormed in, my voice shaking, searching the room—bookshelves, leather couch, velvet curtains—for her.
“It was hickeys last time, lipstick now?” My voice cracked into a scream. “Where is she? Where the fuck is Seraphina?”
He froze, his icy blue eyes snapping to mine, his jaw tightening.
“Get out,” he commanded, his voice dangerous, still wiping the lipstick, its thick red infuriating me.
“Oh, really?” I snapped, my hands clenching. “Just admit you’re cheating.”
He paused, his gaze piercing.
“If I was fucking a woman here, you think I’d hide her?” Dmitri’s voice cut like glass. “Who do you think you are, Penelope? A wife in name only. Don’t delude yourself—we’re not lovers. I despise you. Intensely.”
He leaned back, eyes glinting with mockery. “Now, get the fuck out of my office.”
The words ripped through me, slicing deeper than I’d ever admit. My heart splintered, but I forced my face into stone, pretending it was nothing.
“Admit it,” I shot back, my voice trembling but rising with fury. “Or are you scared I’ll expose you? Maybe cheating breaks your precious traditions, and you don’t want to get into trouble.” My chest ached with every word, fear laced into the anger—fear of the truth I already suspected.
He hurled the handkerchief to the floor, the red smear glaring against the marble like an accusation.
“I’ve said it once—believe me or don’t.”
“What did you say?” I shot back, my pulse hammering, the hidden device in my pocket burning like sin. “That you don’t cheat? Sorry, I can’t believe a damn word out of a mafia man’s mouth. You kill like it’s breathing, you lie to seal deals, and you expect me to swallow this?”
I scoffed, the sound breaking painfully. “Hours ago, you called me beautiful. Then you spit out how much you hate me. And I’m supposed to believe a single word that comes out of your mouth?”
A jagged laugh tore from me. “I’ll never be your slim, graceful, desired Seraphina, will I? Everyone calls me a whale—I’m learning to live with it. But at least give me the truth. You’re fucking her, aren’t you? It would make sense—you can’t have your way with me, so you take her instead.”
He surged forward, closing the space in a breath, his shadow swallowing me whole.
His eyes blazed, not with love, but with something darker—obsession, possession.
“You think I’d touch another woman when I have this?” His voice dropped to a growl, vibrating through me. “You have a body worth worshiping, Penelope.”
My breath hitched, my body warm, betraying me again, the device in my pocket a reminder of my choice—loyalty or freedom, Dmitri or the Bellantis.
Dmitri stepped closer, his icy blue eyes blazing, the sharp lines of his tailored suit only magnifying the danger radiating off him.
“You think your body makes you less than beautiful?” His voice was low, cutting, almost daring me.
“And because I’m... imperfect. Stretch marks, curves in the wrong places,” I snapped, my voice trembling, anger tangled with the old wounds his taunts had carved open.
My chest heaved. “Don’t lie to me. You just want me to forget everything and submit, don’t you?”
In a single, fluid motion he closed the distance, lifting me as though I weighed nothing.
His arms were unyielding, yet careful, lowering me on the edge of his mahogany desk, the polished wood cool beneath me, the scent of his cologne and leather-bound books thick in the air.
“I was wrong to shame you,” he said at last, his voice raw, stripped of its usual steel.
His gaze locked onto mine, searing, searching for something.
His touch lingered, dangerous in its gentleness, and traitorous butterflies swarmed in my stomach. For a heartbeat, I saw not the monster towering over me, but the boy of fifteen—the one who once offered me gelato with a smile that felt like forever.
I shoved the warmth of his words aside, anger burning hotter. “Who the fuck is Seraphina?” I demanded, spitting the name like poison
His jaw flexed, and for once his voice lost its ice but not its power—it came low, steady, burning.
“Being plus-sized isn’t a flaw, Penelope.
You were plus-sized at fifteen, and I wanted you then.
Every curve, every mark—I wanted them all.
What makes you think your stretch marks, your body, mean anything less to me?
If anyone—anyone—makes you doubt yourself again, tell me. I’ll put them in the ground.”
“And if it’s you?” I snapped, my heart hammering, fury and dread colliding as he kept dodging every question about Seraphina.