Chapter 17
PENELOPE
I wanted to scream, to claw at the walls of this gilded cage, but all I could do was sit back, trembling with fury and hurt.
Giovanni’s scarred face didn’t shift, but his eyes softened—just barely.
“I’ll be punished for what I told you about Seraphina,” he said, his tone steady, heavy with the burden of old loyalties. “But you deserved that truth. As for why he wants you broken until death—only Dmitri can give you that answer. And he will, in time.”
His gaze sharpened, a flicker of steel. “For now, let’s pray he recovers. And take my advice—stay away from that ex-boyfriend of yours.”
My stomach twisted. Antonio. His poisonous offer at Lupo Nero, the reckless device I’d planted in a fit of rage—it had all led to this. Dmitri shot, bleeding, clinging to life.
“Will you tell him I sold him out?” The words slipped out small, fear threading through my stubborn resolve.
Giovanni’s lips curved in the faintest, knowing smirk. “Sadly, ma’am, loyalty is my only sin. I cannot keep that from him.”
My heart sank. Of course he’d tell Dmitri—his loyalty was ironclad.
My throat tightened.
“He’ll kill me if you do,” I whispered.
“You didn’t think of the consequences before selling out a man like Dmitri, did you?” Giovanni’s tone was sharp—never cruel, but honed to cut. “A man who rules through fear and blood doesn’t take betrayal lightly.”
“Anyone would’ve done it!” I snapped, my voice cracking with fury I barely held together. “He made me believe he was cheating. From where I stood, he was—until you told me otherwise. But I don’t want him dead. I want him to live.”
Giovanni gave the smallest nod, his expression unreadable. “See you around, ma’am.”
He rose and walked away, his boots grinding against the gravel until the sound dissolved, leaving only the fountain’s trickle—soft, mocking, echoing against the chaos in my head.
Fear gnawed at my chest, regret curdling in my gut, my hands trembling in my lap. If Dmitri lived, I was as good as dead. I’d betrayed him, fed his enemies the key to his ruin.
God, what had I done?
The Bellantis hadn’t wanted me—they’d never cared whether I lived or died.
To them, I was only leverage, a leash to pull Dmitri to his knees.
Kidnap me, slaughter him, dismantle everything he’d built piece by bloody piece.
That was their game. I was nothing but a pawn—worse, bait—and I had handed myself to them willingly.
The truth slammed into me like a blade to the chest: I’d delivered exactly what they wanted, gift-wrapped in my own rage.
Rising, my legs heavy, I drifted back into the villa.
Hours dragged like years.
Evening pressed against the villa with a suffocating stillness, the kind that made every breath feel borrowed.
I sat at the dining table, forcing down spoonfuls of risotto that turned to ash on my tongue.
Hunger gnawed at me, but the food was sour, my appetite strangled by the storm in my head.
Every bite was a battle, every swallow choked by the same fear: what would happen when Dmitri came back—if he made it out alive?
The main room’s door creaked open. The sound wasn’t loud, but it cut through the silence like a blade.
I turned, half-expecting Giovanni’s stoic frame.
But the sight that met me made my stomach lurch.
Dmitri stood in the doorway. Towering. Terrifying.
His tailored black suit was shredded, dark stains spreading where blood had seeped through. His face was pale from loss of it, but carved in granite fury.
Those icy blue eyes fixed on me, blazing with the kind of rage that could burn a kingdom to ash.
He was alive. Barely—but alive. And looking at me as if survival had only given him strength to hate me more.
Every instinct screamed to run, yet my body locked in place.
He stalked toward me, slow, deliberate. The rhythm of his boots echoed like a death march.
My chest dropped.
Giovanni must have told him. Of course he had. His loyalty was iron.
Before I could draw breath, his hand lashed out, iron around my throat.
He slammed me back against the wall, the impact rattling through my bones. Air fled my lungs in a strangled gasp as my nails clawed against his grip, but he only tightened, his fury radiating off him like heat from a forge.
“You sold me out.” His words were a venomous snarl, his breath searing my cheek.
“You handed me to wolves.” His lips curled, his eyes burning into me like brands. “And you thought there would be no price? The consequence of betrayal is death, Penelope. But your father clearly failed to teach you the meaning of loyalty—or the cost of breaking it.”
Tears stung, rage and shame tangling inside me.
My voice came ragged. “Please...” I gasped, the sound strangled. “Don’t—don’t hurt me.”
His grip tightened for a beat that stretched like eternity.
I saw it then—how much he wanted to crush the breath from me, to punish me for the crime of not being his to command.
His obsession burned so hot it hurt.
And then, with a sharp wince, he released me.
I collapsed against the wall, coughing, the bruises blooming on my throat already throbbing.
He stepped back, one hand clamped to his side. The mask slipped for only a second—pain flashing across his features before his jaw locked, his control snapping back into place.
He dropped heavily into the leather chair, his posture still regal, alpha even in weakness. His chest rose shallowly, his breaths edged with pain, but his eyes never left mine.
I pressed trembling fingers to my throat, my pulse wild. “Can I... check?” My words came out small, almost shameful—but my stubbornness laced them still.
His glare cut into me. “Don’t.” His voice was a growl, a command meant to cage me where I stood.
But something in me refused to yield.
Maybe guilt. Maybe defiance. Maybe that same foolish love I couldn’t burn out.
I stepped forward, heart hammering, and crouched before him. My hands shook as I lifted the torn edge of his shirt.
Stitches crisscrossed his abdomen, angry red wounds stitched too tight, flesh inflamed where bullets had torn through him.
My throat tightened, the sight of it twisting guilt deeper.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my hand hovering just shy of touching his skin. “I thought you were cheating. The lipstick. The hickeys. Seraphina. You made me believe it. You wanted me to.”
His gaze didn’t soften. It hardened.
“Take your hands off me,” he rumbled, his voice low and dangerous, the command thrumming with possessive fury.
Even bleeding, even broken, Dmitri exuded the kind of dominance that filled every inch of the room.
And in that moment, I realized—he wouldn’t kill me. Not yet. Death was too merciful for what he had planned.
“No.” The word snapped from me before I could swallow it.
I lifted his shirt higher, ignoring his glare.
That’s when I saw it. Ink. Small, delicate, just above his hip—two stars, perfectly precise, etched in black against his skin.
My breath hitched.
A memory tore through me like a blade.
We were fifteen, lying on a blanket in my backyard under a velvet summer sky.
Fireflies flickered in the dark, the air sweet with cut grass. Dmitri’s hand brushed mine—casual, but enough to make my heart stutter. His voice had been soft then, teasing.
“See those two, right there?” His finger traced the air, pointing to a constellation only he could see. “That’s us, Penelope. Two stars, burning brighter than the rest. One day, I’ll pull them down for you, keep them close so you’ll never feel alone.”
I had laughed, shoving at his shoulder, though my chest was tight, fluttering.
And when he leaned in, pressing his lips to my temple, whispering promises I was too young and too willing to believe—I thought forever was ours.
“These stars ... ” My voice trembled as I hovered over the tattoo, my fingers shaking. “You drew this... for me?”
Dmitri’s eyes darkened, a storm swirling inside them.
His hand shot out, clamping around my wrist—not violent, but immovable, pulling his shirt back down.
“I inked you onto my skin to keep you close to my heart,” he said, his voice low and raw.
His jaw tightened. “Even when I hated you, I couldn’t erase you.”
The words crushed me, even as I hated them.
He pushed to his feet with a sharp wince, one hand pressed to his stitched side.
His broad frame loomed, his shoulders squared in stubborn refusal to show frailty.
He moved toward the bedroom like a king refusing to bow.
I followed, my guilt clawing.
Watching him lower himself onto the bed, his breath uneven, his body rigid with pain, I forced my voice steady.
“I want to speak to my parents.”
“No.” His reply cracked like a whip, swift, final. “They know you’re with me. As my wife.”
My brow furrowed, Antonio’s poisonous words slithering back: your mourning parents, still searching for you.
Lies.
They had to be lies.
Dmitri didn’t lie—not about this. Still, the ache to hear their voices, to know they were safe, burned like acid.
“I need to hear them,” I pressed, my voice iron despite the fear clawing at me. “Just one call.”
“I said no.” His voice was a growl, dark and commanding, his eyes blazing with that suffocating possessiveness.
Something in me snapped. I didn’t think—I acted.
My hand darted to his pocket, fingers closing around his phone before he could react.
His voice tore the air—furious, dangerous—but I was already running.
Bare feet slapped against the marble, the cold searing my skin as I bolted down the hallway, pulse hammering in my ears.
The phone lit in my trembling hands, screen glowing like salvation. My breath caught when I saw it—Marco Romano.
My father.
I hit call, my hands shaking so badly I nearly dropped the phone.
The line rang. Once. Twice. Each tone hammered against my chest, rattling the cage of my ribs.
My breath hitched as a shadow spilled across the marble.
Dmitri stood framed in the doorway, his injured frame moving slower than his usual predator’s stride, but no less menacing.
His pale face was carved with fury, blue eyes blazing.
“God knows I’ve tried,” he rasped, his voice raw with pain yet edged with steel. “I’ve tried to hold back, to spare you from the ways I ache to hurt you, Penelope.”
The call clicked alive. My father’s voice crackled through the speaker, rough with fury and fear.
“Dmitri, what the hell do you want this time?”
The sound of him made my knees weaken. But Dmitri’s gaze locked onto mine, rage and obsession burning in equal measure, pinning me in place.
Slowly, he stepped forward and plucked the phone from my hand.
His touch was deceptively gentle, like velvet wrapped around a blade.
He didn’t hang up. Instead, he set the device on a nearby table.
He turned back to me, and I felt my chest constrict beneath the weight of his stare. His voice dropped into a growl, thick with command.
“Take it all off, Penelope. I want to see everything you’ve kept from me. Every inch. Every secret. We begin there.”
My breath caught, my heart ricocheting inside my ribs.
He began unbuttoning his own shirt despite the blood seeping through, wincing with each tug but never breaking eye contact.
His pain didn’t diminish him—it made him more dangerous.
I stepped back, spine pressed to cold marble, fear clawing at my lungs.
“No,” I managed, my voice trembling but sharp with defiance. “I won’t strip for you.”
The faintest curl touched his lips—something between amusement and a threat.
He pulled a small remote from his pocket, pressed it with a sharp click. Behind me, the art room door slammed shut, the metallic lock snapping into place with a sound that echoed like a gunshot.
“You enjoy running, Penelope,” he said, his tone deliberate. His eyes glinted with that unholy fire. “But every time you thought you escaped, it was because I allowed it. Not this time.”
My fists clenched at my sides.
Rage burned through the fear. I won’t go down without a fight.
“You can lock me in, hurt me, hate me—but I’ll never be yours. Not like this.” I spat, though my voice cracked on the edge.
His smile darkened, his presence filling every corner of the room until it suffocated me.
He took a slow step closer, then another, moving like a storm gathering force.
“You fight beautifully, Penelope. Like a caged wolf gnawing off its own paw. But tell me—what’s left of you when there’s nowhere left to run?” He whispered, eyes burning with a dark fire.
“You can hate me, curse me, even pray for my death—but you’ll never erase me. I live here.” He pressed his palm flat against my chest, right over my pounding heart. “I live in the blood that rushes through you every time you think of escape. In every tear you fight not to shed.”
His eyes burned—not only with rage, but with a possession so absolute it made me tremble.
He leaned closer, his lips brushing my temple, soft enough to feel like a caress, sharp enough to feel like a brand.
“I am in you, Penelope. And you—” his voice dipped lower, lethal in its intimacy, “you are already mine. Body. Soul. Even your hate belongs to me.”