Chapter 22
PENELOPE
The balcony was a haze of smoke and ash, the acrid stench of burning metal clawing at my lungs as I lay pressed against the cold stone, pain radiating through my ribs from the explosion’s impact.
The remains of the helicopter hung grotesquely over the railing.
My ears rang, the chaos disorienting, until a familiar voice cut through it.
“Ma’am, are you okay?” Giovanni’s scarred face appeared above me, his eyes sharp, but beneath it a flicker of concern as he extended a steady hand.
I swallowed, my throat raw. “I... I’m fine.” My voice was hoarse.
I let him pull me to my feet, his grip firm but detached, the kind of touch that reminded me who held the power.
He pivoted sharply to my father, who struggled to regain his balance, suit singed and face pale.
Giovanni’s voice was a venomous edge. “Marco, didn’t we warn you not to make any foolish moves? Thought you could sneak a chopper and take her out of our territory? Such reckless audacity.”
Before I could even respond, the shadow of a man loomed—Dmitri.
His towering frame cut through the smoke like a predator through fog. I froze, my chest tightening as his icy blue eyes locked on me, scanning every inch with an intensity that made my stomach twist. It wasn’t just anger I saw—there was fear too.
He moved swiftly, closing the distance between us, hands gentle but demanding as they checked my arms, my face, lingering just long enough for me to feel the weight of his obsession.
“Do you want me to uncover your dark secrets before her, Marco?” Dmitri’s voice rumbled low, a growl that vibrated through the balcony.
My father flinched, guilt etched deep into every line of his face, his confident posture gone. “Dmitri...” His voice faltered.
Dmitri’s gaze snapped back to him. “Let this be the last time you interfere,” he said, precise.
“Send anyone near her again, and I’ll make sure they don’t leave this city alive.
You, Marco, consider this your final warning.
Go back to New York. Tell her mother and nonna she’s under my protection, that she will remain mine. And do not—ever—test me. Understood?”
“Understood,” my father muttered, nodding quickly, eyes darting as if expecting Giovanni or Dmitri to strike without hesitation.
His retreat left a hollow ache inside me, the folded paper he’d pressed into my hands still clutched, its weight more than physical.
I swallowed hard, feeling the pull of Dmitri’s presence behind me even as my heart still ached.
Giovanni slipped away without a word, leaving Dmitri and me alone on the balcony, the gothic arches of the castle looming like silent judges over the lake’s black waters.
Dmitri’s eyes softened as they swept over me again, his piercing blue gaze flicking to my ribs and hands.
“Are you sure you’re not injured?” His voice was low, almost intimate, and it stole my breath. “I can have a doctor check you, right now.”
“I’m fine,” I said, forcing steadiness into my voice, though each breath reminded me of the pain lancing through my side. Before I could stop myself, I wrapped my arms around him, pressing my cheek to the hard plane of his chest. His heartbeat was strong, a rhythm that anchored me in the chaos.
I didn’t know why I needed him like this—maybe it was the weight of my father’s revelations, the horror of Dmitri’s childhood, the boy I’d loved suffering in silence.
Back in New York, when we were neighbors, he’d return from Italy after holidays with small, thoughtful gifts—a chipped seashell pendant, a hand-carved wooden bird, tokens of his care despite the horrors he endured.
I’d cherished them then, unaware they came from a boy living a private hell.
I remembered one summer, his eyes shadowed, a forced smile on his lips.
He’d brought me a tiny woven bracelet, his fingers trembling as he tied it around my wrist, muttering that he found the thread in an alley.
I hadn’t noticed the faint burns on his knuckles, the flinch when I hugged him too tightly, the way his body had carried invisible scars from cages and iron rods.
Another time, he had plucked a single daisy from God-knows-where, laughing as I tucked it behind my ear—but the laughter had been brittle, cracked, a mask for the pain he carried across borders and oceans.
Now, holding him, I felt the depth of that brokenness, the weight of the years he’d endured.
It wasn’t guilt—not yet—but a crushing sorrow for the boy who had hidden his suffering so well, who had made me his world while his life crumbled.
I hugged him tighter, fingers digging into his back as if I could hold that boy together now.
“What are you doing, Penelope?” Dmitri’s voice was hesitant, and for the first time, his arms seemed unsure, almost fragile beneath mine.
“I just... want to stay like this,” I admitted, voice muffled against his chest. His warmth was a lifeline, and I clung to it, desperate for stability in the storm surrounding us.
He pulled back slightly, his gaze sharp, searching mine. “What did your father tell you?” Suspicion cut through his words, a reminder that he distrusted even my affection.
“Nothing,” I lied softly, shielding him from the raw truths I’d only begun to understand. The weight of his childhood, the endless torment, was too much to confront aloud—not here, not now.
His hands lingered at my shoulders, tense.
“Me having your child—is it compulsory?” I asked, the words trembling from my lips, weighted by obligation.
Dmitri’s jaw tightened, his expression distant but unwavering. “Yes. Tradition demands it. Before I turn thirty-one, an heir must be born—or the clan merges with another. An heir is not optional.”
The reality pressed in like a vice.
I swallowed hard, my heart hammering, the paper in my hand burning like a secret I wasn’t ready to confront.
“Then take me,” I whispered, reckless and raw, surrendering to the toxic pull I couldn’t escape. I hated myself for it—but I wanted him. Wanted to carry his child, wanted to bind myself to him despite the monster he’d become.
He pulled back slightly, eyes narrowing, suspicion sharp as a blade. “What in the world did your father tell you?” His voice was low, searching, dangerous.
“Only about my mom and nonna,” I lied, forcing calm over the storm of nerves in my chest. “Nothing else.”
He studied me for a long moment, his gaze piercing, before finally taking my hand.
His grip was firm but not cruel, and he led me down the creaking staircase of the ancient estate to the car.
The drive home was tense, silent, the folded paper tucked into my sleeve, its weight a constant reminder of the answers I hadn’t yet uncovered.
When we arrived at the villa, its marble halls cold and imposing, Dmitri halted outside the bedroom door. “Go take a bath,” he said, voice unyielding. “I’ll be waiting.”
I nodded, obedient for once, and slipped into the bathroom.
Steam rose, hot water running over my skin, washing away the ache in my ribs but doing nothing to calm the wild flutter in my chest.
I shed his silk shirt and stepped into the shower, letting the heat fill me. Afterward, I dried myself and slipped into a simple silk nightgown, forgoing underwear, skin prickling with nervous anticipation.
It would be my first time. The thought thrilled me, terrified me, and yet I wanted it—I wanted him.
But when I emerged, the bedroom was empty, heavy with his absence.
My heart sank, disappointment tangled with relief.
Barefoot, I crept through the marble halls, searching for him, until I found his study. Shadows pooled in the corners, papers scattered across the desk, a half-empty whiskey glass catching the dim light—but he wasn’t there.
“Looking for me, milaya?” His voice came from behind, teasing, and I shivered.
I turned to see him leaning against the wall, shirt unbuttoned, the stars and scars on his chest stark against his skin.
Before I could speak, he closed the distance, pressing a firm, fleeting kiss to my lips.
I leaned in for more, craving the heat of him—but he smiled, that rare, genuine curve of his lips—and then scooped me into his arms as if I weighed nothing.
“Dmitri, put me down,” I gasped, heat flooding my cheeks. “I’m too heavy.”
He tightened his hold, hands firm on my ass, gaze blazing with possession. “Say that again,” he growled, low and seductive, “and I’ll prove how light you are to me. You think I’d ever struggle to carry what’s mine?”
My breath caught, heart pounding. “I...”
“Milaya,” he murmured, softening only slightly, gaze unyielding, “you’re the only thing I’ll never tire of carrying. I could hold you on my shoulder all day, Penelope. All my strength isn’t just for dominating the mafia—it’s for holding you, carrying you, and never letting you go.”
Butterflies erupted in my stomach as he carried me back to the bedroom, steady and unflinching.
He laid me gently on the bed, silk sheets cool against my skin, eyes locked on mine, burning with obsession
I reached for him, ready to give in, but the folded paper in my sleeve burned, a reminder that secrets still hung between us, heavy and unresolved.
The bedroom was a cocoon of shadows, the silk sheets cool against my skin as I knelt on the bed, my heart pounding with a mix of nerves and reckless desire.
Dmitri stood at the edge, his towering frame illuminated by the dim chandelier, his icy blue eyes burning.
The folded paper from my father was tucked beneath the pillow, its secrets unanswered, but my mind was consumed by the man before me, the monster who’d claimed me, broken me, and yet made me feel alive.
“I know your father told you something,” Dmitri said, his voice suspicious, his eyes searching mine as he stepped closer, the bulge in his trousers betraying his need. “Whatever he said... it’s influencing you, isn’t it? Is this really what you want, Penelope?”
I held his gaze, my fingers trembling as I slowly peeled off my nightgown, letting it pool around my knees.
My breasts lay bare, and for the first time, I didn’t shrink from his stare.
“Say the word,” he growled, his voice thick with desire, his hands clenched as if restraining himself.
“Yes,” I said, my voice steady, desire tangling in my chest. “I want it.”
Dmitri’s eyes darkened.
He ripped off his shirt, the fabric tearing under his urgency.
His belt hit the floor with a clatter, his trousers following, his cock springing free, hard.
“I’ve waited so long for you, milaya,” he said, his voice raw, as he climbed onto the bed, his weight dipping the mattress.
He pressed me down gently, his lips finding mine—not the violent devouring of the art room, but a slow, searing kiss that deepened into hunger, his tongue claiming me with a possessive edge.
His hand trailed down my body, fingers grazing my thigh, sending a jolt through me as they circled my clit, already slick with want.
My body jerked, betraying my need, and he smirked against my lips.
“This will hurt,” he murmured, his finger pausing at my entrance, his eyes locked on mine, searching for hesitation.
I nodded, my breath hitching.
It was our first time—his as much as mine—and the thought sent a thrill through me, mingling with fear.
He slid one finger inside, slow and gentle, the sting sharp but fleeting.
My body tensed, a soft gasp escaping as he pulled back, kissing me deeply, his lips a distraction from the pain.
He pushed in again, deeper, my body pulsing with a mix of ache and pleasure.
A loud moan tore from my throat, my hands gripping the sheets as he began to thrust, slow at first, then faster, pain and pleasure weaving together in a dizzying dance.
He added a second finger, stretching me, his lips sucking mine with a desperation that felt like he was pouring his soul into me.
Then a third, the intensity overwhelming, my pussy clenching around him as pleasure cascaded through me, driving me to the edge of insanity.
“God, milaya,” he groaned, his voice rough, his fingers relentless.
He pulled them out, slick with my arousal, and used them to trace a heart on my stomach, the gesture so tender it sent butterflies fluttering through me, a stark contrast to his dominance.
He positioned himself above me, his cock pressing against my entrance, his eyes locked on mine, intense.
“Look at me,” he commanded, and I did, my breath shallow as he slid in slowly, filling me, stretching me until I felt consumed.
His hand wrapped around my throat—not tight, but possessive—anchoring me as he pulled back and thrust in hard, a moan ripping from my lips.
The sensation was overwhelming, pain and pleasure colliding as he fucked me with an intensity that set my body ablaze.
My breasts shook with each thrust, and he bent down, taking one nipple into his mouth, nibbling gently, then harder, his teeth grazing as he continued to pound into me.
The dual assault—his cock deep inside me, his mouth on my breast—drove me wild, pleasure so intense I thought I’d faint.
He moved to my other nipple, sucking hard, his hand still on my throat, his groans vibrating against my skin.
“Damn...” he growled, his voice raw with need, as if he’d starved for this, for me.
He fucked me like a man possessed, relentless, his pace unyielding, and I took him just as fiercely, my body matching his hunger, my nails digging into his back.
He kissed my stomach again, soft and reverent, then flipped me over with a swift motion, his hands gripping my hips.
He slid into me from behind with a loud growl, his cock hitting deeper, pain surging through me as I moaned his name. “Dmitri!”
He thrust again, harder, deeper, the heat of our bodies consuming the room.
“Say you’re mine, Penelope,” he demanded, his voice a low snarl, his hands tightening on my hips.
I could barely speak, my mouth open, moans spilling out as the intensity built, pushing me closer to the edge.
“Say you’re fucking mine,” he growled, his thrusts relentless, driving me wild.
“I’m yours,” I cried, the words torn from me as he fucked me harder, deeper, his cock filling every inch of me. “I’m all yours, Dmitri!”
My body trembled, pleasure overwhelming, and I came undone, cumming mercilessly, my pussy clenching around him as waves of ecstasy crashed through me.
He thrust a few more times, his own release knotting deep inside me, his growl vibrating through the room as he spilled into me, my sensitivity spiking with every movement.
He pulled out slowly, his hand delivering a sharp spank to my ass, the sting grounding me in the afterglow.
He collapsed beside me, pulling me into his arms, my body curling against his chest, exhausted and spent.
My breathing was ragged, the hot, hour-long sex draining every ounce of energy I had.
His warmth enveloped me, his heartbeat steady under my cheek, and I drifted into sleep, the folded paper beneath the pillow a distant thought, its secrets waiting to unravel.