Chapter 16 #5
I lifted my head from his chest and searched his face in the dim light of the lamp beside the bed.
“Please...” My fingers tightened against his shirt. “Tell me there’s a way to save her.”
His hand, which had been resting protectively on my waist, stilled.
Completely.
He didn’t respond immediately.
His single eye studied mine — assessing not only my words but the desperation behind them.
“There is one path forward that gives us a real chance,” he said quietly.
My heart jumped — hope and fear colliding.
“What path?”
“We relocate to Italy.”
The answer landed heavily.
“I start fresh there — build a new faction from the ground up.”
His jaw tightened as he explained.
“It won’t take long. I still have old alliances. Old debts owed to me. Men who remember loyalty.”
His fingers traced slow lines across my back again — grounding himself as much as me.
“Once I’m established, I can begin peeling back the layers — find out who she’s married to, which family truly holds power, and where we can apply pressure.”
His gaze sharpened.
“Being on Italian soil puts us closer — physically closer — to wherever your sister is.”
My chest tightened.
“It increases our chances of seeing her. Of making contact.”
He paused briefly.
“Of negotiating her release before we have to resort to force.”
Force.
The word didn’t scare me coming from him.
It reassured me — because it meant strategy.
It meant preparation. It meant control.
I let my head fall back against his chest again.
His heartbeat was still steady.
“If that’s what it takes...” I whispered.
“Then let’s go.”
I swallowed.
“But how safe will it be? For Daphne. For Yannis. For us?”
His arms wrapped around me tighter.
Not possessively.
Protectively.
“You are safe wherever I am.”
The words were firm. Unwavering.
“You.”
His fingers pressed slightly into my skin.
“Our daughter.”
His voice softened at Daphne’s name.
“Yannis.”
His jaw hardened again.
“No harm will ever touch any of you again.”
He leaned down slightly so his forehead rested briefly against mine.
“Not in this lifetime.”
His breath mingled with mine.
“Elena...”
He exhaled slowly.
“I know healing doesn’t happen overnight.”
The honesty in his voice made my throat tighten.
“I know it won’t be clean. Or quick.”
His hand moved to rest over my heart.
“The scars you carry — they’re deep.”
His thumb brushed gently against my skin.
“Some of them... I put there myself.”
That admission weighed heavy between us.
His eyes darkened with guilt.
“If you never want to carry another child...”
My breath caught.
“If the thought of pregnancy terrifies you now...”
He swallowed.
“I will understand.”
His fingers tightened slightly — not controlling, but grounding.
“I will respect it.”
He pressed his forehead gently to mine again.
“I would rather spend the rest of my life earning your trust than ever risk causing you more pain.”
Silence filled the space between us.
His words were accountability.
They were devotion mixed with remorse.
They were the confession of a man who understood exactly how much damage the world — and sometimes himself — had caused.
I swallowed hard.
My chest felt tight.
Words formed on my tongue —
But none of them came out.
He forgave my sister’s sins because of me.
That act alone was the closest thing to redemption he could offer.
My thoughts already leaped ahead to Italy — to the place we would go next to rescue my sister from the man she was forced to marry.
Italy.
Shadowed villas.
Hidden meetings behind thick stone walls.
Power shifting like tides.
And somewhere in the middle of it all — my sister.
The fragile hope of seeing her face again.
Of touching her.
Of confirming she was still alive.
“When do we leave?” I asked quietly.
Ruslan didn’t answer immediately.
His fingers continued tracing slow, steady circles across my bare back — grounding me even as his mind calculated logistics I couldn’t see.
“First, Greece,” he said at last.
His tone shifted into something practical.
“We go home to Athens.”
Home.
The word felt strange and comforting at the same time.
“We reunite with Yannis and Daphne. We spend time together — real time.”
His hand tightened slightly around my waist.
“Let Daphne run through the olive groves. Let Yannis show off whatever he’s learned at university.”
A faint, almost amused exhale escaped him.
“Let things feel normal for a while.”
My throat tightened at the idea.
Something so simple — yet something we had been robbed of for years.
“Then,” he continued, “when we’re ready — when you’re ready — we move to Italy.”
I lifted my head slightly to look at him.
“Daphne comes with us.”
His voice left no room for debate.
“Yannis... he’ll have to stay behind for his studies at least until the semester ends.”
His jaw flexed.
“But he’ll visit. Often.”
I nodded slowly against his chest.
The plan felt heavy — but structured.
Safe.
Then my voice dropped softer.
“Ruslan...”
He hummed quietly in acknowledgment.
“Have you truly forgiven my sister — or have you just buried it for now?”
He went still.
“What she did to Maria — cutting her open, leaving her to bleed out — I confirmed it again last year through old contacts.”
My stomach twisted.
“It was her.”
His voice remained steady.
“But I released the hate.”
He tilted his head slightly so he could see my face better.
“Because of you.”
The words landed heavy.
“Because holding onto it meant holding onto the version of myself that hurt you the most.”
His thumb brushed slowly over my spine.
“If you can forgive me for the crimes I committed against you... then why can’t I extend the same grace to your sister?”
He held my gaze.
“Back then, I wasn’t your husband.”
His jaw clenched.
“I was your enemy — pretending to be one.”
That confession hurt.
“I know that now.”
His hand resumed its slow circles again.
“I don’t want vengeance anymore.”
His voice softened — but the intensity behind it remained.
“I want atonement.”
His eye locked onto mine.
“I want to spend every day — every year — until we’re old and grey — making up for the suffering I caused you.”
His fingers pressed gently into my skin.
“If helping your sister escape that monster is part of that... then I’ll move mountains.”
His expression hardened.
“I’ll burn cities.”
The statement was factual.
“I swear it.”
My breath hitched.
His devotion had always been extreme.
But now it was directed toward healing instead of destruction.
“If you help save her...” I whispered.
“I’ll be grateful. Forever.”
He immediately shook his head.
“Grateful?”
His tone shifted — firm but not angry.
“No.”
His hand moved to my chin, lifting my face slightly so I had to look at him.
“I don’t deserve gratitude.”
His thumb brushed under my jaw.
“I deserve the chance to prove I can be the man you should have had from the beginning.”
Silence wrapped around us again.
It was heavy with history.
Most couples were given easy love stories.
White dresses. Family celebrations. Arguments about trivial things. Simple forgiveness.
Ours had never been simple.
Not tragic.
But layered with violence, betrayal, survival, and redemption.
His love now was fierce.
Unapologetic. Constant.
His regret wasn’t something he hid — it lived inside him like a wound that refused to close.
And me?
My betrayals had stacked like invisible scars.
My boss.
My aunt’s husband.
My therapist.
My ex-fiancé.
My husband.
My own father.
Men who used power to hurt me — to control me — to break me.
Trusting again felt like walking barefoot across broken glass.
Even now — even with Ruslan holding me — there was a part of me that hesitated.
That remembered.
That guarded itself.
How did someone heal from that?
A soft knock suddenly broke through the quiet bedroom.
“Sir...”
Petros’s voice came muffled from the other side of the door.
Ruslan’s arms tightened around me instantly — instinctively protective.
He exhaled sharply.
“Busy with my wife, Petros.”
The answer was blunt.
Petros hesitated.
“Sir... it’s a message. From Elena Senior.”
My heart jumped violently.
I jerked upright so fast the sheet slid down to my waist.
Ruslan reacted instantly — one hand steadying me, the other reaching for his discarded shirt.
“Stay,” he muttered.
He tossed the shirt toward me.
I grabbed it quickly, pulling it over my body as I scrambled off the bed.
My legs were still shaky.
Weak.
I reached for the nearest robe — his.
It swallowed my frame.
It smelled like sandalwood and safety and him.
Ruslan crossed the room and opened the door just enough to take the envelope from Petros.
His expression remained unreadable as he accepted it.
He shut the door again.
The envelope was thick.
Cream-colored.
No branding.
No company seal.
His gaze shifted to the front.
Blank.
He flipped it over.
The back contained elegant handwriting — deliberate and controlled.
To my little sister, Elena Jr.
My breath stopped.
My stomach dropped.
Ruslan’s jaw clenched.
He turned slowly and handed it to me without speaking.
The room suddenly felt colder.
My fingers trembled as I reached for it.
My hands trembled violently as I stared at the envelope.
The paper felt heavier than it should have.
Like it contained not just words — but consequences.
Ruslan noticed immediately.
He walked toward me without saying anything, took my shaking fingers in his, and guided me gently to the armchair by the window.
He sat down first.
Then he pulled me carefully onto his lap.
Not possessively.
Not controlling.
He positioned me there like something fragile — something that might break if handled too roughly.
His arms wrapped around me from behind, holding me steady.
“It’s for you,” he said softly against my ear.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
I lifted my eyes to his face.
I searched for anything — suspicion, warning, fear, hesitation.
He gave none of it away.
He trusted me to read it.
Trusted me to face whatever truth my sister had sent.
I swallowed hard and tore the seal open with trembling fingers.
The paper unfolded slowly.
Thick. Expensive.
The handwriting immediately stopped my breath.
Sharp. Familiar.
The same looping strokes I had seen on notebooks years ago — before everything shattered between us.
My throat tightened.
“It’s her,” I whispered.
Ruslan tightened his hold slightly.
“Read it,” he said quietly.
I forced air into my lungs and began to read aloud — my voice barely above a whisper so he could hear every word.
Dear Elena Jnr,
If you’re reading this, it means I’m still breathing — and that terrifies me more than dying ever did.
If this letter ever reaches you, know that I wrote it with the last of my strength and the very last flicker of hope I have left.
Life has not been kind to either of us.
We seem to carry the entire curse of the universe on our shoulders — two daughters of the same poisoned bloodline, both punished for sins we never committed.
I know I am the reason your nightmare began.
When Ruslan couldn’t find me, he turned his rage on you instead.
I used you as a shield without ever meaning to, and I will never forgive myself for it.
I am married to a monster.
An Italian mafia boss whose name I can barely bring myself to write.
They call him Il Mostro behind his back — and the name fits.
Four months after our wedding, I was kidnapped and assaulted by his enemies.
Three months after I was rescued, I discovered I was pregnant.
I swore — again and again — on everything I still believe in — that the child is his.
I’ve done thirty one DNA tests.
Every single one confirms it.
But he refuses to believe me.
He hates me because of what our father did to him and his autistic younger sister when they were children — kidnapped, tortured, and used as leverage in one of Vasquez’s old wars.
That hatred has only grown inside him over the years.
And now, his first love — the woman fate chose for him before this marriage to me — is pregnant as well.
Even knowing the child she carries is his late best friend’s — and that everyone in this house knows it isn’t his.
He dotes on her.
He visits her every day.
He brings her flowers, doctors, warm blankets.
Me?
He locked me in an industrial cold room, knowing I was heavily pregnant.
The temperature is kept at –42°C.
Hot water thrown into the air turns to ice before it hits the floor.
My fingers are numb even when I tuck them under my arms.
I am eight months pregnant.
And I can feel my baby slowing down.
Fewer movements.
Weaker kicks.
The cold is killing us both.
I have forty-eight hours at most before my blood turns to sludge and my heart stops.
Probably less.
The only person in this house who still has a shred of conscience is the young kitchen maid who brings my meals.
She’s risking her life to smuggle this letter out.
If she succeeds, it means she got past the guards and the mail checks.
If she fails...
You’ll never know I tried.
I’m scared.
Not of dying.
I’ve been ready for that since the day I left the Agency.
I’m terrified of losing this child.
If life ever gives you power again — if you ever find yourself with allies, money, weapons, anything — come for me.
Fast.
Before it’s too late.
If you arrive even one day after forty-eight hours from when this letter leaves my hands, I’ll already be gone.
Frozen solid.
With my baby still inside me.
I love you more than I ever knew how to say when we were girls.
I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.
Please save us.
Your big sister, always,
Elena Senior
— Your sister, forever