Chapter 3 #2
I pressed my hands to my temples, trying to will down the adrenaline still hammering through my chest. “And now—you picked his pocket. How... how did you even do that? This was supposed to be a quiet visit. Not... not a catastrophe waiting to happen! Do you know what kind of trouble we could be in?”
Vanya’s eyes widened. His lower lip began to tremble, guilt flickering across his small face.
Then, almost imperceptibly, he climbed onto the bed, crawled into my lap, and wrapped his tiny arms around me, burying his face against my chest.
“I just wanted my dad to see me,” he whispered, his voice muffled but carrying every ounce of longing and innocence that made my heart splinter all over again.
I froze, one arm instinctively tightening around him, my other hand pressed to my lips as tears burned behind my eyes. The weight of it—his longing, his trust, his small, defiant love—nearly broke me.
“I know, baby,” I murmured, stroking the back of his curls, “I know. But we have to be smart. We have to do this... carefully.”
He sniffled, still clinging. And my heart broke for the second time that day.
“Mom... I’ve seen other kids in Greece,” his little voice trembled, full of longing and frustration, “their dads... they take them to the park, buy them toys, play with them, even come to pick them up at school. My friends’ dads.
.. they read them stories at bedtime... they teach them things. My dad... he never comes.”
The words, so small, so earnest, cut deeper than any cruel whisper or vicious rumor in that cathedral could ever have. My breath hitched.
I held him tighter than I should have, wishing I could fold the world around him so no one—least of all his father—could hurt him.
“My relationship with your father...” I murmured, voice thick with the weight of memories and unspoken pain, “is... complicated.”
I buried my face in his curls, inhaling the faint scent of baby shampoo and sunshine—the smell of innocence I would protect with every ounce of me.
“I know,” he whispered back, muffled against my chest. His little fists pressed against my ribs in earnest. “But mine... mine doesn’t have to be.”
God. That simple, pure sentence shattered something inside me. Something I realized I could never protect from love.
I pulled back, cupping his small, stubborn face in my hands. “If I introduce you, he won’t let us leave, baby. He’ll take you... and he’ll send me away. That’s the kind of man he is.”
Vanya’s eyes flared.
His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white. “Then we make him choose,” he said, voice trembling with determination. “Right here. Right now. Before we leave Lake Como.”
My heart lurched into my throat. “Vanya—”
But I didn’t get to finish.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
The knock slammed against the hotel door, rattling the frame like it was about to give way. Three hard, commanding raps.
I froze mid-breath, my blood hammering in my ears.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Another three. Sharp. Insistent. Impossible to ignore.
Vanya’s tiny hand shot for mine. I gripped it, squeezing once—steady, quiet. “Be brave.” I told him silently. Then I nudged him to the chair tucked into the corner, whispering, “Stay. Silent.”
My pulse throbbed in my temples as I crept to the door, fingers tightening on the chain lock.
“Who is it?” My voice sounded calmer than I felt, brittle like fine porcelain.
A beat of silence. My ears strained. The faint hum of the hotel corridor seemed to swell with threat.
Then—
“Open the door..”
My stomach turned over.
I knew that voice—the kind that could make men flinch, that had once made my own heart stop.
Giovanni. His voice. Low. Controlled.
I swallowed hard, forced my hands to steady on the chain, and pressed my back against the door.
“You’re the mother of the boy who ran to the boss at the altar,” Giovanni said, voice flat, like he was reading a statement, not speaking to a person.
I drew a sharp breath. “Correct. Thank you for having him manhandled. Are you here to apologize?”
No response. Just the faint click of a boot shifting, a shadow pressed against the frosted glass.
“My boss wants to see you. Right now. He’s waiting in the lounge downstairs.”
I laughed, bitter and low, the sound ricocheting against the peeling wallpaper. “Tell your boss I’m busy being a mother. Goodnight.”
Surprisingly, the knob twisted under his grip, as if he had a master key. The door creaked, and I lunged to slam it shut—but a heavy palm pressed against it, stopping me cold.
Giovanni leaned into the frame, fluid and precise, sliding the chain free in one practiced motion.
With a shove, the door swung wider, filling the threshold with six-foot-four menace.
His dark suit was perfect, every line tailored; a gun peeked from beneath the jacket, resting like a silent promise.
“You and your son are coming with me. Now.” His voice was low, gravelly, carrying the weight of a threat that didn’t need to be spelled out.
I froze, chest tightening as if it might crush me from the inside.
“I... I’m busy being a mother,” I said, voice even, though the tremor I fought to mask betrayed me.
Giovanni’s eyes flicked to Vanya, sharp and calculating, then back to me, cold and unwavering. “The boss isn’t asking.”
Why would Dmitri want to see me? Was it because of what Vanya had done—marching up that aisle like he owned the place—or had he somehow traced his stolen phone to us?
My mind raced, piecing together the puzzle while my heart thudded in warning.
Giovanni’s gaze swept the room again, slow, methodical, lingering on every detail—the peeling wallpaper, the faint chlorine smell, the way the light hit the scratches on the table—and then settled back on me, sharp and unblinking, as if trying to reconcile what he was seeing with what he knew.
Of course. Anyone would think I had risen from the dead.
His presence filled the doorway like a storm waiting to break.
Vanya launched off the bed like a tiny missile.
For one wild second I thought he would run to me—hide behind me, cling to my legs, play the part of a frightened five-year-old.
But no.
My son marched straight in front of me, planted his bare feet shoulder-width apart, raised his fists like a miniature Spartan warrior, and glared up at a six-foot-four Bratva enforcer.
“You can’t take my mom,” he said, voice trembling but loud. “You’re not allowed.”
The audacity stole my breath.
Giovanni’s gaze dropped to him—slow, assessing.
And for a heartbeat, something flickered across his face.
Recognition.
And beneath that... fear?
Because even a Bratva enforcer knew what it meant for a child to look exactly like his king.
I slid Dmitri’s phone into my pocket so smoothly it almost looked like part of the argument. Then I squared my shoulders, stepped around my son, and faced Giovanni head-on.
“Fine,” I said, voice cool enough to frost metal. “If your boss wants to see me, he can come up here. Tell Dmitri Volkov I don’t do lounge visits.”
Giovanni’s jaw flexed, the muscle jumping.
His eyes sharpened to a razor’s edge.
For a dangerous, suspended second. I thought he’d simply grab us both and haul us out by force.
He had the size. He had the authority. He even had the gun.
But he didn’t.
Instead, without breaking eye contact, he pulled out his phone.
One press of a single button—speed dial.
Then a rush of low, rapid Italian poured from his mouth, clipped and official.
After a moment he ended the call, slid the phone away, and fixed me with a stare cold enough to rearrange bone.
“I heard you flew in from Greece,” he said, voice low and unhurried. “So maybe you forgot who owns the air you’re breathing right now.”
He took one step closer.
“This is Dmitri Volkov’s territory. No one born under the sun defies him and keeps their smile.”
He lifted two fingers.
“You have two choices. One: you walk out this door with me quietly. Two: I walk away right now, and in sixty seconds this room is full of men who will take your son somewhere you will never—ever—find him.”
A pause.
A threat carved from ice.
“Choose.”
“You would do no such thing,” Vanya snarled, stepping even closer, small fists balled. “You touch my mom, and—and—God will punish you!”
Giovanni’s jaw clenched. “Clock’s ticking.”
Ice flooded my spine.
Because I knew Giovanni. Cruel to the world. Loyal to Dmitri Volkov.
And I knew he would actually take Vanya if pushed. His threats were never empty.
The idea of anyone taking my son—even for a second—felt like someone ripping the skin off my bones.
But what kind of enforcer weaponizes a child against his own mother just because she isn’t ready to face his arrogant boss?
I swallowed hard.
“Take me to him,” I said quietly.
A small gasp cut through the room—sharp, wounded. Vanya spun around, eyes glossing with hurt even as his jaw locked in fierce resolve.
“No!” he shouted. “I’m coming too. I won’t let them take my mom.”
My heart broke cleanly in two.
I dropped to one knee and cupped his beautiful, furious face in both my hands.
“Vanya... stay here.”
My voice wobbled. “As soon as I leave, lock the door. I’ll return in under twenty minutes. On your name, baby—I swear it.”
“I want to go with you,” he insisted, voice cracking. “You can’t leave me. You always say we’re a team.”
“I know, baby.” I pressed my forehead to his. “But your mom needs to fix something first.”
A war raged in his small chest, and then—defeat.
With a sharp inhale, he marched to the bed, threw himself face-down onto the covers, and turned his back on the room with all the wounded dignity of a betrayed prince.
His small shoulders trembled, rigid with heartbreak and fury.
It gutted me.
But I stood and stepped out.
Giovanni closed the door behind us with a quiet, unmistakable click.
The hallway smelled of lemon polish and old carpet. Our footsteps echoed in the silence—mine uneven, his steady and certain.
Halfway down the corridor, his voice slipped out, low and almost... careful.
“How old is the boy?”