Chapter 4 #4
“It isn’t cruelty,” he said softly. “It’s protection. It’s claiming what’s mine. You... and her.”
His eyes locked onto mine, icy and unshakeable.
“Whether you like me today or not, Vanya... this family will exist. And you will understand, one day, that I don’t abandon what’s mine.”
My blood turned to ice.
Vanya’s tiny fist curled so tight I could see the strain in his knuckles, his nails digging into his palms—not out of rage, but out of sheer, trembling fear. Far too much fear for a five-year-old.
He turned to me then, his voice barely a breath, meant only for my ears.
“Mom...” He swallowed, his eyes huge and shining. “He can’t just... make us his, right?”
I shook my head, throat tight, hating that my son was already recoiling from his own father on their second meeting.
Guilt gnawed at me, and I stepped forward before the conversation could ignite further tension, before Vanya’s fear and Dmitri’s intensity collided into something irreversible. This is my war, not his.
“Maybe leave us for now, Mr. Volkov,” I said, my voice flat, controlled—a calm so sharp it cut deeper than any shout. “Congratulations. You’ve successfully made my son dislike you. Well done.”
Dmitri’s eyes snapped to mine. For the briefest heartbeat, I thought I saw something flicker behind them—a trace of regret, as if he’d only now realized the consequences of his presence, the danger in his obsession.
“We need to talk, Miss Pen,” he said, his voice low, deliberate. “But I’ll leave you to... get used to the new house atmosphere.” With that, he finally turned and walked out, his departure as silent and controlled as his arrival.
“Mom...” Vanya’s whisper trembled, fragile and raw, voice cracking. “I... I don’t like him. How... how can he be my dad?”
“Vanya,” I hissed, barely a breath, my eyes darting to the door Dmitri had only just disappeared through. His presence still clung to the air like smoke. “You can’t say things like that. Not here. Not where he can hear.”
His brows pinched, confusion and fear squeezing together, but I pressed on, voice low and urgent.
“If he ever finds out you’re his biological son,” I whispered, “we won’t just be stuck here—we’ll never get out. He’ll keep you and send me away. Do you understand? He will separate us.”
Vanya’s little mouth snapped shut at once.
His chin lifted—small, defiant, unbroken—the kind of stubbornness that didn’t come from me or from Dmitri. Something entirely, fiercely his own.
He whispered back, barely audible, “Then I won’t ever let him find out.”
And God, that promise from a five-year-old cleaved my heart in two.
I hadn’t even drawn a full breath before a knock came—soft but insistent—followed by the door easing open as if it belonged to them, not me. Giovanni’s head appeared first.
Of course.
Of course they wouldn’t even let us breathe.
He stepped inside fully, hands folded neatly in front of him.
“Vanya. Miss Pen. I officially welcome you to our abode,” he said with a crisp politeness that felt like a bowstring pulled tight.
“But this is not the room Mr. Volkov assigned for you. Please follow me to your designated quarters. I apologize for the inconvenience. I’ll carry your luggage and do anything necessary to reduce your stress, as I understand it has been. .. a long day for you both.”
A laugh nearly tore out of me—bitter, hysterical—but all that came was a tired exhale.
I sank back into the chair, exhaustion crashing over me like a wave.
Coming to Lake Como.
Listening to Ruslan.
God, what was I thinking?
Giovanni lifted the suitcases effortlessly, then gestured for Vanya. “Let’s leave,” he said gently.
Vanya glanced up at me. The small, pitying look in his eyes—five-year-old pity—shamed me more deeply than Dmitri ever could.
So I forced myself up, muscles trembling, and took his hand without a word.
We followed Giovanni through endless hallways until he stopped before a pair of double doors—tall, midnight-dark, hewn from a wood so flawless it looked grown, not crafted.
Giovanni turned toward us. A silver key dangled from his fingers, delicate and unthreatening in a way this place absolutely was not.
“Two rooms,” he said quietly. “Connected by a curtain. One for you. One for the boy. As Mr. Volkov assigned.”
He extended the key with a reverence that made my skin crawl—like he wasn’t giving me access to a room, but to a gilded cage I wasn’t meant to escape.
I stepped inside and locked it behind us with hands that wouldn’t stop trembling.
The suite was... obscene.
Vanya’s half was a child’s fever dream.
A racing-car-shaped bed, glossy and bright.
Shelves overflowing with limited-edition toys, each one probably worth more than a month’s salary.
A glowing aquarium stretching across the wall, neon fish darting through electric-blue water.
On the desk sat a brand-new iPad and MacBook—sleek, untouched, waiting like offerings.
My side was a different world entirely.
Cool greys and soft whites.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Lake Como, the water glittering like a sheet of hammered silver.
A bed so massive it felt like an island.
A heavy midnight-blue curtain hung between our spaces—thin enough to see the outline of light through it, thick enough to pretend at separation.
In Greece, Vanya had always slept pressed against me, one leg thrown over mine, his small foot wedged between my calves. He used to tuck his head beneath my chin and sigh in his sleep.
The idea of him sleeping alone—even with only a curtain between us—sent a dull ache through my chest.
But he was already gone.
He dropped my hand and ran toward the room, all wonder and light again.
“Mom!” he squealed, spinning in circles. “Look! A real Batmobile bed! And the fish! And—”
He skidded to a stop at the desk, staring in reverent disbelief.
“An iPad. And a MacBook.”
He turned to me, eyes huge. “Mom, please—please—don’t take them away this time, right?”
My heart squeezed.
I wanted to say no. Wanted to keep the world gentle and simple and safe for him a little longer.
But this wasn’t Greece. This was a gilded prison.
And joy, here, was a rare and necessary currency.
“Moderation,” I said softly, brushing his curls back. “Promise me.”
He nodded so hard his curls bounced, then threw himself into the chair and powered up the laptop with the confidence of a child born knowing how technology worked.
The toys he had shrieked over lay forgotten.
Circuits and code—those were his real playgrounds.
I watched him for a moment, a knot tightening behind my ribs.
And for the first time since stepping foot in this house, I allowed myself to breathe.
The silence here felt different. Heavy. Intentional. Like the walls were waiting for me to unravel.
After resting for a while, I pushed myself off the mattress and slipped into the bathroom.
It wasn’t a bathroom—it was a cathedral.
Black marble stretched floor to ceiling, veined like lightning trapped in stone. Brushed gold fixtures gleamed under warm sconces, each one casting a soft molten halo that made the room feel sacred, surreal, too beautiful for the prison it sat inside.
I locked the door.
The click echoed like a fragile promise of solitude.
Then I stripped—slow, mechanical, every movement heavy from the day—and stepped beneath the rainfall shower.
The first hit of hot water made my breath hitch.
Then the rest came like a landslide.
Heat poured over my shoulders, down my spine, across skin that felt too thin to contain everything pulsing beneath it. It washed away the grit of travel, the tension locked in my muscles, the ghost-memory of Dmitri’s fingers grazing mine—electricity and ruin in a single brush.
I braced my palms against the slick marble, head bowed.
The water thundered around me, drowning the tight, broken sounds I didn’t want to hear coming from my own throat.
Minutes passed. Or hours. I didn’t know. All I knew was the water was mercilessly hot, and the fog had swallowed the mirrors whole, and in the heavy mist I could almost pretend the tears streaking down my cheeks weren’t real.
That was a lie, of course.
But I was tired enough to take whatever lie let me breathe.
Eventually I shut the water off.
Wrapped myself in one of the impossibly soft robes. Pulled on grey lounge pants and an oversized shirt that smelled faintly of cedar.
Cedar and him.
Of course it did.
The room felt colder when I walked back into it.
My stomach growled, but the thought of calling 111 and asking Giovanni for food twisted something ugly inside me. I didn’t want to owe this house anything. I didn’t want to owe him anything.
I curled into the centre of the bed, drawing my knees tight to my chest. The mattress dipped slightly beneath my weight, almost too soft, too luxurious—another reminder I was living in a cage wrapped in silk.
Above me, the molding was pristine white, elegant... and absolutely hiding cameras.
Of course they were watching.
They always watched.
I stared at the ceiling and hated myself for the relief blooming unforgivably in my chest that Seraphina was in a coma.
That the wedding had collapsed.
That the universe—fate, cruelty, whatever—had shoved Dmitri back into my orbit.
I hated that it still mattered. That he still mattered.
What kind of fool dreams of being a man’s wife again after he’s spent years pretending she never existed?
What kind of woman imagines his ring back on her finger?
A weak one.
A stupid one.
A human one.
The house phone rang, slicing through the silence like a blade.
I let it ring once. Twice. Thrice. Four times.
Then grabbed it like I intended to crush it.
“Miss Pen,” Giovanni drawled, warm and amused, “you or the little warrior hungry yet? I make a carbonara so good you’ll forgive all my sins. Or pancakes stacked high with Nutella mountains. Vanya’s choice.”
I closed my eyes. My headache pulsed behind them.
“When we want food,” I said, voice flat, “we’ll call. Stop pretending you have a conscience, Giovanni. It doesn’t suit you.”
He laughed softly, something like affection—or pity—in the sound.
I hung up before he could push further.
Dropped the phone onto the nightstand like it burned.
Then I curled back into the bed, exhaustion dragging me down by the ankles.
Somewhere between waking and sleeping, Vanya’s voice drifted through the curtain. Small. Soft. Wonder-filled.
“Mom?”
I opened my eyes. “I’m here, baby.”
There was a rustle. The faint shuffle of feet.
“I think...” he said quietly, “I think the fish like me.”
Despite everything—despite the day, the chaos, the hurricane that was Dmitri—I smiled.
“Sleep, Vanya.”
The curtain whispered open. Marble clicked beneath his little feet. The mattress dipped under his weight as he climbed in beside me without a word.
He burrowed under the covers and pressed his cold feet between my calves, just like he’d done since he was two. His curls smelled like lake water and shampoo. His breath puffed warm against my chest.
I wrapped my arm around him, pulling him close, grounding myself in the one thing in this entire poisoned world that was wholly mine.