Chapter 8 #2
I flew down the grand staircase, fingers grazing the carved balustrade, the sound of my heels ricocheting through the cavernous foyer.
The waterfall wall murmured softly, mockingly serene.
I burst through the front doors into the courtyard, cool evening air slapping my overheated skin.
One of Dmitri’s cars waited in the drive.
A sleek black Aston Martin.
Keys inside. Always.
Old habits die hard.
I slid into the driver’s seat, slammed the door shut, and turned the ignition. The engine roared to life, feral and impatient.
Gravel sprayed as I reversed out hard, tires screaming in protest.
I didn’t look back.
All I knew was this—
If Dmitri Volkov wouldn’t bring my son back to me, then I would tear the Orlovs apart myself trying.
In the rear-view mirror, I caught him.
High above, framed by one of the mansion’s vast windows, Dmitri stood motionless—dark suit, rigid posture, a solitary silhouette carved against the golden glow of the interior lights. He didn’t chase me. Didn’t shout. Didn’t try to stop me.
He simply watched.
The sight twisted something vicious in my chest.
“Bastard,” I whispered, the word breaking apart as tears blurred the road ahead. If only he knew. If he knew Vanya was his flesh and blood, his son, he wouldn’t be standing there like some grieving statue, letting me drive straight into hell alone.
I wiped my eyes with the heel of my hand and pressed harder on the accelerator.
Lake Como unspooled around me in cruel serenity—winding roads hugging the water, villas glowing softly in the dusk, balconies spilling warm light and laughter. It was obscene, how peaceful it all looked, while my world burned.
By the time the Orlov estate rose into view, my hands were shaking on the wheel.
Their mansion was nothing like Dmitri’s modern fortress.
This was old power. Old money. A traditional behemoth of ochre stone and wrought iron, ivy clawing up the walls like it was trying to reclaim the place, fountains murmuring in the courtyard with theatrical elegance.
Generations of blood and entitlement lived in those stones.
I pulled up to the gates and rolled down the window.
A guard approached immediately, rifle slung with casual arrogance, eyes sharp and assessing. He spoke rapidly in Italian, tone hostile, dismissive.
“English,” I said, my voice steady only through sheer force of will. “Please.”
His brows knit, then he switched, accent thick. “Identify yourself, ma’am.”
I inhaled.
“Pen,” I said. The name tasted like ash and iron in my mouth. “New wife to Dmitri Volkov.”
The effect was immediate.
Shock flickered across his face, followed by something darker—interest, calculation. He straightened, barked orders over his shoulder in Italian.
The guard leaned closer to my window, a sneer curling his lip. “You have the guts to come here?”
I cut the engine.
The silence that followed felt heavy, ceremonial.
I stepped out of the car and slammed the door hard enough to make the metal ring.
“Yes,” I said, my voice sharp, unflinching, cutting through the air like broken glass. “I have the fucking guts.”
I met his stare without blinking.
“Because you took my child,” I continued, every word vibrating with something feral and unbreakable. “Now you’re going to walk back inside that palace, tell the Orlovs I’m here, and tell them to release my son.”
I leaned closer to the iron bars, gripping them with white-knuckled hands.
“Now.”
The Orlov guards erupted in laughter, harsh and guttural, echoing off the stone walls like hyenas circling a wounded animal. Each chuckle was sharp, slicing through the heavy, sun-baked air, testing my resolve.
“Just like that?” one sneered, stepping closer, a thick Italian accent dripping with contempt. “You think you snap your fingers and we hand over the boy? Go home, turista. This is not Disneyland.”
I didn’t flinch. I stood beside the Aston Martin, fists clenched so tight my nails bit into my palms, the sting a grounding reminder that I was still alive, still fighting.
“I won’t leave without my son,” I said, voice steady, every syllable deliberate. I wasn’t negotiating. I wasn’t begging. I was warning.
The mocking laughter faltered.
A low growl of an approaching engine cut through the tension like a blade. Heads snapped toward the entrance as a sleek silver Bentley glided into view, its tinted windows reflecting the guards’ startled faces.
The lead guard’s smirk vanished. He barked, stepping closer, hand brushing the holster at his side. “Ma’am, remove your car from the premises immediately. And let me warn you—don’t come here again. It’s not safe for tourists like you.”
I planted my feet wider, chin high, veins burning. “I’m not leaving without Vanya.”
The Bentley stopped at the gates. The guards stiffened, the mockery gone, replaced by sharp-edged unease.
One guard lunged toward me, hand snapping for the keys in the ignition. “Give me those!”
I twisted instinctively, jerking back. “Don’t you dare touch me with your filthy hands!”
He grabbed my arm anyway, fingers biting into my flesh. Pain shot up my arm, and fury roared in my chest.
“Let go!” I screamed, wrenching myself free, hair whipping across my face.
A new voice cut through the chaos—smooth, sharp, lazy amusement woven into each word.
“What’s going on here?”
The guards froze, uncertainty rippling through their ranks.
My heart plummeted into my stomach.
Antonio.
My ex.
The man I had dated for three years—the man I had loved genuinely, foolishly believing he loved me the same. I hadn’t known that all along he’d harbored darker intentions: to take me to his father’s house in Rome, strip me of my freedom, and use me as a means to claim my father’s wealth and power.
He had hated me. Every smile, every promise, every touch had been a lie.
The betrayal had come on our wedding day, right there at the altar. Just moments before he was meant to slide a ring onto my finger and seal the marriage, he confessed everything—coldly, triumphantly—as if my devastation were a victory he’d been savoring for years.
Thank God Dmitri had come that day and stopped it. Without him, my life would have become something far worse than this.
Antonio watched me now with that same expression—a smirk permanently etched into his dark eyes.
He leaned against the Bentley’s door, cigarette lit, smoke curling like lazy threats around him. Calm. Collected. Deadly indifferent.
He flicked the ash from his cigarette and smiled, the kind of smile that made you want to shove a fist through his smug face. “Penelope... still dramatic as ever.”
Penelope?
Antonio still believes I’m Penelope?
Didn’t everyone in Lake Como think I was dead? Why did he seem so certain otherwise—so convinced—when the rest of the world had already buried me?
I gave him nothing. I smoothed my expression into something unreadable, locking everything behind my eyes so he couldn’t see through me.
The passenger door opened. My pulse froze.
Seraphina Orlov stepped out.
Heat surged through my veins.
She was even more devastating up close.
Seraphina Orlov looked like something sculpted rather than born—porcelain skin flawless beneath the sun, platinum hair spilling in perfect, deliberate waves down her back.
Her body was all slim elegance, wrapped in a pale pink silk blouse and tailored trousers that whispered money and power. Diamonds glittered at her throat and wrists, catching the light with every subtle movement, as if even the sun knew better than to ignore her.
Her eyes locked onto mine.
Doll-like. Pale. Empty.
Pretty in the way knives were pretty.
Her nails were long and lacquered blood-red, makeup heavy but precise—smoky eyes, sculpted cheekbones, nude lips curved into a knowing, satisfied smirk.
She took her time approaching, each step slow and calculated, heels clicking softly on the gravel. Predator’s rhythm. The kind that didn’t rush because it didn’t have to.
Her perfume reached me before she did—rose and vanilla, thick and cloying, feminine to the point of suffocation.
Antonio remained by the Bentley, watching me with lazy interest, dark eyes sharp and amused, as if he were observing a play whose ending he already knew.
That familiar chill crept down my spine.
Seraphina stopped inches from me.
Close enough that I could see the faint shimmer of cruelty behind her lashes.
“You stole my marriage from me, sweetheart,” she said, voice silk-wrapped venom. “So I stole your son.” Her lips curved wider. “Fair game, don’t you think?”
Something ugly and feral surged in my chest.
I stared at her, rage tunneling my vision. “You’re proud of kidnapping a five-year-old?” I said coldly. “How utterly barbaric.”
She laughed softly, as if I’d complimented her.
“Oh, please.” She stepped past me, circling slowly, heels tapping against the gravel like a countdown. “You say barbaric. I say strategic.” She paused behind me, close enough that I felt the warmth of her breath brush my neck. “What wouldn’t a mother do for her child?”
My fists clenched.
“Coming into Orlov territory alone?” she continued, voice dropping to a whisper meant only for me.
“That’s either bravery or insanity.” A beat.
Then, with surgical precision, she struck.
“Tell me... did you have plastic surgery to look like his dead wife? Because it’s painfully obvious why Dmitri married you so quickly—before I even had the chance to recover properly. ”
The words were meant to humiliate. To unmake me.
My gaze flicked to Antonio.
He exhaled smoke lazily, the corner of his mouth lifting into that same familiar smirk—the one he’d worn the day he betrayed me. Like he was in on a joke I didn’t understand yet.
My stomach sank.
What was his role in this? Why was he here—silent, watchful, smug? How much did he know?
I didn’t have time to think.
A small, terrified voice sliced through the courtyard.
“Mom!”
The world shattered.
“Vanya.”