Chapter 8 #3
He burst from the mansion doors, running down the grand stone steps, curls bouncing wildly, cheeks wet with tears. His little arms stretched toward me, fingers grasping the air, panic written across his face.
Behind him—
Viktor Orlov, the Orlov Patriarch.
Old. Broad. Unyielding. His iron grip closed around Vanya’s arm, halting him mid-step, dragging him backward toward the doors like a possession instead of a child.
Something inside me broke completely.
I ran.
I didn’t think. I didn’t breathe.
Five steps—maybe six—before the guards surged forward in a wall of muscle and brutality. Hands seized me everywhere—arms, waist, shoulders—pinning me in place with terrifying efficiency.
“No!” I screamed, thrashing wildly. “Vanya! Mommy’s here!”
I kicked, twisted, clawed, nails raking skin, heels scraping against the gravel as raw panic tore through me. My body moved on instinct alone, feral and desperate, every cell screaming the same truth:
That is my child.
“Let me go!” I sobbed, voice breaking apart. “Let me go, you monsters! He’s scared—he’s just a baby!”
Vanya cried out again, reaching for me as Viktor hauled him back, his small body shaking with sobs.
“Mommy!”
The sound ripped straight through my chest.
Seraphina watched it all with cool fascination, arms folding neatly across her chest.
“Careful,” she said lightly, like she was commenting on the weather. “You’ll upset him even more.”
I fought harder, lungs burning, vision swimming with tears and rage. “I swear to God,” I screamed, voice raw and shaking, “if you hurt him—if you touch him—I will burn this entire family to the ground.”
My son fought too.
Small fists pummeled Viktor’s thigh in useless, desperate blows, his little body straining with everything he had. “Mommy!” he screamed, voice cracking into sobs. “Let me go to my mommy!”
The sound gutted me.
Viktor didn’t slow. He didn’t even look down. One iron hand clamped around Vanya’s arm as he dragged him toward the mansion doors, his grip impersonal, practiced—like a man who’d moved human cargo before.
“No—no, stop!” I screamed, my voice tearing apart. “That’s my baby!”
Vanya twisted, reaching for me, fingers grasping air. “Mommy! Please!”
Then the doors swallowed him.
The heavy stone and iron shut with a final, echoing boom that reverberated through the courtyard like a gunshot.
Seraphina stepped directly into my line of sight.
Perfectly timed.
She was tall—taller still in heels—and she positioned herself with deliberate precision, blocking the doors completely. Every time I tried to crane my neck, shift sideways, catch even a glimpse of him—she mirrored me effortlessly, an elegant wall of silk and cruelty.
“Vanya!” I screamed past her shoulder, my throat raw. “Mommy will get you, okay? You won’t sleep there tonight, baby—I promise!”
For a heartbeat, I heard him.
Muffled now. Distant.
“Mommy, I’m scared.”
The words ripped straight through me.
My vision blurred, tears burning hot behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall—not here, not in front of her, not in front of men who fed on weakness.
Seraphina smiled.
Slow. Cold. Triumphant.
“If you want your child back,” she said softly, like she was offering tea, “I only ask for one thing...”
“Stop throwing yourself at a man who doesn’t want you,” I snapped, voice shaking with fury. The words tasted like acid. “You’re pathetic.”
Her smile sharpened.
“Will you let me finish,” she said mildly, “before embarrassing yourself further?”
She tilted her head, studying me with clinical interest. “He married you in secret. Our sources confirmed that.” A pause—then the blade slid in deeper. “The marriage is temporary. Three months.”
My breath caught.
“Our spy,” she continued lightly, “says it’s a contractual arrangement. I’m not entirely convinced you can survive three months without your precious boy.”
The word spy rang in my skull like a warning bell.
Of course there was one.
She stepped aside just enough—just enough—to let me see the last sliver of Viktor’s broad back disappearing down the corridor, my son dragged beside him.
“Vanya!” I screamed.
The sound tore out of me—raw, animal, unrecognizable.
My knees trembled as agony ripped through my chest, so sharp it felt physical, like something was being torn loose inside me. My hands shook violently, my entire body vibrating with the need to run, to tear down walls, to kill if necessary.
I surged.
Adrenaline exploded through my veins. I wrenched myself sideways, nails raking flesh, elbow driving hard into a guard’s gut. He staggered back with a grunt of surprise.
Another grabbed for me—I twisted, feral and wild, fueled by nothing but terror and rage.
Seraphina watched it all with open amusement.
“So,” she said calmly, adjusting a diamond bracelet at her wrist, “here are my terms.”
I froze, chest heaving, eyes locked on her.
“You convince Dmitri to let me move into the villa,” she continued. “I want the room next to yours.” Her lips curved. “Close enough to hear everything.”
The audacity nearly stole my breath.
“Do that,” she finished, “and you get your son back.”
I laughed.
It tore out of me—broken, hysterical, soaked in tears I refused to shed.
“Tell Dmitri yourself,” I said hoarsely. “Let’s see how far you get.”
Her gaze flicked to mine, something sharp and dangerous flashing beneath the porcelain calm.
“Oh, I will,” she replied softly. “But it will sound much sweeter coming from his wife.”
She leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper meant only for me.
“And if you refuse...”
A pause. A smile.
“...children adapt. Especially when they have no choice.”
Something inside me went very, very still.
She mirrored my smirk.
Only hers held no cracks—no pain, no desperation. Just ice.
“When you’ve convinced him to let me stay under his roof,” Seraphina said smoothly, each word placed with surgical precision, “with a room directly next to yours—”
Her eyes dipped briefly, deliberately, as if already imagining it.
“—then you’ll have your son.”
She didn’t wait for my answer.
She turned away, hips swaying with calculated elegance, heels crunching softly against the gravel as she crossed toward the Bentley like a queen retreating from a conquered battlefield.
Antonio finally moved.
That alone sent a chill down my spine.
He opened the driver’s door and slid inside without a word.
And why was Antonio acting so close to Seraphina, right there with the Orlovs?
But just before the door shut, his gaze flicked to mine.
The cigarette paused halfway to his lips. Smoke curled lazily upward, forgotten. His dark eyes narrowed—not in recognition, not in certainty, but in suspicion. Like a man staring at a ghost he refused to believe in, even as his instincts screamed otherwise.
You know, I thought savagely. You know it’s me.
The Bentley rolled away.
Its tires whispered over the gravel, smooth and effortless, as if nothing monumental had just occurred—no child stolen, no mother shattered.
Dust settled slowly around me.
I stood there shaking, humiliation crawling over my skin like ants. Eight guards remained—eight armed men spaced deliberately around the courtyard, their stares ranging from amused to openly predatory.
I counted them automatically.
Training. Survival. Futility.
I couldn’t fight them.
Not here.
Not now.
Not without turning this into a bloodbath that would end with Vanya paying the price.
The realization cut deeper than any insult Seraphina had thrown.
So I leave without him.
The thought was a fresh blade driven straight through my abdomen, twisting slowly.
My legs carried me back to the Aston Martin on instinct alone. I slid into the driver’s seat and slammed the door, sealing myself inside the quiet cocoon of leather and glass.
My hands locked around the steering wheel.
And then I broke.
Tears spilled freely now—hot, silent, relentless—blurring the dashboard, streaking down my cheeks, soaking into my collarbone. My chest hitched as I tried—and failed—to breathe normally.
God.
This was not how I had imagined coming back to Lake Como.
Not like this.
Not married to a man who didn’t know the truth.
Not negotiating my son’s life with a sociopath in silk.
I shouldn’t have listened to Ruslan Baranov.
I should have stayed hidden. Stayed careful. Stayed in Greece where the sea was blue and Vanya slept safely beside me every night.
But the gates loomed in my rearview mirror now—tall, iron, impenetrable.
And my son was behind them.
I wiped my face with the back of my hand, straightened my spine, and started the engine. The growl of it grounded me, reminded me I wasn’t helpless. Not yet.
As I pulled away and the Orlov estate disappeared behind the curve of the road, one thought burned brighter than the rest—white-hot and unwavering.
I will get Vanya back.
Even if it meant playing Seraphina’s game.
Even if it meant walking straight into Dmitri’s arms—and detonating the truth I’d buried for five years.
Even if everything burned.
Because a mother could survive losing a man.
But she would burn the world down for her child.