Chapter 9
PENELOPE
Iwas speeding toward Dmitri’s mansion, heart hammering.
Eighty.
Ninety.
One hundred.
The speedometer climbed as the coastline twisted ahead, merciless and beautiful. One wrong turn and the lake would swallow me whole—but fear of death paled beside the agony burning in my chest.
The world streaked past in violent blurs: terracotta villas bleeding into green hillsides, iron balconies flashing by like knives, the water to my right a cruel ribbon of sapphire glinting in the sun.
Wind tore through the cracked window, tangling my hair, drying the tears I refused to let fall.
Mommy, I’m scared.
Vanya’s voice echoed in my head, fragile and broken, looping endlessly until it felt carved into my skull.
My grip tightened until my fingers ached, nails biting into the leather steering wheel. He was with strangers. He was hungry. Terrified. Wondering why I hadn’t come for him yet.
The thought drove me harder.
I swerved around a delivery truck, horns exploding behind me. A tourist bus loomed—I cut in front of it, tires screaming as I took the corner too fast. Someone shouted. Someone cursed.
I didn’t care.
Let the world burn if it had to.
Lake Como flashed by in fractured snapshots: cafés buzzing with laughter that felt obscene, couples strolling hand in hand, yachts rocking lazily in the harbor like nothing terrible had happened.
The Duomo’s ancient spires cut into the sky—witnesses to centuries of sin, betrayal, blood.
My breath came in sharp, ragged pulls. Sweat beaded at my temples. My heart slammed so violently I was sure it would crack my ribs open.
By the time Dmitri’s mansion came into view, I was no longer thinking.
I was pure momentum.
I tore into the courtyard and slammed the brakes.
The Aston Martin skidded, stopping inches from the fountain. Water sloshed violently over marble edges. I killed the engine, flung the door open, and stepped out like a woman walking into war.
The air felt thinner here. Charged.
My heels struck the marble foyer in sharp, furious snaps as I stormed inside, past startled guards who straightened too late, past priceless art and polished stone that meant nothing to me now.
“Where is he?” I shouted, my voice ricocheting through the cavernous space. “Where the hell is Dmitri Volkov?”
A guard hesitated.
That was his mistake.
I didn’t slow. I didn’t stop. I moved like a blade through the halls, pulse roaring in my ears. Chandeliers glittered overhead. The waterfall wall murmured mockingly.
I was done being patient.
Done being someone else’s bargaining chip.
They had taken my son.
And Dmitri Volkov was about to learn exactly what that meant.
The living room felt like a bunker masquerading as luxury.
Firelight clawed up the stone hearth, casting restless shadows over black leather couches and glass tables polished to a cold shine.
An ashtray on the table overflowed with cigarette stubs, crushed and burned down to nothing, like Dmitri’s patience.
He sat at the center of it all, carved from shadow and firelight, a cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers.
Giovanni stood beside him, murmuring in a low voice, shoulders tense, jaw set like a man delivering bad news he’d already delivered ten times before.
Giovanni saw me first.
His eyes widened, just a flicker, before he leaned down and murmured something into Dmitri’s ear. Dmitri didn’t look at me—just nodded once, curt and final.
Giovanni hesitated, glanced at me with something like apology, then disappeared through a side door, leaving the room to swallow us whole.
I crossed the space in long, furious strides and dropped into the armchair opposite Dmitri, the leather creaking under my weight. Smoke curled lazily between us, stinging my eyes. I didn’t blink.
“How do you plan on getting my child back?” I demanded.
No greeting. No restraint.
Dmitri took a slow drag, eyes on the fire instead of me, then exhaled toward the ceiling like he was bleeding tension with the smoke.
“We’ve communicated with the Orlovs,” he said evenly. Too evenly. “They offered terms.”
My fingers curled into fists. “Let me guess. Extortion dressed as diplomacy.”
His gaze finally met mine—flat, lethal. “Two options.”
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.
“First: I take Seraphina as my mistress immediately. Publicly. The boy is returned within the hour. At the end of our three months, I divorce you and marry her.”
The words landed like stones.
“And the second?” I asked, though my chest already burned.
“I send you and Vanya back to Greece. Immediately. Quietly.” His mouth twisted. “You live comfortably. Protected. After the divorce, I marry her.”
“And neither works,” I snapped. “Why?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Because I can’t let you go, Pen.”
The words stole the air from my lungs.
I surged to my feet, pacing the room like a caged animal. “This is not about me,” I said, barely holding it together. “This is about my son. I don’t care about your vendettas, your councils, your blood feuds. I want my child back.”
“I know,” he said quietly.
I laughed—sharp, broken. “Do you? Because it feels like you’re choosing pride over a five-year-old.”
His jaw flexed. He crushed the cigarette into the ashtray with brutal force, the glass clinking sharply.
“I could wipe out the Orlovs in seventy-two hours,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “I’ve done worse for less.”
“Then do it,” I shot back. “Burn them to the ground and bring my son home.”
He stood abruptly, towering now, the firelight cutting him into angles of fury and restraint.
“No,” he said.
The word hit harder than a slap.
“War is chaos,” he continued. “And chaos kills children first. Vanya would become a shield. A bargaining chip. A body.” His eyes locked on mine, burning. “I will not risk him.”
My breath fractured. “Then what do you expect me to do?” I cried, tears finally burning free. “Sit here while my son is held hostage? While God knows if he’s been fed or if he’s crying himself to sleep?”
“Pen—”
“No.” I spun on him. “Take her. Let Seraphina move in. Let her warm your bed, poison your house—I don’t care. Just get Vanya back.”
The room went dead silent.
Dmitri stared at me like I’d offered him a loaded gun.
Slowly, deliberately, he crossed the space between us.
He stopped inches away.
“You have no idea what you’re asking,” he said, voice stripped bare. “Once I let her in, I may never get her out.”
I lifted my chin, tears streaking freely now, unashamed. “Then you’ll have your serpent. And I’ll have my son.”
His eyes searched my face—rage, guilt, something darker twisting beneath it all.
“Say it again,” he demanded quietly.
“I don’t care who you fuck,” I said, my voice shaking but steady. “I care about my child. Get him back. However you have to.”
The fire cracked loudly behind us.
Dmitri’s face hardened, the firelight carving him into something brutal and immovable.
“I won’t let that woman under my roof,” he said flatly. “She’s poison. A burden to you and to Vanya. A listening device wrapped in silk.” His eyes cut to mine. “She’ll report every breath you take back to her family. She’ll contaminate this house.”
I stopped pacing.
My hands were shaking now—no longer from anger, but from something rawer. Fear. Need.
“I can’t spare one night without Vanga. Not one.” I said hoarsely.
The words landed heavier than shouting ever could.
Dmitri studied me in silence, his gaze sharp, calculating, like he was weighing lives on a scale only he could see. The room seemed to hold its breath. Even the fire crackled lower, as if listening.
Finally, he exhaled through his nose.
“Fine.”
The word was quiet. Final.
“I’ll grant the Orlovs’ request.”
Relief slammed into me so hard my knees nearly buckled. I sucked in a breath, dizzy with it—relief so sharp it hurt. But it didn’t come alone. Fear followed close behind, coiling tight in my stomach.
Seraphina in this house meant danger.
To my secrets.
To Vanya.
To the fragile lie holding my life together.
But none of that mattered.
I was getting my son back.
Dmitri straightened, already turning away. “I hope we don’t both regret this,” he said grimly. “She’ll be here in twenty minutes.”
He paused.
“With Vanya.”
My chest seized.
“And her room?” he continued. “Right next to ours.”
“Ours?” I echoed, the word sour on my tongue.
He looked at me like it should’ve been obvious. “We’re married. We share the master suite. Vanya gets the room to the left. Seraphina to the right.”
Like we were placing bombs in adjacent rooms.
I didn’t respond. I just watched him walk away, his shoulders tense, posture rigid—every step screaming restraint. He wasn’t happy. Not even close.
Truthfully?
Neither was I.
Seraphina’s presence was a ticking clock. A reminder of the woman haunting my marriage, my past, my future. But consequences could wait.
Vanya couldn’t.
I paced the living room again, the fire’s crackle mocking my nerves. Twenty minutes stretched into something unbearable. I imagined Seraphina’s smile, her calculating eyes, her questions. I imagined her watching me. Testing me.
But I’d endure it.
For my son, I’d endure hell.
I perched on the edge of the armchair, staring at the digital clock as if it were the only thread tethering me to reality.
Twenty minutes. Dmitri had said Vanya would be here in twenty minutes. Each second that ticked by was a fresh stab in the chest, twisting deeper than the last.
My heart felt impossibly heavy—like it carried not just the weight of my own fear, but the remnants of every scar Dmitri had ever left on me. And yet, insane as it was, I could not stop loving him.
Insane.
The pain he’d caused me wasn’t abstract; it was vivid, etched into my very bones. I remembered the altar, the day he forced my hand into his, the iron grip of his fingers, his storm-grey eyes cutting into mine like frozen steel, the ring sliding onto my finger like a brand I couldn’t remove.
I remembered the nights he compared me to Seraphina, his words sharper than knives: “She’s graceful. You’re... heavy.”
I remembered the months of abandonment, alone in that echoing mansion, terrified and pregnant, my body and mind left to survive his whims while he vanished without a word.
I remembered the order to terminate my pregnancy, delivered with the same casual precision he used to command an army or order coffee—like my life and the life growing inside me were nothing more than chess pieces on his board.
I remembered the dark room, two suffocating days of blackness because I dared protect the one thing he wanted to control, to erase.
I remembered the exile, sent away so that path could be cleared for Seraphina, leaving me and my son like pawns in a cruel game.
Unspeakable things. Things that should have extinguished any love I’d harbored for him.
And yet.
Here I was, heart racing at the memory of his touch, body still humming with the echo of his presence. The way he’d pinned me, the way his eyes had burned into mine—like I was both salvation and damnation, a threat and a sanctuary.
I hated myself for still wanting him.
I pressed my palms to my eyes, trying to squeeze out the tears before they fell.
No. Not yet. I had to survive without him.
Three months. Three months of this gilded prison, of playing his game, of keeping my secret locked tight.
And then—then I would leave, Vanya in my arms, to Greece, away from everything, away from him, away from the ghosts of the past.
I would open my heart again. Maybe there was a man out there who would love me without conditions. Someone who would look at my curves and see beauty instead of flaw, who would tuck Vanya in at night and read bedtime stories without an empire hanging over his head.
A good man. A safe man.
The thought felt both betrayal and relief, like tasting sunlight after years of darkness.
I stood, paced the room, counting my steps, eyes locked on the clock.
Ten minutes left. Eight. Nine. Each tick a hammer driving through my chest.
I imagined Vanya in the cold Orlov mansion, small and frightened, curled up in a strange bed. Was he crying?
Was he hungry? Had they fed him, or was he too scared to eat?
Was he thinking of me the way I thought of him?
The questions clawed at me like sharp talons. Each one was a reminder that time was slipping, that I had no control, that my son’s safety rested in the hands of enemies—and in the fragile, reluctant mercy of a man who had the power to destroy us both.
I sank into the chair, fingers digging into the edge until my knuckles burned white, every muscle wound tight as a spring.
The fire from the fireplace flickered across the room, mocking me with shadows that danced like specters of my past. I closed my eyes, trying to steady my ragged breathing.
I paced to the window, heart hammering, searching for Seraphina with Vanya—wondering if Dmitri’s words were true. The view was empty. My chest sank, and I pressed my forehead against the cold glass.
The lake below lay black and endless beneath the moon, stars fractured across its surface like promises I’d never be able to reclaim.
Five minutes.
Four.
I wrapped my arms around myself, rocking slightly, as if motion could steady the storm inside me. My chest ached with anticipation, my mind spinning with images of Vanya alone, frightened, counting the seconds.
Three.
Two.
The door opened without a knock.