Chapter 10
DMITRI VOLKOV
Iwatched from the shadowed landing of the staircase, half-hidden behind the carved balustrade, like a man spying on a life that should have been mine.
Pen sat on the edge of the velvet chaise in the center of the foyer, one long leg crossed over the other, her heel tapping an erratic rhythm against the marble floor. Tap. Pause. Tap-tap. The sound echoed through the vast space like a countdown clock wired to my nerves.
She didn’t look up. She didn’t need to. Her entire body was tuned to absence—listening, waiting, bracing.
The movement of her foot made the hem of her dress ride up her calf, revealing muscle where softness used to be. She was stronger. Sharper. A woman forged by survival, not sheltered by love. Every restless shift of her weight was a scream she refused to voice.
She was the only woman who had ever kept me sane.
And the only one who could still unmake me.
I hated her.
I told myself I hated her with every breath I dragged into my lungs.
Hated the way she wore Penelope’s face but with new edges—cheekbones honed by hardship, eyes stripped of innocence, a mouth that had learned how to lie without flinching. Hated that her body was fuller now, curved in ways that made my blood heat and my hands ache with remembered hunger.
Hated that she hid things from me with the precision of someone trained to survive monsters.
Hated that I wanted her anyway.
Wanted her with a violence that made even me uneasy.
Five years.
Five years since I buried Penelope.
Five years since I’d held her in my arms while her blood soaked into my clothes, her breath shallow, her fingers clutching my jacket like she could anchor herself to life through me. Five years since she’d whispered my name the way she always had—soft, intimate, devastating.
Mitya...
That sound haunted my sleep.
Five years of guilt that gnawed at me like a disease.
I had let vengeance rot my judgment. I had punished her for crimes she never committed. I had shamed her, abandoned her, ordered the death of the child she carried with a voice so calm it still made me sick to remember.
I had failed her in every way a man can fail the woman he loves.
And now fate had delivered me this woman—same fire, same defiance, same chin tilted in challenge. The same infuriating ability to look at me like I was both shelter and executioner.
The Orlovs had crossed a line tonight.
They’d ambushed Giovanni on the return route.
Shot him through the shoulder like an animal.
Taken the boy.
An act of war.
One they would repay in blood, bone, and screams that would echo for generations.
I had been too quiet these past five years.
After burying Penelope, I’d withdrawn. Let my capos run the empire while I rotted in smoke and silence. I’d taken up cigarettes again—the ones I’d quit cold the day Penelope’s asthma attack landed her in my arms, gasping, terrified. I used to crush them without lighting them if she was in the room.
Now I smoked like oxygen depended on it.
Women disgusted me.
Not just Seraphina—all women.
The thought of another body in my bed, another scent on my sheets, turned my stomach. No one had lasted a full night. No one had been allowed close enough to try.
Until now.
Until Pen sat downstairs, waiting for her son, wrapped in nerves and rage and restrained terror.
Fifteen minutes had passed since the call.
Five more, and Vanya would be delivered.
Along with the viper.
Pen moved again, dragging a hand through her hair, frustration rippling through her posture. She worried her lower lip. Her fingers drummed on her thigh, fast, furious, like she was barely holding herself together.
She was perfection in motion.
Full breasts straining slightly against the dress.
Rounded hips that fit perfectly into my hands.
Thighs strong enough to wrap around me, to anchor me, to ground me.
She was a ghost made flesh.
And I was starving.
Tonight, she would sleep in my bed.
The first woman to do so in five years.
The thought alone sent a brutal thud through my chest, pulse roaring in my ears.
Not because I wanted sex.
Because I wanted possession.
Because I wanted proximity.
Because having her under my roof, in my bed, breathing the same air—it felt like fate circling back to finish a story that had been torn apart too soon.
Penelope shifted again, finally lifting her head, eyes scanning the foyer as if she could will the doors open by force.
Soon.
I straightened in the shadows, extinguishing my cigarette against the banister, crushing it with unnecessary force.
The past was walking toward me.
And this time—
I would not let it slip through my fingers again.
The front doors swung open with a deliberate echo.
Seraphina stepped in first, petite, flawless, and poisonous, dragging Vanya’s hand with her as if she had any right to claim him. Every movement screamed entitlement, every breath she drew was a warning.
Everything about her repelled me.
Her nails—long, sharp, blood-red talons—looked like weapons, ready to carve her dominance into anyone who dared cross her.
Her makeup was aggressive: sculpted cheekbones so sharp they could cut glass, false lashes that made her eyes insect-like, lips painted nude with a message: Look at me, but pretend it’s natural.
And then there was the way she moved—hips swaying with calculated seduction, every step measured, every glance deliberate, her body speaking before her mouth ever dared.
The smug curl of her mouth—like she’d already won something she had no right to take.
She scanned the foyer as if cataloguing the wealth, the power, the territory.
Vanya looked tiny beside her, his curls tousled, eyes wide and searching.
And then he spotted her.
“Mom!” His voice cracked, raw and fierce.
He ripped his hand free and ran before she could react.
She dropped to her knees instinctively, arms wide, catching him as he collided with her. The impact nearly sent her tumbling, but she held tight, cradling him like she could press him back into her body, absorbing every bit of his fear.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice breaking. “No one will ever take you from me again. I promise, baby. I promise.”
He burrowed into her shoulder, muffling a whisper she barely caught. She froze, startled.
She loosened her grip slightly, eyes wide as she glanced toward Seraphina.
Seraphina approached, heels clicking against the marble like gunshots. Each step was deliberate.
“Pen,” she said sweetly, almost saccharine, “since we’ll be living together, I think it’s only fair we become acquainted.”
Pen rose slowly, keeping Vanya between them like a living shield. Her hands rested lightly on his shoulders, a silent warning.
“We’ll be under the same roof for three months,” she said, her voice flat, ice threading through every word. “But I have no interest in being your friend. Stay away from us—especially my son.”
Seraphina’s smile didn’t falter. “Vanya and I got along just fine, didn’t we?” She bent slightly, looking down at him with an insincere warmth that made my skin crawl.
Vanya peeked out, whispering softly. “She gave me ice cream,” he said, his voice timid, uncertain.
My chest tightened.
Pen bent slightly, meeting his gaze. “You’ve known her less than a day, baby. We don’t trust strangers, and we never will. Understand?”
Vanya nodded slightly, leaning into her.
Seraphina lifted her gaze, turning her attention slowly to the staircase. Her eyes found mine.
There was something in them—pity, hidden desperation, as if she thought she could save me from my own grief.
I let her see nothing.
“Giovanni will show you to your room,” I said from the shadows, voice controlled, flat, ice over steel.
For a fraction of a second, her smile faltered.
Then, with effortless composure, she recovered. “Next to yours, as agreed?”
“As agreed,” I replied, voice final.
She didn’t push further. She didn’t need to. The game had begun. And I had no intention of letting her win.
Giovanni appeared first, his gait stiff from the bandages wrapped around his shoulder and temple, evidence of the ambush that had nearly cost him his life.
Giovanni’s eyes flicked to her briefly—a silent warning—before he gestured for Seraphina to follow.
She moved like a doll on strings, delicate, deliberate, but I could see the tension coiling beneath her porcelain exterior.
Giovanni led Seraphina away, each step measured, leaving the foyer heavy with quiet.
Pen knelt again, pulling Vanya close, burying her face in his curls.
His small hands fisted in her sweater, gripping her like a lifeline. “Mommy...” he whispered, voice trembling from tears and fear, still raw from the night’s chaos.
She kissed the top of his head. “I’ve got you, baby. I promise. No one will ever take you again.”
My heart hammered—relief tangled with fury—as I watched Penelope reunite with her son. The bond between them was unmistakable, raw and fierce, and it dredged up everything I had failed to be.
I had failed as a father.
Penelope had borne me a son, only for him to be stolen at birth by her father. And despite all my influence, all my power, five years had passed and I had done nothing—could not save my child, could not even kill the men who took her from me.
What kind of man does that make me?
A failure.
Slowly, I descended the grand staircase, each step deliberate, controlled. My eyes didn’t leave them—Pen kneeling, Vanya clinging to her, fragile yet unbroken. I could see the remnants of her tears streaking her cheeks, but there was fire there too, a defiance that refused to bow.
When I reached the bottom, Pen lifted her gaze, meeting mine. Her eyes were wet, but unyielding. There was a storm in her expression, tempered only by the tenderness she held for her son.
Vanya peeked out from behind her, those wide, trusting eyes searching for safety. I crouched to his level, lowering my voice to a calm, steady tone. “You’re safe now,” I said, every word iron-wrapped. “No one takes you again. Not tonight. Not ever.”