Chapter 14
PENELOPE
The grand ballroom of Villa Balbiano glittered like a jewel box built for sinners.
Crystal chandeliers the size of small cars hung from a ceiling painted with frescoes of gods and conquests, scattering fractured light across marble floors veined in gold.
The room was vast—easily large enough to host three hundred of the world’s most dangerous people without ever feeling crowded.
Armed guards in tailored tuxedos were posted at every archway, their earpieces and the faint outline of holsters the only honest things in a room full of lies.
This was the fiftieth annual Lake Como gathering: a masquerade of civility, a showcase of wealth, and a delicate dance of power that kept four mafia families from tearing each other apart.
Tonight, the air carried the scent of orchids, Cuban cigars, and barely contained menace.
I perched at one of the round tables near the center, the midnight-blue silk gown Dmitri had chosen clinging to my skin, stopping just above my knee.
The slit was daring enough to make me aware of every predator in the room, every assessing glance, and yet I couldn’t let it show that I noticed.
From this vantage, I could see Dmitri across the hall, deep in conversation with a cluster of elders—men whose families had ruled these shores for generations.
His posture was relaxed, casual, almost disarming—but I knew better. Every tilt of his head, every faint smile, was measured, calculated, a weapon wrapped in charm.
And then I saw him.
Antonio. My ex.
The name burned in my chest like acid.
The man who had kidnapped me six years ago—the night I lost my child. The night I woke to find myself in his house in Rome, chains heavy around my body, my freedom already gone.
The same man who now planned to root himself permanently in Lake Como after marrying Elena—my former secretary, the timid girl who once took orders with a quiet smile and flawless discretion.
Seeing him here, champagne flute in hand, laughing at some whispered joke, made bile rise in my throat.
The seat beside me had remained empty for most of the evening, a silent invitation for the Ferraro heir.
When Ricci finally slid into it, as fluid and commanding as a predator entering his territory, my pulse thudded against my ribs.
Every instinct screamed to retreat—but retreat wasn’t an option. Not tonight. Not when Dmitri’s future, the fragile hold we had over these families, depended on me.
I needed an opening.
Deliberately, I let my hand brush the edge of my water glass. It wobbled, tipped, and clinked against the crystal plate beneath. A soft, intentional sound.
Before I could even reach for it, Ricci’s long fingers closed around the stem, lifting it upright with a precision that spoke of both power and grace.
His eyes met mine, sharp, calculating, a spark of recognition—and amusement—flickering there.
He placed the glass back in front of me with deliberate care, his dark eyes lingering far longer than politeness required. Not admiration—assessment.
“Dmitri Volkov’s wife,” he said at last, a statement carved in stone rather than a question.
I offered a faint, practiced smile, the kind I’d perfected in rooms like this—rooms where women were currency and men mistook silence for weakness. ““Yes. You must be the Ferraros’ first son.”
“Second son,” he corrected smoothly, leaning back in his chair as though settling into a familiar throne. “The first died last year.”
“Oh.” I let genuine surprise soften my expression, just enough to be believable. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
His lips curved, but his eyes stayed cold. “I killed him.”
The words landed clean and sharp, like a blade slipped between ribs. My heart stuttered, instinct screaming, but my face remained serene—years of survival compressing panic into stillness.
“You’re very direct,” I said mildly.
“Life is short,” he replied. “Especially in families like mine.”
He lifted two fingers—not snapping, not speaking. A waiter appeared instantly, as if summoned by thought alone. Without a word, he poured two glasses of amber liquid, the scent unmistakable—aged Macallan, expensive enough to signal both power and indifference to cost. Ricci slid one toward me.
“For courage,” he said lightly. “Or clarity. Sometimes they’re the same thing.”
I lifted the glass and drank. The burn spread slow and steady, grounding me. Now or never.
“I’ve heard rumors,” I said, keeping my tone conversational, eyes drifting toward the dance floor as though this were idle chatter between acquaintances. “They say war is coming to Lake Como.”
Ricci glanced down at his Patek Philippe Complications—rose gold, hand-finished, obscene in its perfection—before answering. “Rumors tend to mature into truths around here.”
“And when it does,” I continued evenly, “whose side will the Ferraros stand on? My husband’s... or the Orlovs’?”
He laughed, low and genuinely amused. “Ah. Straight to the point. I like that.” He swirled his drink, watching the liquid catch the light. “We don’t like war, signora. We prefer neutrality.”
He turned fully toward me then, his gaze sharp, stripping, intelligent. “Let the Volkovs, Orlovs, and Morozovs tear each other apart. When they’re exhausted—bleeding, weakened—the Ferraros will step in. We’ll sweep the board clean and rule Lake Como alone.”
He lifted his glass in a mock toast. “War benefits us.”
I tilted my head slightly, letting a small, knowing smirk touch my lips. “Bold of you to assume your family won’t be caught in the crossfire.”
His eyes narrowed just enough to be noticeable. “Is Dmitri Volkov planning to test our neutrality?” he asked. “Because that would be... entertaining.” A soft laugh followed. “The Volkovs against three families? He and his men wouldn’t last three days.”
“I never said he’d attack you,” I replied smoothly. “I’m offering you the winning side.”
His brow arched. “And you’re certain your husband is it?”
I leaned in just enough to lower my voice, the silk of my gown whispering against the chair.
“Dmitri Volkov doesn’t fight wars he can’t win.
He breaks enemies before the first shot is fired.
The Orlovs are already desperate—they resorted to kidnapping a child to force his hand. That’s not strength. That’s rot.”
Ricci studied me closely now, recalculating. “And you think aligning with him protects us?”
“No,” I said softly. “I think aligning against him guarantees your downfall.”
Silence stretched between us, taut as wire.
“You speak with a lot of confidence for a woman who married into power,” Ricci said at last.
I met his gaze without blinking. “I didn’t marry into power,” I replied. “I survived it.”
He studied me for a long moment, swirling the whiskey in his glass as though divining answers from the amber liquid. The silence stretched, deliberate. Uncomfortable.
“Listen,” he began at last. “Involvement doesn’t benefit us.”
Ricci continued calmly. “Why should Ferraro blood be spilled for a fight that isn’t ours? And what is this, really?”
He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering, sharpening. “Don’t tell me Dmitri Volkov sent his pretty new wife to do what he and Giovanni failed to accomplish. Someone advised him very poorly if they believed charm and silk would succeed where leverage and steel did not.”
I held his gaze, refusing to blink, even as irritation and self-reproach tangled in my chest. He was right—and he knew it.
Before I could counter, he glanced at his watch again, dismissive now. “Visitors from Colombia have just arrived. I should greet them.”
Just like that, he rose—fluid, unhurried—and walked away without another glance, leaving behind an empty chair and the unmistakable weight of failure.
I exhaled slowly, the breath trembling despite my efforts.
I had misplayed this. I’d led with warnings when I should’ve led with inevitability. I hadn’t offered him territory, or concessions, or a vision of Ferraro dominance after the smoke cleared. I had spoken like a woman trying to prevent a war, not a strategist selling victory.
Rookie mistake.
A prickle crept up my spine.
I looked up.
Across the ballroom, Dmitri’s eyes were locked on me. An elder stood beside him—round, florid, gesturing enthusiastically with a thick cigar—but Dmitri wasn’t listening. He didn’t need to. He was reading my face, the minute shifts I couldn’t fully mask. I gave the faintest shake of my head.
His jaw tightened. Just a fraction. Enough to promise consequences—though whether for himself or the Ferraros, I couldn’t tell.
I turned away.
And froze.
Someone had taken Ricci’s vacated seat.
Antonio, my ex.
He lounged there with casual ownership, legs crossed, jacket perfectly tailored, posture relaxed in the way only truly dangerous men ever are. His slow clap echoed softly between us—three deliberate strikes of palm against palm.
Up close, he looked exactly as memory had preserved him: devastatingly handsome in a cruel, polished way. Dark hair slicked back, sharp cheekbones, eyes like obsidian—empty, reflective, merciless.
“Penelope,” he said, savoring my name like a delicacy he’d waited years to taste. “You fooled all of Lake Como.” He smiled, lazy and venomous. “Bravo. Really. Rising from the dead to wed Dmitri Volkov again—impressive, even by my standards.”
My pulse hammered, but my face remained serene. Survival demanded it.
“I see you’ve finally lost the weight,” he went on, gaze raking over me with deliberate contempt. “Though that doesn’t mean my favorite nickname no longer fits, does it... whale?”
The word hit like ice water to the spine.
I tilted my head, confusion carefully painted across my features. “I’m sorry,” I said politely. “Do I know you?”
His smile widened, delighted. “Oh, we’re pretending now? Excellent.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice to something intimate and poisonous. “Tell me, whale—how does it feel to sleep beside a man who thinks you’re dead?”
I said nothing.