Chapter 14 #2
“Does he fuck you,” Antonio continued softly, each word calculated for maximum damage, “like he’s trying to resurrect a ghost?”
For a heartbeat, the room blurred. Rage surged—hot, blinding, lethal. Not for myself. For Vanya. For the woman I had been. For the blood I’d lost on concrete while men like him negotiated my worth.
I inhaled once. Slowly.
Then I smiled.
A real one this time. Calm. Cold. Controlled.
“You must have me confused with someone else,” I said lightly. “I don’t discuss my sex life with strangers.”
His eyes flickered—surprise, quickly masked.
“And as for ghosts,” I added, lifting my glass, “the dead have a habit of coming back to haunt men who underestimate them.”
Antonio’s smirk widened—slow, deliberate, venomous—as if my denial only entertained him further.
“Pretend all you want, Penelope,” he murmured. “I dated you for three solid years. I know that face. That body. Those eyes.” His gaze dragged over me with invasive familiarity, stripping me bare beneath silk and diamonds. “You don’t forget a woman you broke.”
My fingers tightened around the stem of my glass until the crystal bit into my skin. I didn’t react. I couldn’t afford to.
“I saw you trying to work Ricci,” he went on, amusement curling through his voice. “Cute. But pointless. He’s far too clever to get dragged into Dmitri Volkov’s little crusade. All this”—he gestured vaguely toward the glittering ballroom—“because of his pathetic devotion to a dead woman. A ghost.”
I said nothing. Silence was armor. Engagement was blood.
Antonio leaned closer, invading my space, his cologne sharp and overpowering. “Ricci will sit back and watch the Volkovs, Orlovs, and Morozovs tear each other apart. And while everyone’s busy bleeding?” His lips curved. “I’ll move.”
My stomach twisted.
“I’ll kidnap you again,” he whispered, relish thick in every syllable. “This time for good. No negotiations. No deadlines. Forever.”
Cold crept up my spine, old fear clawing its way out of buried places. But I kept my voice level, bored even. “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”
Antonio chuckled, unbothered. “The first time I kidnapped you—on the day you nearly lost the baby—Dmitri and I had an agreement. One that had to be fulfilled within forty-eight hours. I held up my end, letting you go. He? He didn’t.
” His eyes glittered with cold amusement.
“He thought I was weak. Thought his shiny new ex-military dogs could keep you safe... forever.”
He leaned back, satisfaction blooming. “They can—until war starts. Until his attention is elsewhere. Until every guard is watching the wrong enemy.”
I opened my mouth to repeat the denial—to keep playing the fool—
And Antonio froze.
The change was instant. Like a switch flipped.
The smugness drained from his face as his eyes slid past my shoulder.
I turned.
Dmitri was there.
He hadn’t announced himself. He hadn’t pushed or spoken.
He simply arrived—silent, inevitable, lethal.
The crowd parted around him without conscious thought, bodies shifting instinctively away from the violence written into his stride.
His expression was carved from stone, his gaze locked on Antonio with the singular focus of a predator that had finally found its prey.
“Hey,” Antonio said, the word brittle, forced.
Dmitri didn’t acknowledge it.
He stopped inches from Antonio, towering over him, his presence blotting out the chandeliers, the music, the illusion of safety. His voice, when it came, was low enough that only we could hear it.
“Next time I see you near my wife,” Dmitri said, calm and absolute, “I will kill you. Slowly.”
The words were not a threat.
They were a promise.
Antonio lifted his chin, bravado rushed in to fill the sudden crack of fear in his eyes. “And start a war here?” he scoffed. “At the fiftieth gathering? I’m practically in the Orlov family now—or didn’t you hear? I’m marrying Elena. You touch me, you touch them.”
Dmitri’s fists clenched at his sides. Knuckles cracked—loud, unmistakable. Veins stood out along his forearms and neck, the barely leashed violence in him pressing against skin.
The air between them grew charged, electric, as if the room itself held its breath.
One move.
One word.
Blood would stain the marble. The fragile peace would shatter. And Lake Como would drown in war before dawn.
I didn’t think.
I moved.
I stepped between them and wrapped my fingers around Dmitri’s fist, forcing them open with gentle insistence rather than strength. I leaned into his side, resting my head lightly against his shoulder, my body a deliberate shield—public, intimate, unmistakable.
“Dmitri,” I said softly, urgently, my voice meant only for him. “Please. Let him go.”
His body was rigid beneath my touch, coiled like a drawn blade. I felt the storm raging in him—felt how badly he wanted to end this here and now.
I tightened my grip, anchoring him. Grounding him.
“This isn’t the place,” I whispered. “And he’s not worth it.”
For a long, terrifying heartbeat, I wasn’t sure he’d listen.
Then—slowly—his fist loosened beneath my fingers.
Antonio’s smirk returned, fleeting and infuriating, as if the entire confrontation had been a game he had won.
He slipped sideways through the narrow gap between guests and vanished into the crowd before Dmitri could react.
“I should have killed him years ago,” Dmitri growled, every word tight with barely contained fury. His jaw clenched, eyes dark, fixed on the retreating figure like he could will him back. His hand trembled ever so slightly at his side—an almost imperceptible ripple of menace.
I drew in a shaky breath, placing a tentative hand against his arm. “You two... have history?”
Dmitri’s face hardened further, the shadows in the ballroom amplifying every line of anger etched into his features.
“He kidnapped my late wife,” he said, voice rough, ragged with memory and old rage.
“She was pregnant. I spared him then because of a deal with his family—a temporary truce. But I warned him: stay away, or there would be no mercy next time.”
The words landed like a physical blow. Pregnant.
My throat tightened. I swallowed, forcing my voice into something even and detached. “I’m... sorry,” I murmured, letting myself collapse back into the chair, legs unsteady beneath me.
Dmitri followed, looming above me. The air seemed heavier where he stood. “What did he say to you?”
I met his gaze, steadying my voice with effort. “That I looked like someone he used to know,” I lied smoothly, letting my tone suggest casual dismissal. “I told him he was mistaken.”
Dmitri’s eyes narrowed, scanning every twitch of my expression, every breath.
He studied me for a long, silent moment before giving the faintest nod. “He won’t come near you again.” His hand extended—solid, grounding, possessive. “Come.”
I took it without hesitation, letting him pull me to my feet. His warmth pressed into me, anchoring the storm of fear and old memories churning inside.
Together, we moved through the glittering throng.
Whispers floated like smoke: curious sidelong glances, knowing smiles, subtle head tilts. The entire room seemed to sense the Volkov 's presence—the mysterious bride, the whispered rumors of a three-month contract, the pulse of power circulating through every crystal chandelier and polished floor.
Dmitri guided me toward a side door, his hand firm at the small of my back. I felt the protective weight of him in every step. Just as his fingers closed around the handle, it swung open from the other side.
Ricci Ferraro stepped through, flanked by four men whose presence shifted the air like a cold front.
They were unmistakably Colombian cartel—tailored linen suits in white and cream, heavy gold watches catching the light, intricate tattoos just visible at collars and wrists.
Their eyes were flat, calculating, the kind that had seen everything and felt nothing.
“Dmitri,” Ricci said warmly, extending his hand with genuine, practiced charm.
Dmitri shook it briefly, his other hand resting protectively at my back, an unspoken warning in the subtle shift of his stance. The crowd gave the pair a wide berth, sensing the gravity of the interaction.
Ricci gestured toward his companions, each standing like statues of quiet menace.
“Allow me to introduce my new partners: Senor Castillo, Senor Vega, Senor Montoya, and Senor Ramirez—patriarchs of the most respected cartels in Medellín and Cali. They’ve arrived to discuss expansion.
Clean product routes through our ports, joint investments in security, and a percentage of our legitimate shipping ventures.
With their backing, Lake Como becomes a gateway to Europe—untouchable, prosperous.
No more petty turf wars. Real money. Real power. ”
Each man nodded with precise politeness, their accents thick but English flawless, the subtle menace in their stance suggesting lethal efficiency at a moment’s notice.
“That sounds... promising,” Dmitri replied, measured, approving, every syllable deliberate, keeping his cards close.
Ricci’s smile sharpened, keen and knowing. “We should speak further before the night ends. With your wife present, of course.”
Dmitri’s gaze flicked to me, a fleeting acknowledgment of my role in this delicate dance of power. “We should,” he agreed. His hand lingered lightly at my back, grounding and unyielding—the subtle reminder that I was part of his world now, whether I liked it or not.
Ricci inclined his head once, the gesture smooth and deliberate, and moved on. The Colombians followed in silent formation, their presence receding like a closing door.
Dmitri didn’t wait for the hum of the ballroom to reclaim us. He steered me through the side door and up a narrow private staircase tucked behind the villa’s grand facade. Each step pulled us farther from the noise, from the lies and laughter and veiled threats, until only the night remained.
The terrace opened above us like a secret. Cool air kissed my skin, scented with lake water and pine. Below, Lake Como stretched black and endless, stars shattered across its surface like scattered coins.
The villa’s music drifted up in fragments, muffled and distant, as if belonging to another world entirely.
We took seats on high wrought-iron stools beside a small marble table. Dmitri didn’t sit at first. He leaned against the balustrade, one arm braced behind him, gaze fixed on the water as if it might answer questions he hadn’t yet voiced.
I studied him in the quiet. The tension in his shoulders hadn’t eased; it had merely changed shape.
“You respect Ricci,” I said at last.
He didn’t look at me. “Yes.”
The single word carried weight. I pressed gently. “Why?”
Dmitri exhaled, slow and measured. “He’s intelligent.
Disciplined. He earned his position through work and strategy—not inheritance and tantrums like the Morozov and Orlov heirs.
” His mouth curved into something sharp, humorless.
“He’s brutal when necessary, but never wasteful. That kind of control commands respect.”
I nodded, absorbing it. After a beat, I asked casually, “Is he married?”
His head snapped toward me.
The shift was immediate—attention sharpened, posture subtly changing, as if he were back in a war room. “Why are you interested in his marital status?” he asked.
I met his gaze without flinching. “Because information is leverage.” My voice was calm, precise. “We may have one more chance tonight. If diplomacy fails, we look for weakness. A wife. A lover. A child. Something that makes neutrality inconvenient. Shouldn’t we use every tool available?”
Silence stretched between us, taut as wire.
Dmitri studied me, really studied me, as if reassessing a chessboard he thought he already understood. Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, perhaps. Or reluctant admiration.
He pushed away from the railing and began pacing the terrace, boots scraping softly against stone. I rose and followed him.
“Or,” he said quietly, stopping at the far end where the lights from the villa no longer reached us, “you could stay.”
I froze.
“You and Vanya,” he continued, voice low, stripped of command and calculation. “No war. No Ferraro alliance. No politics. Just... us.”
I shook my head before hope could take root, before it could destroy me.
“The Orlovs would never allow it,” I said softly.
“Everyone here knows this marriage dissolves in three months. Extending it would look like a breach—an insult. They’d retaliate.
Against me. Against my son.” I swallowed. “We’d be targets.”
He turned to face me fully now, closing the distance between us.
“And why,” I asked softly, “would we be extending a loveless arrangement?”
“Loveless?” The word hit him like a blade, revealing a crack in the carefully controlled surface he wore.
He stepped closer, the warmth of him chasing away the chill. “We’re strangers now, yes,” he said. “But every partner, every lover, starts that way. It’s only the second day, Pen.” His voice dropped, unguarded. “Who’s to say this can’t become real? A family. A real one.”
The night seemed to hold its breath.