Chapter 15 #2
Ricci’s breathing slowed, fury warring with hope. “And if you’re lying?” he asked hoarsely. “If this is just leverage?”
Dmitri sat back down as if nothing had happened, the night air settling around him like a cloak. Not a trace of agitation lingered in his posture—only cold intent.
“I once had a discreet business arrangement,” he said calmly, “with the Albanian boss’s wife.”
Ricci went rigid. “That’s forbidden,” he snapped. “Dealing with Albanians violates the old codes. Men have been executed for less.”
Dmitri didn’t blink. “And yet the Ferraros still move weapons through Montenegro when it benefits them.” His tone was mild, almost bored. “Let’s not insult each other by pretending we live by rules instead of convenience.”
The accusation struck cleanly. Ricci’s mouth opened, then closed. His outrage faltered, replaced by calculation. After a moment, he gave a stiff nod—acknowledgment without surrender.
Dmitri rose, retrieved the stool Ricci had thrown, and set it neatly back at the table. The scrape of metal against stone sounded deliberate. Commanding.
“Sit, Ricci.”
The order wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.
After a long beat, Ricci complied, lowering himself into the chair and leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees. Gone was the swaggering heir. What remained was a husband clawing for hope.
“You truly have contact with her?” Ricci asked, voice stripped to a whisper. “With the woman who controls them?”
“Yes.”
Dmitri pulled out his phone. He didn’t hesitate. No dramatic pause. He dialed, switched to speaker, and set the device on the marble table between us like an offering.
The terrace fell into absolute silence.
The line clicked once. Twice.
A woman answered in rapid Albanian—sharp, guarded, her voice carrying authority honed by survival.
Dmitri replied fluently, his pronunciation flawless, his cadence respectful but unyielding. He listened, nodded once, then shifted seamlessly into English.
“I want you to release Ricci Ferraro’s wife,” he said evenly. “Alive. Unharmed. Name your price.”
The pause that followed felt endless.
Then her English came through the speaker—thickly accented, edged with suspicion.
“Since when does Dmitri Volkov bargain on behalf of Ferraros?”
Dmitri didn’t miss a beat. “Since I need a war,” he said, voice smooth as glass, “that reshapes Lake Como.”
Ricci sucked in a sharp breath.
“One that ends with the Orlovs and Morozovs destroyed,” Dmitri continued. “You Albanians have always wanted a permanent foothold here. Influence. Routes. Ports. Help me—and the Ferraros align with me. Chaos follows. Chaos you know how to exploit.”
Silence crackled again.
“And why this war?” the woman pressed. “Men don’t burn empires without reason.”
Dmitri’s jaw tightened—just slightly.
“That,” he said flatly, “is none of your concern.”
He leaned forward, voice lowering, hardening. “Name your price for the woman.”
The lake wind stirred, brushing cold against my skin. Ricci’s hands trembled where they clasped together, knuckles white, eyes locked on the phone like it held his last breath.
Finally, the woman exhaled audibly.
“You play a dangerous game, Volkov.”
Dmitri’s lips curved—not in a smile, but something sharper. “I always do.”
“My husband’s grandfather was enslaved by the Ferraros,” the Albanian woman continued through the speaker, her voice calm in a way that made it infinitely more dangerous. “Worked to death in their ports generations ago. Chains. Hunger. Beatings. Some debts are inherited.”
Dmitri’s patience snapped. “I don’t care about ancient vendettas,” he cut in, voice hard. “History doesn’t interest me. Your price does. Name it.”
The terrace seemed to hold its breath.
Muted voices filtered through the line—rapid Albanian, hushed and urgent, as if a council were convening just beyond the speaker. Ricci hadn’t moved. He sat rigid, spine locked, hands gripping his knees so tightly his knuckles had gone bone-white. His gaze never left the phone. Not once.
Finally, the woman spoke again.
“The lady you seek—”
Ricci surged to his feet. “Is what?” His voice cracked, raw and uncontained. “Say it!”
“She has been passed from man to man,” the woman said without inflection. “You should understand this before we bargain. She is no longer... untouched.”
The words landed like a gunshot.
Ricci staggered back as if struck, one hand flying to his mouth. His eyes went glassy, unfocused. “My wife?” he whispered. “The woman I waited for—since we were children. Since high school.” His breath hitched violently. “I didn’t touch her before our wedding. I wanted it to be sacred. I wanted—”
His voice collapsed into a hoarse scream.
“And now savages—animals—have had her?” His body shook as rage detonated through him. “I will erase every Albanian breathing on this earth! I will burn your villages, your ports, your children’s futures—”
He swept his arm across the table. Chess pieces scattered like shrapnel, clattering against stone. The phone slid dangerously close to the terrace edge; Dmitri caught it one-handed without looking.
Ricci turned away, slamming his fists into the balustrade, then the wall—again and again—until skin split and blood smeared the ancient stone. At last, he slid down, forehead pressed against the wall, shoulders heaving.
He screamed her name.
Not words. Not threats. Just her name—over and over—torn from him in broken sobs that echoed across the terrace and into the dark lake below.
Dmitri said nothing. He didn’t move. He waited.
The woman on the line waited too.
When Ricci’s cries finally reduced to ragged breaths, when his body stilled in exhausted ruin, Dmitri spoke—calm as ever.
“What’s the price?”
“Blood for blood,” the woman replied simply.
Dmitri’s eyes sharpened. “Define your terms.”
“Bring me the head of any Ferraro family member,” she said. “Deliver it personally to Albania. Then I release the wife.”
Dmitri tilted his head slightly. “You think that’s feasible?”
Ricci pushed himself upright, his face hollow, eyes feral but resolved. “It is,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll bring my brother’s head.”
Even I flinched.
The woman laughed—a short, satisfied sound. “Even better, Ricci Ferraro. I’ll be waiting.”
The line went dead.
Silence crashed down around us.
Dmitri slipped the phone into his pocket with deliberate calm. “You can’t go to Albania alone,” he said. “And your brother’s been dead a year. The Albanians don’t know?”
“They don’t,” Ricci replied dully. “His body was preserved. Frozen. If a head buys her freedom...” His jaw clenched. “I’ll do it.”
“Then I’m coming with you,” Dmitri said without hesitation.
“No.”
The word tore from me before I could stop it—sharp, instinctive, absolute.
Both men turned.
“You will not,” I said, stepping forward, my heart hammering. “This is madness. It’s a trap built on grief and bloodlust. You walk into Albania with a severed head and think you’ll walk out alive?”
Dmitri’s gaze softened—but only for a second. “I won’t let him do this alone.”
“And I won’t let you become a martyr,” I shot back. “Not for revenge. Not for honor.”
Not when he has a son sleeping on his roof who needs him alive.
Dmitri went still.
Albania was a black hole. Even in the twenty-fifth century, parts of it operated like medieval fiefdoms: slavery, blood feuds, no law but vengeance. Men went in; few came out unchanged. I couldn’t lose him. Not the father of my son. Not again.
Ricci met my eyes briefly, something almost grateful flickering there before it hardened into steel. “I don’t need anyone,” he said, voice low and tight. “I’ll save her myself.” He turned, long strides carrying him down the staircase, disappearing into the shadows of the villa without another word.
Dmitri watched him go, jaw tight, one brow raised as if calculating some unseen equation. “If Ricci joins our war,” he said finally, voice clipped, “he’s putting his life on the line willingly. Yet you think it’s too dangerous for me to go to Albania and bring his wife home?”
“What if they refuse to let you leave?” I countered, voice low but sharp. “You heard her—blood for blood. They have a grudge against the Ferraros. They could chain you too, just like they did her. Or worse.”
He stepped closer, the terrace lights cutting shadows across his face, highlighting the hard angles I’d memorized long ago. “You think I’d walk in there blind? Without leverage? I’m not that reckless, Pen. I never have been.”
I exhaled shakily, trying to steady my racing pulse. “Then at least advise Ricci not to go alone. These people—they hate his family enough to kill anyone who steps in. He doesn’t have your resources, your army, your reach.”
Dmitri’s expression darkened, and I caught the flash of old pain in his eyes.
“Every fortress has cracks,” he said slowly, voice low, almost haunted.
“My late wife... she was kidnapped on this very soil. By her ex. Right under everyone’s noses.
The only real safety is fewer enemies. Make too many, and no army in the world can guard you twenty-four hours a day. Sooner or later... they find a way.”
His words settled over me like a cold wave, heavy and unyielding.
The night air had grown cooler; the distant music from the gala faded, leaving only the soft lapping of the lake against the shore and the whisper of wind through the cypress trees.
Dmitri glanced at his watch. “It’s late. Vanya will be missing you.”
He stood, stretching out a hand that I instinctively took, letting him pull me to my feet.
His palm slid to the small of my back, warm and possessive, as he guided me down the private staircase, the villa’s shadowed halls swallowing our footsteps.
The world felt impossibly still, as if the house itself was holding its breath.
The driver opened the door, and we slid into the plush leather interior. The partition rose, cocooning us in soft darkness, separating us from the outside world.
The car purred to life, gliding silently toward home, tires whispering against the cobblestone driveway.
Dmitri turned slightly toward me, a faint smile playing at his lips—almost tender, almost vulnerable. “You seemed genuinely worried about me back there,” he said, voice quieter.
I looked out the window, focusing on the lake’s black surface sliding past, refusing to meet his gaze. “I’d do the same for anyone,” I said lightly, the words flat but carrying the weight of truth. “Basic human decency.”
His smile vanished instantly. Hurt flashed across his face, raw and unguarded, before he turned back to stare at the road ahead. The silence that followed was oppressive, thick, filled with the unspoken fears and truths we both carried.
I rested my hand lightly against the glass, tracing the dark ripples on the water as the car cut through the night.
When the car finally stopped in front of the estate, I stepped out into the cool night air—and was nearly bowled over by a small, pajama-clad missile.
“Mommy!” Vanya launched himself at me, arms wrapping tightly around my legs.
I laughed, the sound bright and genuine after the tension of the evening, scooping him up effortlessly. He buried his face in my neck, soft breath and hair tickling my cheek. “Hey, my big boy,” I murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Did you miss me?”
“So much,” he mumbled, muffled against my skin. “Giovanni let me stay up late, but I couldn’t sleep without saying goodnight properly.”
I hugged him tighter, swaying gently. “Well, I’m here now. And I missed you too—more than you know.” The warmth radiating from his tiny body erased the weight of politics, threats, and danger, if only for a moment.
He pulled back, eyes wide and glowing in the porch light. “Did you have fun at the fancy party?”
“It was... interesting,” I said carefully, setting him down but keeping hold of his hand. His small fingers curled trustingly around mine.
We started toward the house, but Vanya suddenly wriggled free and darted toward Dmitri, who stood a few steps away, arms crossed, still shadowed by the tension of our earlier confrontation.
“Hi,” Vanya said shyly, stopping in front of him.
Dmitri’s face softened instantly, the rigid edge of his posture melting. “Hey, Vanya,” he said, crouching slightly, his voice low and warm.
“You look sad,” the boy observed, tilting his head. “Is it because you couldn’t bring the golden boat I asked for?”
I blinked—golden boat? When had that conversation happened?
Dmitri’s lips curved faintly. “I’ll get it for you tomorrow,” he promised, kneeling fully to Vanya’s level. “We could pick it out together, if your mom says it’s okay.”
Vanya’s face lit up like sunrise, eyes sparkling with excitement. “Really? I’ve always wanted to go out with my dad. This could be like a real adventure!” He spun toward me, voice bright and hopeful. “Mom, please?”
My heart stuttered at the innocent slip—my dad—but I managed a smile, the ache in my chest softening. “Alright. You can go with him. But be careful, both of you.”
Vanya beamed, turning back to Dmitri. “Don’t worry, Mom,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll bring you your favorite when we come back!”
I laughed softly, the sound catching in my throat as I watched them. Dmitri’s large hand ruffled Vanya’s hair, his eyes finally smiling in a way that made him look... human, not just a ruthless Volkov, not just the man who could destroy entire families with a word.
“Tomorrow’s going to be fun,” Dmitri said, voice soft, almost tender, as he straightened and pulled Vanya close for a quick hug.
Vanya leaned into him with a trust I had never fully felt from any adult but myself. “Promise you’ll show me the golden sails first?” he asked, eyes wide.
“I promise,” Dmitri said simply, his tone firm yet warm, the kind of promise that carried weight beyond mere words.
I stood a few steps away, watching them interact—Dmitri’s patience, Vanya’s joy, the small, unguarded moment that made the world outside the villa feel distant and unreal. A quiet, aching joy settled in my chest. For one fleeting instant, the lies, the threats, the schemes—they didn’t exist.
If only it could stay that way.
Vanya tugged at Dmitri’s hand again. “Mom, you coming too?”
I smiled, letting the sight of them carry me. “Not this time, sweetheart. This is your adventure.”