Chapter 17
PENELOPE
The blinding light pierced my eyelids like shards of glass, forcing me to squeeze them shut again.
My head throbbed—a dull, relentless pulse radiating from the base of my skull down into my neck and shoulders.
Every movement sent jolts of pain through my body.
Disorientation washed over me in thick waves, fragments of the night before flickering across my mind: Dmitri’s arms around me, the steady heat of his chest beneath mine, the deep, sated sleep that had claimed me almost instantly.
But this... this wasn’t his bed.
The surface beneath me was unyielding, splintered wood digging into my bare skin. My wrists were bound behind me with coarse rope that bit with every subtle twitch, and my ankles were tethered to the chair legs in the same merciless fashion.
My lungs tightened, panic clawing at my throat.
I forced my eyes open again.
The light dimmed slightly—someone must have adjusted it—and the warehouse came into jagged focus.
Rusted metal beams crisscrossed the cavernous ceiling, draped in cobwebs, with flickering fluorescent bulbs buzzing like angry insects.
The air was stale, heavy with the metallic tang of rust and old oil, tainted by the acrid bite of something sharper—gunpowder, perhaps.
Broken windows high above let in slivers of gray dawn, casting long, sinister shadows across the cracked concrete floor littered with debris: shattered crates, tangled wires, and forgotten tools.
Above me, shadows moved along the encircling balconies—at least a dozen men clad in tactical black, rifles slung over shoulders or held loosely in their hands.
Their faces were masked, eyes gleaming in the half-light like predators watching prey.
My gaze darted to the massive warehouse doors, rusted shut and chained. There was no easy escape. Every instinct screamed at me: this wasn’t random. Someone had planned this—fortified it.
A soft whimper cut through the oppressive silence.
My head twisted painfully, and I saw her. Seraphina. Tied to an identical chair, her designer dress torn, dirt-streaked, and soaked in shadows.
Her blonde hair was matted, mascara streaked down her cheeks in black rivulets.
She looked nothing like the cunning, manipulative woman who had tried to unsettle Dmitri just yesterday—now she was vulnerable, broken.
“What... what happened?” I whispered, voice hoarse, throat raw as sandpaper.
The last memory of the night before was drifting off in Dmitri’s arms. How had I ended up here? My stomach turned as the possibilities crashed through me. Drugged? Snatched? Someone had penetrated the estate, slipped past guards, alarms, and cameras.
My pulse skyrocketed.
The men on the balconies shifted slightly, and one stepped forward, lowering his rifle to rest lazily across his chest.
His movements were precise, controlled—professional. My mind raced. Kidnappers. Mercenaries. Professionals. No amateurs would dare take me here, not with the kind of people Dmitri associates with.
I drew a shaky breath, forcing my body to stay as calm as possible despite the adrenaline surging through me.
I scanned the room for anything—a loose plank, a sharp edge on the chair—but the ropes were knotted expertly. Escape was not an option. Not yet.
Then, faintly, I heard a metallic click.
My head snapped toward the sound, and across the room, shadows shifted again.
The figure on the balcony moved, and my heart seized.
There was someone else here—someone in control.
The calm, deadly air in the warehouse pressed down like a weight, and I realized with a sick twist in my stomach: this wasn’t just a random attack. This was personal.
Seraphina’s eyes met mine, wide and pleading. “They... they’re going to... hurt us,” she whispered, voice trembling.
I swallowed hard, every muscle tense.
My ankles were bound as well, immobilized, helpless.
What the hell is happening?
My mind raced backward in frantic fragments.
Antonio’s voice at the gala.
I’ll kidnap you again—this time for good.
He’d promised this. But not now. Not yet. The war hadn’t started. Dmitri’s forces were intact. His estate was locked down like a fortress.
So how?
A sick realization settled cold in my gut.
Someone had betrayed us.
Footsteps echoed across the warehouse floor—slow, deliberate, heavy enough to vibrate through the chair legs and into my bones. Each step was measured, unhurried. Whoever was approaching knew exactly how this would unfold.
The massive warehouse doors groaned open again, rusted hinges screaming like a dying animal.
Two masked men shoved a third figure forward.
Chains clanked.
The sound alone made my heart stop.
“No,” I breathed.
Dmitri.
They forced him into the light, dragging him like a trophy. His hands were cuffed behind his back with thick iron chains, wrists raw and bleeding where the metal had eaten into his skin.
He stumbled, nearly collapsing, before one of them jerked him upright by the collar and slammed him forward again.
I couldn’t breathe.
His face was brutalized beyond anything I’d ever seen.
One eye swollen completely shut, the other ringed in purple and black.
His cheekbone was split and bleeding.
His lower lip hung torn, blood crusted dark against his skin. Cuts traced his jaw and cheek—too deliberate to be random. Rings. Knuckles. Someone had enjoyed this.
His shirt was shredded, soaked through in places, hanging open to reveal deep bruising across his ribs, mottled and angry.
A long gash stretched across his abdomen, hastily stitched or taped, still oozing crimson. He favored one leg, knee buckling slightly before he caught himself.
And yet—
Even broken.
Even bleeding.
His spine stayed straight.
They forced him down onto his knees in front of us, chains rattling as he hit the concrete.
Something inside my chest cracked.
Guilt. Terror. Rage. Love.
It all crashed together, violent and suffocating.
They’d tortured him.
For hours.
While Seraphina and I sat untouched—waiting.
Seraphina let out a broken whimper beside me, shoulders shaking. I barely heard it. My entire world had narrowed to the man on his knees in front of me.
I tugged uselessly against the ropes, wrists screaming in protest. “Dmitri,” I whispered, my voice shredded. “Dmitri, I’m here. I’m here.”
His remaining eye lifted.
Found me.
The relief that flickered there—brief, fierce—nearly undid me.
One of the masked men stepped forward, taller than the rest. His voice crackled through a modulator, distorted and metallic. He placed a heavy boot between Dmitri’s shoulder blades and pressed down, forcing his head lower.
“Bow,” the man ordered coldly.
Dmitri didn’t make a sound.
Didn’t beg. Didn’t flinch.
Even on his knees, bleeding and chained, he radiated defiance.
The man turned toward us slowly, savoring the moment. “You see,” he said calmly, “this is what happens when kings forget their walls have cracks.”
My stomach dropped.
This wasn’t a simple kidnapping. This was a message.
And judging by the way Dmitri lifted his head again—bloodied, furious, unbroken—I knew one thing with terrifying certainty:
Whoever had orchestrated this had just declared war.
And Dmitri Volkov would burn the world to answer it.
“Choose, Dmitri Volkov,” the masked man hissed, each word dripping with malice, echoing off the warehouse walls.
“Between your mistress, Seraphina Orlov, and your wife, Pen. One leaves here alive, unscathed, and with you. The other... gets sold to the Albanians—enslaved, used, and broken, exactly as they see fit, until her last breath.”
My heart slammed against my ribs, frantic and unsteady.
The Albanians. Even now, in a modern world, their shadow networks operated like relics of a medieval nightmare—human lives reduced to trade, women passed from hand to hand, men crushed under punishment and labor until there was nothing left but husks.
Every whispered tale of what awaited the captured churned my stomach with bile. Chains. Isolation. Unspeakable violations.
My fingers curled around the ropes, white-knuckled, powerless.
How had it come to this? One night—just hours ago—I had been cradled in Dmitri’s arms, feeling the first taste of real peace in years. And now... this nightmare.
And who the hell was behind this? The Orlovs? The Morozovs? The Albanians? Or some shadowy foreign player I couldn’t even see coming?
Why target him like this—why drag him here, force him to choose between me and his mistress? What were they trying to achieve? What was their purpose? I couldn’t make sense of any of it, and the more I thought, the hotter the panic burned in my chest.
Dmitri’s one good eye found mine across the dim, flickering light.
Guilt poured off him in waves, raw and unrelenting.
His split lip quivered, blood slick on his chin; a fresh cut streaked his forehead.
Whatever had happened while we were unconscious—betrayal, ambush, overwhelming force—had ripped through his defenses.
He had failed to protect us, and it was killing him.
From the shadows, two figures emerged, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop. A man and a woman, deliberate in their movements, presence radiating cold authority.
The man was broad-shouldered, face weathered, eyes flat, predatory.
A dark thobe and keffiyeh concealed the rest.
Beside him, the woman’s black abaya and niqab left only her eyes exposed—cold, assessing, calculating, as if evaluating the worth of merchandise.
The faint whisper of their accents confirmed the nightmare: northern Albanian, from the clans where old laws ruled and human life was currency.
The masked leader extended a hand toward them, his gesture theatrically cruel.
“Whoever you save, Dmitri,” he taunted, his voice dripping malice, “walks free. The other... is theirs.” His words landed like a hammer—pointing to the man and woman who had just entered, the buyers of the one Dmitri would not choose.