Chapter 1 #2
I edged toward the chopper. The three guards nearby shifted uneasily, exchanging quick glances. Their hands twitched toward their weapons, but none of them moved to stop me. Instead, they stepped back, as if even they wanted me gone.
The pilot, a wiry man with a scar across his cheek, nodded curtly and opened the door for me, his eyes averted.
The interior was sparse—leather seats worn from use, a small console flickering with lights, the cabin side separated by a thin partition where the pilot settled in.
No one else—just me, alone in the empty space, the engine’s hum vibrating through the floor as the blades began to spin.
I buckled in, sinking against the headrest, my palms instinctively pressing to my stomach.
Fear gnawed at me, sharp and merciless, now that the adrenaline had ebbed and I was fully conscious of my body.
Had I really lost the pregnancy? The heavy bleeding, the stabbing cramps, the hollow ache inside me—it all screamed yes.
Yet I clung to a fragile, desperate thread of hope.
Maybe it had only been a scare. Maybe, somehow, the child still lived.
The chopper lurched upward, blades roaring as the ground fell away beneath me. My chest tightened, panic pressing against grief, and I forced my eyes shut.
I couldn’t face the void of the present. Not yet. So I let my mind slip, clawing for solace in memories—anything to drown the pain.
I remembered one sweet afternoon with my mother, Isabella, in our New York kitchen, the air thick with the scent of fresh basil and simmering tomato sauce.
I was twelve, standing on a stool beside her, my small hands kneading dough for homemade ravioli.
“See, tesoro,” she’d said, her warm laugh filling the room as she guided my fingers, “the secret is in the love you put in. Too much force, and it tears. Just like life.”
She’d kissed my forehead, her pearls brushing my cheek, and for that moment, the world felt safe, full of promise.
Tears stung my eyes, blurring the view below.
A painful smile tugged at my lips, a ghost of comfort in the middle of despair.
I might never see them again—my family, my mother, Nonna.
The thought hollowed me out, a fresh wound layered over all the others.
I’d sworn I’d never end up like this, caged and traded between men like a bargaining chip.
Mom had been a mafia princess too, but she’d chosen her marriage—chosen my father—and their love had been real and unbreakable.
That freedom had made her strong, her life her own.
I’d believed I would share her fate, that I would be the exception. Instead, I was living the cautionary tale she’d warned me about, tossed like a pawn across a board of men’s power games.
Another memory surfaced—the day after my first period, when I’d panicked, thinking something was wrong.
My mother had held me close, her lavender perfume soothing as she explained everything with gentle words, wrapping me in a blanket and making hot chocolate.
“You’re becoming a woman, Penelope,” she’d said, her eyes shining with pride. “Strong, like me. Never let anyone make you feel less.”
The chopper’s steady hum dragged me out of memory, the dull ache in my stomach a brutal reminder of how far I’d fallen from the strength I once believed I carried.
I was still caught in that haze, a fragile smile ghosting my lips, when the pitch of the engine changed.
The descent jolted me back to the present. I pressed my hand to the window, bracing as the ground rushed up to meet us. The chopper landed with a shudder, blades thrashing the night air.
I stepped out, the cold wind whipping at my hair, and my eyes froze on the bold neon letters blazing at the heart of the territory—WELCOME TO LAKE COMO.
I didn’t remember a sign the last time I was brought here. Then it hit me—I’d been unconscious in Dmitri Volkov’s arms, robbed of the chance to see the entrance to this place that now held me captive.
And God... what an entrance.
It didn’t feel like arriving at a villa on a lake. It felt like crossing into another world.
The shoreline spread wide and black, the water glinting like liquid obsidian beneath the moonlight.
Beyond it, rows of towering cypress and oak trees rose like sentinels, their silhouettes swallowing the horizon.
Between them, I caught glimpses of stone facades—massive, timeworn buildings whose arched windows and jagged towers looked less like homes and more like fortresses.
But what made my blood run cold were the defenses.
Five separate garrisons flanked the main causeway, each stacked with armed men standing watch on raised decks. Their silhouettes cut sharp against the floodlights, rifles gleaming, movements precise and rigid.
They didn’t look like guards—they looked like soldiers waiting for a war.
Then, from the left corner of the courtyard, movement caught my eye. A figure emerged from the shadows, limping toward me.
My breath caught when I recognized him—Giovanni.
His left leg was fully swathed in thick bandages, and he leaned heavily on a cane, dragging his body forward with effort.
Each step looked painful, his gait uneven, the stick clacking against the stone like a second, makeshift limb.
The proud, unshakable man I once remembered now looked broken, carved down by injury but still refusing to bow.