Chapter 2
PENELOPE
Memories of Dmitri’s brutal message crashed over me like a black tide. The cramps twisting my stomach now felt like echoes of his cruelty.
I had been calling him that night—desperate, terrified—my fingers trembling over the screen.
He wouldn’t pick up. Not once. And then his text had come through, each line a dagger:
Yes, I need an heir to secure my throne. But you—carrying my child—was never something I wanted.
And then the next, harsher than the first:
Do you think I’d allow you to bring my heir into this world?
The night we shared... it wasn’t love, it wasn’t mercy.
It was to claim you, nothing more. Four months of silence?
That was just the beginning. I haven’t even started to make your life a proper misery.
You’ll scream, you’ll beg, and death... death won’t come, milaya. Not for you.
I could still see his words glowing on the screen, searing into me like brands.
You got too comfortable with my kindness, Penelope. Did you really think I was capable of tenderness? No. You forgot who I am. I’m not here to love you, not here to save you. I’m here to break you—slowly, painfully—until suffering is all you know. That’s the only gift you’ll ever get from me.
The memory ripped through me.
My vision blurred, hot tears spilling unbidden.
My hands shook violently as I pressed them against my stomach, trying to hold myself together, but it was useless.
Nausea surged up my throat; bile stung the back of my tongue. The landing pad swam in my vision, the world tilting—I swayed, knees buckling.
I caught myself against the chopper’s cold metal frame, breath tearing in ragged gasps.
My whole body trembled, wracked by the venom of his words, the kind of pain that left no wound visible but hollowed you out from the inside.
The cramps knifed through me again, and a broken sob clawed free from my chest.
Remembering those words now wasn’t just torment—it was annihilation.
He hadn’t been there for me during my pregnancy—the nights of pain, the suffocating loneliness, the constant fear that gnawed me alive.
Yet here I was again, dragged back into this godforsaken territory. But this time would be different. I would escape. Somehow. Lake Como might be a gilded fortress, but even fortresses had cracks. There had to be illegal ways out. And I would find them.
“Penelope.”
Giovanni’s voice snapped me from my rage.
He was closer now, his limp more pronounced, his cane clicking against the stone. His face was pale, tight with pain. “I’m so sorry I failed you.”
I frowned, suspicion tugging at me. “Failed me?”
“Yeah.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, his words strained. “I was supposed to protect you. That’s my duty. But I failed.” His limp carried him another step closer, each movement jagged. “I hope you can forgive me.”
My gaze dropped to my own battered, bloodstained self. Forgiveness was far from my lips. My voice came out flat, almost lifeless. “Just take me to the house. Please.”
He nodded, wordless, and led me toward a sleek black car.
Sliding into the back seat, I watched him struggle.
His bandaged leg bent stiffly, his jaw clenching as he forced himself behind the wheel. The cane clattered against the doorframe before he yanked it inside.
I couldn’t hold back. “You can’t even stand straight! How are you supposed to drive?”
His lips curved into a grim shadow of a smile. “Relax, Penelope. I only need one leg to drive.”
He gripped the wheel with white-knuckled determination, started the ignition, and pressed down.
The car lurched forward. Every shift of his injured leg drew a wince, his breath catching, sweat beading along his brow. Yet he pushed through the pain, guiding us away from the landing pad and deeper into Lake Como’s labyrinth of stone and shadows.
The car rolled to a stop at the base of the mansion.
Before Giovanni could limp out to help me, I shoved the door open and stepped into the night air.
The house loomed above me, perched on its rise like a predator surveying its prey.
A wide flight of stone steps stretched upward, flanked by cold balustrades of carved marble, their pale surfaces gleaming under the floodlights.
The ascent wasn’t steep like a hill, but deliberate—built to make anyone climbing it feel small, forced to look up at the fortress that awaited.
Guards lingered in the shadows, their silhouettes sharp against the glow of the lamps. Their eyes followed me, cold and silent, but none moved.
I squared my shoulders, my boots striking against the stone, each step echoing like a verdict.
My heart hammered faster with every pace upward, the chill air stinging my lungs. By the time I reached the top landing, my palms were damp against the smooth curve of the balustrade.
I pushed the heavy double doors open. They groaned on their hinges, and the house swallowed me whole.
The familiar scent hit instantly—leather, polish, faint cigar smoke. But the air felt colder now, emptier, as though the walls themselves had been holding their breath in Dmitri’s absence.
I made my way to our bedroom, the familiar hallway stretching like a tunnel of forgotten promises.
The door creaked open on rusty hinges, revealing the wide, untouched bed—the same one I’d slept in alone for four agonizing months.
A sharp, tearing ache clawed at my chest, and my hands drifted to my stomach on instinct—cradling the fragile hope that might still be there, trembling like a candle about to go out.
The coppery tang of blood on my thighs was a fresh humiliation, a sticky reminder of the horror I’d endured.
In the bathroom, I twisted the tap to scalding hot, the water roaring into the sink like a furious waterfall.
I snatched a washcloth from the shelf and began scrubbing the dried streaks from my skin with a ferocity that bordered on desperation.
Red swirled down the drain, diluted but still accusing, like evidence of a crime I hadn’t committed.
Each swipe of the cloth felt like I was erasing a sin, or a nightmare, or both—yet the stain on my soul remained untouched.
Please, my mind whispered amid the steam and suds, frantic and broken. Please let my child still be inside me—still holding on, still fighting to exist within this hollow, trembling body. Please don’t let the river of blood mean I’ve already lost everything.
My chest rose and fell with jagged breaths as I pressed a trembling hand to my lower belly, feeling for any sign of life. Please stay alive, my little one.
When at last the stains were gone, my skin burned pink and raw, throbbing under the assault.
I wrapped myself in a thick towel, the fabric a meager shield against the chill that had settled in my bones.
Stepping out of the bathroom, damp hair clinging to my temples, I crossed to my side of the wardrobe.
My fingers brushed past silks and dresses I no longer felt worthy of until they found a fresh pair of dark jeans and a soft cream sweater—plain, practical, but enough to make me feel clean. Human again.
My fingers fumbled with the buttons and zipper, hands still shaking from the adrenaline and fear, but finally, I managed to tug them on, tucking the sweater into the waistband for a semblance of normalcy.
I stumbled to the bed and collapsed onto it face-first, exhaustion dragging me down like an undertow in a stormy sea.
How many hours had passed since Antonio had snatched me?
A day? Two?
My head throbbed where he’d slammed me with the butt of his gun, the memory flickering like a blade in the dark.
I bit hard into my palm to stifle a sob, the metallic taste of my own blood mingling with the lingering copper in the air.
I’ll make him pay, I vowed silently, my teeth sinking deeper into my flesh. He’ll pay for what he did.
My mind spun in chaotic circles.
And where the hell is Dmitri?
Anger rose like bile in my throat. Did he save me from Antonio just to dump me back here, like discarded baggage?
The ceiling blurred as hot tears stung my eyes.
Is this my life now—rescued only to be abandoned all over again?
Somewhere between the rage and the bone-deep exhaustion, sleep finally dragged me under, a merciful blackness swallowing me whole.
A gentle touch against my forehead jolted me awake. I shot upright, my heart slamming into my throat like a trapped bird.
Dmitri Volkov stood before me.
Tall, with that impeccable posture that screamed control and power. The faint scent of his cologne curled in the air like smoke from a dying fire. He was so close it was obvious he’d just leaned down to brush his fingers against my skin.
I didn’t speak. I didn’t move. I let the anger build, thick and molten, until it sat heavy at the back of my throat, ready to erupt like lava.
His eyes—icy blue and utterly unreadable—locked onto mine, holding me captive.
“Are you pregnant?” he asked, his voice measured, like a blade sliding slowly from its sheath.
I sat up straighter on the bed, shifting back against the headboard and pulling the duvet over my legs like a barrier. “I don’t know,” I replied, my voice steadier than I felt.
He hadn’t asked how Antonio treated me. He hadn’t asked if Antonio had touched me, broken me, violated me.
Not a word about the pounding ache at my temple where Antonio had pressed the cold barrel of a gun against my skin—before smashing it against my head.
Not a damn word about the hell I’d just crawled out of.
He opened his mouth to speak, but I couldn’t hold it in any longer.
The fury exploded. “That’s it? That’s what you have to say to me?
” My voice cracked like glass. “Four months of silence. Four months of lying alone on this bed, abandoned, and now you stand here and ask me if I’m pregnant?
After I’ve been kidnapped, bruised, bleeding, half out of my mind—and you don’t give a fuck about whether I’m even alive inside? !”
His jaw tightened, but his tone stayed infuriatingly calm. “Are you pregnant, Penelope?”
Something inside me snapped.
I grabbed the nearest thing within reach—a heavy glass tumbler from the nightstand—and hurled it at him with every ounce of fury tearing through me. It shattered against the wall inches from his head, spraying shards across the floor.
“Fuck you, Dmitri!” My voice was raw, my chest heaving.
“You think I’m just a womb to you, is that it? A body to fuck and a vessel to breed?!” My hands shook so violently I could hardly breathe, but I didn’t care. “You don’t get to stand there and look at me like this—like you own me—when you left me to rot!”
His eyes narrowed, a flicker of something dangerous breaking through his mask. But I didn’t stop. My fury had teeth now, and it was biting.
My hand shot out again, fumbling for the lamp on the nightstand, desperate to throw something else at him—to shatter, to wound, to make him feel. But before my fingers could curl around it, he moved.
In a single stride he was on me, his hand clamping around my wrist, the other locking at my waist. The lamp slipped from my grip as his heat closed in, his body shadowing mine, pressing me back against the mattress.
“Let go of me!” I shoved at his chest hard, but he wouldn’t budge. He was immovable, a wall of muscle and control, caging me in.
His scent wrapped around me, that faint spice I hated myself for remembering. The nearness was suffocating, dragging me back to nights I swore I’d forget.
I turned my face away, throat tight, heart cracking open under the weight of memories. The cruel messages he’d sent before the blood, before the terror of losing my child, echoed in my skull like gunshots.
“I fucking hate you,” I spat, though my voice trembled. “So much.” My chest heaved, tears burning but refusing to fall. “And I swear, Dmitri—I’ll be the end of you.”
The words shook as they left me, a promise threaded with rage, grief, and fear. I wasn’t even sure if I meant them, or if they were the only armor I had left.
He didn’t flinch. He just looked at me, gaze dark and unreadable, before stepping back—deliberately—like a predator who chooses when to release its prey. The heat of his body lingered even as space stretched between us.
And against every ounce of sense, a traitorous thought flickered through me. A wish. That he hadn’t moved back. That he hadn’t left me to drown in this cold, empty house again. Because I knew what it was to live with his ghost—and I wasn’t sure which haunted me more.
Now he stood at the foot of the bed, firm, his presence heavy in the room.
He pulled out his phone, tapping a few buttons with those long, precise fingers. Moments later, the door swung open, and a doctor walked in—middle-aged, with a white coat and a stethoscope dangling around his neck like a noose.
“What the hell are you doing?” I demanded, my eyes snapping between them.
“Testing you,” Dmitri said, his tone infuriatingly flat, as if we were discussing the weather. “To see if you’re pregnant.”
My chest constricted, fury burning through the fear.
“Pregnant?” I barked a bitter laugh. “I was alone for four fucking months, Dmitri. Four months forcing myself through the nausea, the cramps, the endless nights with no one but my own shadow. I was pregnant. But just before Antonio’s men dragged me away, I lost so much blood I thought I’d die with it.
And now?” My voice cracked, but I held his stare.
“Now I don’t even know if my child is still inside me—or if you’ve already robbed me of that too. ”
I turned my glare on the doctor, my voice sharp enough to cut. “And you—don’t you dare touch me.”
Dmitri didn’t even blink.
He leaned back against the wall, arms folding across his chest like this was some performance he was content to watch. “Let the doctor confirm if the child is still there or not,” he said, calm, casual, cruel.