Chapter 6
DMITRI VOLKOV
Giovanni’s voice faded into the background as my thoughts drifted—back to the beginning, to the blood and smoke that built everything I stood on.
Lake Como’s underworld had always been a fragile web of alliances, stitched together with greed and betrayal, ruled by four ancient families who thought themselves untouchable. I shattered that illusion the night I took what was never meant to be mine.
I ruled the Volkovs now—my throne bought in blood, my foster parents’ corpses the price of my ascension. No witnesses. No loose ends.
But power alone wasn’t enough. Not in a world that whispered I was an intruder, a fostered stray pretending to wear a crown. To silence them—to make my rule unquestionable—I needed more than fear. I needed legitimacy.
Marriage—or at least the illusion of it—was the key to silencing the dissenters, to stitching my name into the fabric of legitimacy that blood alone couldn’t buy.
That’s where Seraphina entered the picture.
The eldest daughter of the Orlovs—one of the two ruling families that still dared to challenge me—she was never more than a pawn, though she fancied herself a queen. Her family offered what I needed: political sway, underground muscle, and enough dirty capital to drown any legal opposition.
In return, they wanted an alliance sealed in gold and ink—a marriage that would tie the Volkovs and Orlovs by name, if not by heart. I obliged. I slipped a diamond on her trembling finger, smiled for the cameras, and made the world believe I loved her.
But it was never love. It was strategy. A transaction wrapped in silk and deceit.
The truth was, I could stomach almost anything—betrayal, rivalry, even bloodshed—but not weakness. And Seraphina’s flaw was exactly that. She mistook politics for passion. She wanted devotion when all I’d ever promised was dominion.
But I dragged my feet on the wedding, postponing it with excuses that grew thinner by the month.
Deep down, I knew the truth: I could marry only one woman in this lifetime, and it was Penelope. No one else.
Politics be damned.
The Orlovs’ support had propelled me to the head of the Volkov family, but Seraphina? She’d have to go eventually. When news of her “suicide” reached me, I felt nothing but relief—a clean end to a complication. Or so I thought.
I’d have killed her myself if it came to that, rather than let her stand between me and the only woman who truly mattered.
“Technically,” Giovanni said, his voice low in the hall as if the walls themselves might overhear, “she’s still engaged to you. It was never formally ended. And now that you’re married...” His words trailed off into the dark.
I met his gaze, our minds aligning in that silent, deadly understanding. In the mafia, loose ends weren’t tolerated.
Other women—ghosts from the past—had no place in my world with Penelope.
They’d only poison what I’d built, what I’d claimed.
“Make her disappear. No spectacle. Make it clean and final.” I ordered, my voice a blade in the quiet.
He nodded, unflinching. “Understood.”
I exhaled, the decision’s weight settling like lead in my chest.
If the Orlovs scented my hand in any blood, they’d howl—withdraw their backing, burn the streets with vendettas, and every uneasy alliance I’d paid for would snap like a cheap cord.
The Orlov patriarch would posture for war; his boys would parade outrage; the courts and guards would be clogged with accusations and grief.
I didn’t fear their noise.I feared the chaos it would rain on Penelope.
I wasn’t afraid for myself; I’d danced with death too many times to flinch.
But Penelope? The thought of her caught in the crossfire ignited a feral protectiveness in me.
Let them rage. I’d raze Lake Como to its foundations before I’d let a single hair on her head be harmed. I would burn the whole territory down to keep her safe—my life for hers, without hesitation.
Pushing the door open, I stepped into the master bedroom, the room’s opulent silence wrapping around me like a shroud.
There she lay, Penelope, curled on the bed in a peaceful slumber that belied the storms we’d weathered.
My eyes traced her form obsessively, drinking in every detail as if she might vanish: the gentle rise and fall of her chest, each breath a rhythm I could sync my heartbeat to; the way her dark hair spilled across the pillow like spilled ink, strands I longed to wrap around my fingers and never release; and the subtle curve of her hips, a vulnerability that stirred a dark hunger in me, a possessiveness that whispered she’d always be mine, body and soul, no matter the cost.
But the contract Giovanni had mentioned—the ten-million-dollar trade deal with the Mexicans, a pact that could reshape our territory’s fortunes—was nowhere in sight.
I scanned the desk, rifling through papers with growing irritation, then paused. “Giovanni,” I called, my voice a low command that carried through the door.
“Boss,” he replied promptly, easing the door open with careful slowness before stepping in, his limp more pronounced in the quiet. “I was just about leaving.”
“I can’t find the contract.”
His eyes darted to the bed.
He approached gingerly, peering closer. “She’s...” He leaned in to confirm, then straightened. “She’s sleeping on it, boss.”
The paper peeked from beneath her, crumpled slightly under her weight.
It was urgent—the three other ruling families waited for my signature; today’s submission would seal the alliance.
“Boss—shall I wake her?” Giovanni asked, his tone hesitant.
My gaze fixed on her serene face, a storm brewing in my chest. “Wake her, and you’ll be buried with that pen.”
“The other families—boss—they’re waiting on the submission. If we don’t sign in—” He glanced at his wristwatch, anxiety creasing his scarred brow. “—in less than two hours, the agreement falls apart.”
“Let them wait.” I replied, my voice a dark rumble. “She rests. The world can wait.”
I dragged a chair close to the bed and sank into it with deliberate calm, eyes never leaving her sleeping face. “Lower your voice,” I warned. “If you wake her with that rasp, you’ll be taking a bullet in the other leg.”
Giovanni let out a humorless snort, then forced a chuckle that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll go—before I cough myself into a shallow grave, boss.” He moved faster than his wounds ought to allow, the limp forgotten in the hurry.
“Good,” I muttered, watching him go.
The door clicked shut behind him like a final seal.
Alone now, I sat vigil, my eyes locked on her.
I could sit like that forever—cataloguing the tremor of her lashes, the soft hitch of breath, the exact curve of her jaw. I’d done it even when I was miles away: during those four months I spent hunting her uncles across shadowed borders, I never stopped watching her through feeds and CCTV.
I made those two men pay in ways that stripped them of dignity and breath.
I took them to places without law — cold rooms, concrete and wire — and made sure their names were erased. They were left empty, broken in ways the world couldn’t measure; their screams haunted abandoned warehouses until the end took them.
No regrets.
Penelope didn’t remember most of her past; how was that possible? The amnesia that shrouded her memories left gaps I couldn’t fill.
Did she remember how she’d gutted me all those years ago—how she’d ground my trust under her heel and left me bleeding, how she’d destroyed the fragile boy I’d been before hardening into this?
Was it her parents’ manipulation, turning her into a weapon against me, or had she acted willingly—indecently—laughing behind the mask?
Or was she still playing me now, that soft voice and wide-eyed innocence nothing but camouflage?
The questions crawled under my skin, but answers didn’t matter.
I wanted her here, eternally bound to me, a captive to both my rage and my all-consuming obsession.
She might not remember, but I did. I remembered everything.
And I would make her remember—inch by inch, until she was stripped of every mask. Rage or love, it didn’t matter.
I’d never apologize for it; She was mine to unmake, mine to rebuild. Mine.
She shifted in her sleep, rolling carelessly onto the contract, oblivious to its importance—the paper that could dictate the fate of our territory. But let it crumple; a mere document wasn’t worth disturbing her peace.
Then, a wince crossed her face, followed by another.
“Let go...” she mumbled, her voice a fragile whisper, her head thrashing slowly at first, then with growing agitation. “Let me go... please... don’t touch me... don’t... uncle, please...”
Her pleas escalated, her hands flailing as if warding off invisible assailants, her body twisting in torment.
I’d already slaughtered her uncles, but hearing her relive the horror made me wish I’d drawn out their suffering longer, made them beg as she did now.
I hesitated, torn—touching her in this volatile state could shatter her further. But when her mumbles crescendoed into a piercing scream, I couldn’t hold back.
I pulled the chair even closer, grasping her hands gently yet firmly, my thumbs stroking her skin in a bid to anchor her.
Her eyes snapped open, wide with terror, a raw scream tearing from her throat.
She yanked her hands free with surprising force, rattling me as she bolted upright. She stared at me, shock and trauma etching her features, as if still trapped in the nightmare’s grip.
Her gaze darted between her thighs, panic flaring as if fearing the dream had bled into reality, her breaths coming in sharp, ragged gasps.
“Did you touch me while I slept?” Penelope’s voice cut through the air, sharp and trembling, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and accusation as she stared at me from the bed.
“No.” My reply was immediate, my gaze locked on hers to drive the truth home.
The very idea was abhorrent—repulsive in a way that twisted my gut.
I’d never touch her against her will, not then, not now, not ever.
She scrambled off the bed, her movements jerky, as if propelled by some primal instinct to flee.
She retreated to the far corner of the room, pressing her back against the wall, her arms curled tightly around herself like a shield.
Her body trembled, shivers racking her frame as she slid down to the floor, her knees buckling under the weight of whatever nightmare still clung to her mind.
The sight of her—so small, so fragile—stirred a dark, possessive ache in me, but I held back, my fists clenching at my sides.
“What was your dream about?” I asked, my voice low, though I already suspected the answer.
Her uncles’ names had spilled from her lips in that terrified mumble, conjuring images of the men I’d already reduced to bloody memories.
She let out a brittle laugh that wasn’t laughter at all.
“Since when do you care?” Her tone was acid, but her body sagged against the wall, the defiance in her words dissolving into exhaustion.
She pulled her knees tighter to her chest, her dark hair falling forward like a curtain, as if it could shield her from me.
“My uncles... Uncle Rocco, Uncle Carlo, and...” Her voice frayed, barely more than a whisper—words she might have been saying to herself rather than to me.
She shook her head violently, fingers digging crescents into her own arms as if trying to anchor herself to the present.
“And who?” My attention sharpened, my pulse rising.
It wasn’t just the two? Whoever this third man was, he was already a ghost walking, and his death would be exquisite—a lesson carved from pain.
I leaned forward, my tone steady but coiled with menace. “Tell me. Who’s the third?”
“Let me be!” she screamed, hands flying to her ears as if to blot me out, her voice cracking like splintered glass.
The sound scraped against my nerves, but I held myself still, fists curling at my sides, fighting the urge to cross the space between us and shake the answer from her.
Instead, I moved toward her, each step deliberate, my shadow looming over her curled form.
“And who?” I asked again, my tone softening to a dangerous gentleness, a velvet glove over an iron fist.
I needed the name, and my patience was fraying like a taut wire.
She didn’t answer, her eyes squeezed shut, her breaths shallow and erratic.
I crouched to her level, my face inches from hers, so close I could feel the tremor of her exhales against my skin.
“Who is it?” I murmured, a low hiss dressed as a whisper.
“Say it.” Inside, a storm clawed at my ribs.
Someone had dared to linger in her dreams with those animals.
Someone else. Another ghost I would have to hunt.
Her eyes snapped open. The look she gave me wasn’t fear of the unknown—it was recognition. Horror, naked and unfiltered, like a knife sliding between ribs.
“You...” she whispered.
The word was a blade.
For a second, everything inside me went still. Then my body reacted before my brain did—I shot to my feet, stumbling back as if she’d just driven that blade into my gut.
“What?” My voice cracked, sharp enough to cut glass. “I’d never—”
But she was already moving. She pushed herself upright, fear folding into fury, and bolted for the bathroom. The door slammed shut behind her, rattling in its frame. The echo hung in the room like gunfire.
I stood there, frozen, her accusation ricocheting through me. Me. In her nightmares. Twisted into the same shape as the monsters I’d already destroyed for her.
I’d never touched her like that. Not then. Not now.
Back then, she’d been fifteen—a fragile girl caught in her family’s claws—and I’d been nineteen, already scarred, already dangerous but meticulous about boundaries.
We’d had moments: glances stolen like contraband, nights spent talking until the world outside dissolved.
But I’d kept my distance. She’d been a flame I’d sworn to protect, not consume.
How could she dream me into the dark? Into their mold?
From behind the door came the hiss of running water.
I paced the room, each step silent, my mind a battlefield of rage, disbelief, and something colder—fear. Was her memory fractured, blending me with the predators of her past?
Or was this the poison of everything else—the texts she thought I sent, the absences she thought were betrayals?
My eyes fell to the crumpled contract beneath where she’d slept, its edges jutting out like an accusation.
Ten million dollars. A deal that could lock down our future. It meant nothing. Let it rot. Let the world burn.
She was my axis, the point on which everything spun.
But her whisper still cut at me, a splinter buried deep.
If she saw me as a monster, even in sleep, then something—someone—had put that vision in her head. And I would find out who. I would tear apart her past, her memories, her ghosts, until I dragged the truth out by its throat.
She was mine—to protect, to possess, to rebuild from ash. No nightmare, no ghost, no accusation would take her from me.