Chapter 9
PENELOPE
The hum of engines filled the air long before I saw them—hungry, alive.
Giovanni’s “reset button,” as he called it, was nothing like I’d imagined.
Beneath Lake Como’s postcard charm, a different world thrived—a hidden network of tunnels lit by flickering neon and lined with people hungry for speed and danger.
“You’re joking,” I muttered, eyeing the sleek black Ferrari parked under the pulsing lights. “You expect me to race?”
Giovanni leaned against the hood, that easy grin never slipping. “You said you wanted to forget for a while. Trust me, this will help.”
“By getting myself killed?”
“By living,” he corrected softly. “You’ve done enough dying already.”
I wanted to argue, but the thought of Dmitri—his cold commands, the sterile mansion, the silence—made my chest tighten.
The car’s polished surface reflected me back: pale, tired, scared. I didn’t even recognize myself anymore.
“If you hate it,” Giovanni added, tossing me the keys, “you walk away. But if you don’t—” his grin turned sharp, “—you’ll finally remember what it feels like to breathe.”
My fingers closed around the keys before I could stop myself.
I walked toward the car, its sleek black frame gleaming under the pulsing lights like a predator waiting to be unleashed. Three other cars were already lined up beside mine, their drivers revving in sync, impatient for blood and glory.
There would be four of us tonight. Four chances. Four risks.
I slid into the driver’s seat, the leather cold against my palms, my reflection trembling in the windshield.
My heart raced faster than the engines. I could drive—but not like this. Not against men who treated danger as a game.
Still, when the starter raised the gun, I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. The air was thick with smoke and adrenaline, time stretching thin and sharp.
The gunshot cracked.
And the world exploded into motion.
The engine roared beneath me.
The steering wheel vibrated under my palms, leather biting into my skin as I fought to control the beast beneath me.
The tunnel walls flashed with streaks of neon—red, violet, electric blue—blurring into a fever dream of color and noise.
Exhaust fumes mixed with the metallic tang of adrenaline on my tongue.
I slammed the pedal.
The tires shrieked, the world snapped into motion.
The three other racers tore down the narrow road beside me, engines howling like wolves in pursuit. Crates splintered as one clipped the edge of a turn; sparks flew, painting the darkness gold.
The wind whipped through my hair, wild and cold, and for a moment, I forgot everything—Dmitri, the doctor’s warnings, the life growing and dying inside me.
For the first time in months, I felt free.
I leaned hard into the turn, the car’s frame trembling as the rear fishtailed.
A stack of wooden pallets appeared out of nowhere—I twisted the wheel, missing them by inches. My breath hitched, my stomach lurching as the tires screeched in protest.
Every muscle in my body was wired, my pulse thrumming in time with the revving engine.
The lead racer, a wiry man in a red Mustang, surged ahead, his taillights taunting me with every flash.
I gritted my teeth and downshifted, feeling the car snarl beneath me.
The silver Porsche on my right tried to cut me off.
I swerved, our side mirrors nearly colliding, the sound of metal kissing metal sharp as a gunshot.
The car tilted dangerously, the edge of the road a whisper from my tires, but I held firm, forcing my way back into my lane.
Adrenaline burned through me like wildfire. I wasn’t losing—not tonight.
We tore through a maze of abandoned warehouses, graffiti-streaked walls flashing by like ghosts of the city’s sins.
My hands were slick on the wheel.
A barricade of tires appeared at the last second. I slammed the brakes, the car fishtailing in a violent arc. For a moment, I thought I’d lost it—then the tires bit back, and I steadied, breathless.
That split second of hesitation cost me.
The woman in the green Viper shot past, her engine roaring, her laugh echoing faintly through the open window as she disappeared into the tunnel ahead.
I cursed under my breath and slammed the accelerator to the floor. The engine roared, the world narrowing to speed and sound.
The wind tore through my hair as if stripping away the suffocating air of Dmitri’s mansion. For the first time in months, I wasn’t a wife, or a prisoner. I was just—alive.
The finish line appeared—a frayed banner strung between steel beams, flickering under dying floodlights.
The crowd, a sea of leather and smoke, roared as the Mustang, Porsche, and Viper crossed ahead.
My car rolled in last, the engine growling low before it quieted, the silence almost taunting.
Disappointment hit hard, sharp as a bruise. I’d lost. But beneath the ache, something wild and electric throbbed in my veins. A thrill. A rebellion.
I threw the door open and stumbled out, my legs shaky, the cool night air cutting through my heat. My breath came fast, visible in the chill.
Giovanni limped toward me from the crowd, a familiar grin breaking across his scarred face. The neon lights caught the mischief in his eyes.
“You did well, Penelope,” he said, his voice light, teasing. “Didn’t crash. Didn’t cry. You’d be surprised how few manage that their first time.”
I huffed a laugh, still catching my breath. “I came in last.”
He shrugged, the movement lazy. “Maybe. But you drove like someone who finally remembered what it feels like to live.”
Something in his tone made my chest tighten. The noise of the crowd faded. All I could hear was the echo of my own heartbeat—and the distant purr of the engine cooling between us.
I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand and scoffed. “Coming last counts as an achievement now, doesn’t it? You don’t have to mock me.”
My voice came out sharper than I intended, brittle against the noise of the engines cooling around us.
The other racers were already being swallowed by cheers, their supporters chanting names, slapping backs, lighting cigarettes in victory.
Me? I had silence.
No applause, no name on anyone’s lips—just the reminder that I didn’t belong here.
Giovanni only chuckled, unbothered, and handed me a towel. “Mocking you? No. Just impressed you didn’t crash and take half the crowd with you.”
I snatched the towel from him, wiping sweat from my face and neck, the fabric rough but grounding. For a fleeting moment, I let myself breathe.
Then the air changed.
A ripple of tension cut through the noise—conversations faltered, engines idled into uneasy silence.
The crowd’s laughter died in their throats as figures emerged from the edges of the alley, shadows solidifying into men in dark tactical uniforms. Their boots struck the pavement in unison, a rhythm that made my pulse stumble.
Lake Como’s private enforcers. Not quite police—never police—but worse. Men who worked for whoever paid more.
Giovanni’s grin vanished. “Merda,” he muttered under his breath, his limp barely masking the urgency in his movements.
Around us, people dropped to their knees, hands laced behind their heads with practiced precision. The sharp scent of fear hit the air.
Giovanni glanced at me, his eyes flashing a warning. “Someone tipped them off.” His voice dropped to a whisper, tight and urgent. “Penelope, kneel. Now.”
I froze for a heartbeat, the weight of their guns—of what they represented—pressing down like a storm. The night that had once felt wild and freeing turned suffocating again. I slowly sank to my knees beside Giovanni, the asphalt biting into my skin.
I froze, my heart lurching, unsure of the protocol in this strange, lawless world.
Before I could comply, a voice cut through the silence, commanding, dripping with familiarity. “Milaya.”
Dmitri.
“Damn,” I breathed, the word barely a whisper as my stomach dropped.
I was in trouble.
His tailored coat billowed slightly in the breeze, his face a mask of controlled fury as he strode toward me with long, purposeful steps.
The crowd parted, some already being handcuffed and led away by the enforcers, their faces pale with fear.
Dmitri’s gaze locked onto Giovanni, still kneeling, and his voice was a low growl. “You brought my wife to this cesspool?”
Giovanni kept his head bowed, his tone steady despite the danger. “Just thought she could use a little fun, boss.”
Dmitri’s eyes flicked to me, then back to Giovanni, his jaw tight.
Without a word, he bent and scooped me into his arms, lifting me as if I weighed nothing, cradling me like a child.
Gasps rippled through the crowd, and I caught the shocked stares of the onlookers as I peered over his shoulder.
Two enforcers moved toward Giovanni, their handcuffs glinting as they prepared to restrain him.
“Wait!” I protested, my voice muffled against Dmitri’s chest. “You’re not helping him?”
He didn’t answer, carrying me to his sleek black SUV parked nearby.
The door slammed shut as he set me in the passenger seat, the leather cool against my heated skin.
He slid into the driver’s seat without a word, the leather creaking beneath him. The engine rumbled to life, its low growl filling the silence as we pulled onto the road.
“I’ll pay for what I did,” I said finally, the words breaking through the tension. “Giovanni has nothing to do with this.”
Dmitri’s eyes stayed on the road, his voice flat. “You couldn’t have found this place on your own. He set it up. He’ll deal with the consequences.”
“He was trying to help me,” I shot back. “He just wanted me to breathe for once.”
Dmitri’s hands tightened on the wheel. “His job isn’t to make you breathe. It’s to keep you alive.”
I let out a hollow laugh. “Alive? You call this living?”
His jaw flexed, a muscle ticking. “It’s better than being dead because of someone else’s stupidity.”
I turned away, staring out the window, the streetlights blurring into gold streaks. “You’re right,” I said quietly. “Pain’s safer, isn’t it? You’re an expert at that.”
He fell silent, his hands tightening on the wheel, but he didn’t contradict me.
By the time the mansion came into view, my pulse had steadied, though the air between us still felt brittle.
Once inside, he strode through the grand foyer without looking back. I followed, my footsteps echoing after his.
“I’m sure being alone here bores you,” he said finally, his tone measured as he reached for the study door. “Tell me what you’d like to do. I’ll make the arrangements.”
I stopped in my tracks, thrown off by the sudden generosity in his tone. “What I’d like to do?” I echoed, wary.
He faced me then, expression unreadable. “Yes. A hobby. A business. Something to distract you from sneaking off to underground races.”
I crossed my arms. “You make it sound like I’m a child acting out.”
His mouth curved, faint but sharp. “Aren’t you?”
My jaw tightened. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to act out if I didn’t feel caged.”
That made him pause. His gaze softened—barely—but enough to sting. “You think I want you caged?”
“I don’t know what you want.” I admitted, voice low. “But I want something of my own. Something that doesn’t belong to your world.”
He stepped closer, his presence swallowing the space between us. “Name it.”
I hesitated. “Maybe... a restaurant. Something small. I like cooking.”
His brow arched slightly, the faintest flicker of surprise—or amusement. “Cooking?”
“Yes,” I said, forcing confidence into my voice. “It’s simple. Honest. Something that feels... normal.”
He studied me for a long, uncomfortable moment, like he was trying to decide if this was rebellion or sincerity.
“And you’d run it?” he asked finally. “Handle the staff, the finances, the customers?”
“I can,” I said. “I want to.”
He exhaled, a slow drag of sound. “Fine. I’ll make it happen.”
Hope flickered—and then he crushed it as effortlessly as lighting a cigarette.
“But you won’t serve anyone,” he added, tone turning cool again. “Not men. Not at all. You’ll cook, you’ll manage, you’ll watch. That’s all.”
Silence fell between us, thick with things neither of us wanted to name. I wanted to thank him, to hate him, to understand him—but all I could do was nod.
His gaze dropped to my stomach, and I instinctively covered it with my hands, a reflex born of both fear and shame.
My pulse quickened under his silence.
“And you’ll terminate that pregnancy tomorrow,” he said finally, his tone flat. “It’s the only way to save your life, Penelope.”
I blinked, sure I’d misheard. “Excuse me?”
His eyes flicked to mine, cool and steady. “You heard me. I’ve spoken to the doctor. The risk is too high.”