Chapter 11 #2
Elena, my secretary, had briefed me earlier with her usual clipped professionalism — explaining inventory protocols, reservation hierarchies, and the unwritten rules of serving Lake Como’s most dangerous clientele.
She was efficient, detached, neither warm nor cold. I couldn’t tell if she liked me.
Not that it mattered. Respect would come later.
For now, I needed to survive the day without another scandal.
I was heading toward the front-of-house counter — the main hub where staff processed orders — when a young server hurried toward me, apron slightly askew, eyes wide.
“Ma’am,” he said breathlessly, “a customer’s causing a scene. Says the food’s subpar. We tried calming them down, but they’re not having it.”
I drew a slow breath, centering myself.
My palms still itched from where I’d struck Damian.
Good. I could use that fire.
“Lead the way,” I said, my pulse quickening — not with fear this time, but focus.
As I crossed the dining area, I forced my steps into measured calm.
The dining area was a vibrant tableau of Lake Como’s elite.
I spotted the commotion immediately — a small ripple of discomfort in an otherwise well-oiled room.
The young server who’d fetched me was whispering apologies to a patron whose posture alone screamed authority.
Even before I reached him, I could feel it — the kind of energy that made people lower their voices and measure their movements.
As we approached the table, my stomach clenched.
There, in a sharp charcoal suit, sat Alexei.
Dmitri’s brother.
His tattooed hands rested loosely on the table beside a half-eaten plate of grilled octopus, and his gaze, lazy but sharp, cut through the din like glass.
The female server beside him looked flustered, her cheeks pink, her eyes flicking to me as if begging to be saved.
I dismissed her with a calm nod. “It’s fine. I’ll handle this.”
She scurried away.
“Mr. Alexei,” I said evenly, schooling my tone into something neutral. “We’re deeply sorry if the dish didn’t meet your expectations.”
His hazel eyes flicked to the retreating staff, then back to me — assessing, cool, and unmistakably amused.
“Sit,” he said. Not asked — ordered.
I blinked. “Sit?” My voice hardened. “You realize I’m the manager here, not your waitress, right? Why would I sit with you?”
A ghost of a smirk touched his lips. “Because I wouldn’t say what I’m about to say twice.”
Something in his tone made my chest tighten. I stayed standing, jaw set.
He exhaled slowly, his eyes steady on mine. “Your uncles, Rocco and Carlo,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “have been murdered.”
The world stilled.
The chatter. The jazz. Even the low hum of the kitchen beyond the double doors. Everything went silent, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.
My fingers twitched at my side, “Oh my God,” I whispered, sinking into the chair across from him to keep from collapsing.
Tears burned my eyes, glittering under the soft amber lights as grief crashed over me like a tidal wave.
Uncle Rocco — always smelling of espresso and cigar smoke, with a grin that could light up the darkest room. He’d lift me onto his shoulders during the summer parades, waving at strangers like we owned the whole block, shouting that family was the only crown worth wearing.
Uncle Carlo—always the softer one, who’d sneak me extra scoops of pistachio gelato and wink conspiratorially when my father wasn’t looking.
Those memories—those fragments of something good—bled into the nightmare that had haunted me.
Uncle Rocco’s grin twisting into a leer.
Uncle Carlo’s warmth curdling into something vile.
And that faceless third figure—towering, familiar, monstrous.
I pressed a shaking hand to my mouth. The contrast was unbearable, the dissonance sharp enough to split me in two.
“Why?” I rasped finally, lifting my gaze to Alexei. “Why were they killed? Was there a war... a hit?”
He leaned forward, forearms resting on the table, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that slid over me like silk and ice.
“Dmitri’s fingerprints were found on both bodies.”
The air left my lungs in a violent rush.
Alexei didn’t stop. “They were tortured—methodically. Whoever did it wanted them to suffer. Tell me, Penelope, who else would have the access, the power, the precision to make that happen if not Dmitri?”
My pulse thundered in my ears. “You’re saying he killed them? My uncles?”
He leaned back slightly, studying me. “I’m saying he wanted you to bleed without touching you. Killing your family... that sounds like Dmitri’s kind of message.”
My throat constricted.
Dmitri.
The man whose obsession burned darker than love—and whose hatred had nearly destroyed me.
“He wouldn’t,” I whispered, but the denial wavered, fragile as glass.
Alexei tilted his head, his gaze unwavering. “Wouldn’t he?” he said softly. “He’s never been a man of mercy, Penelope. You should know that better than anyone.”
My chest caved, a silent implosion that left me trembling.
Sorrow and fury carved themselves into my face as I met his eyes. “No,” I snapped, shaking my head. “He wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t!”
“They were my uncles—my blood. Whatever their sins, they didn’t deserve to die like animals.” My throat tightened as I forced the words out. “He had no right... no right to take them from me.”
If it were true—if this monster, Dmitri, had taken my uncles from me, no matter what sins they’d committed—then what was left of me he hadn’t already broken? And what chance did I, or the child growing inside me, have against him?
A new fear coiled in my gut, darker and colder than before.
“What will you do now, Penelope?” Alexei asked, his tone careful, like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear me say it.
I looked up, tears streaking down my face. “What do you mean?”
He leaned in, close enough that I could smell the faint trace of smoke and iron on his skin.
“You’re not safe here,” he murmured. “Not with him. Not after this. Dmitri doesn’t forgive, he doesn’t forget—he removes. And you...” His lips curved faintly, not a smile but something sharper. “You’re the last loose thread he needs to cut.”
I shivered, but before I could speak, he continued, his tone dipping low, coaxing. “Let me help you. You don’t have to fight him alone. You’ve already lost too much to his madness.”
I should have pulled away. Probably should’ve dismissed him. But my mind was spinning, and the ground beneath me felt like it was fracturing.
“What are you suggesting?” I whispered.
His lips curved—not a smile, but something sharper. “Escape. I can help you disappear. You still have my number, don’t you?”
My pulse stuttered.
“I can get you out,” he said, lowering his voice until it was barely audible. “Out of Italy, out of Dmitri’s reach. But you know how this works, printsessa... trust is the currency that buys freedom.”