Chapter 12 #2
The day passed in a blur of motion and noise.
The kitchen throbbed with energy—a symphony of organized chaos.
At the bar, Lake Como’s elite lounged under amber lights. Beneath the glamour, the undertone was unmistakable.
The subtle exchange of envelopes. The quiet nods between men who didn’t need to speak. The way the staff instinctively looked away at certain moments.
The world I’d married into bled into everything, even here.
By closing time, my muscles screamed from the constant tension.
When the last table cleared and the music faded, I slipped away to the staff bathroom.
The shower was hot, almost scalding, steam curling around me like a cocoon. For a few precious minutes, the day’s noise dissolved—the voices, the chaos, the constant awareness of who might be watching.
It had been grueling. And yet... exhilarating. The kind of exhaustion that came with purpose, not punishment. For the first time in months, I’d felt in control of something—if only a restaurant floor instead of my life.
But as I dried off and dressed, Elena’s voice replayed in my head, uninvited.
She looks almost exactly like you.
Seraphina.
The name refused to die down. It pulsed at the back of my mind, steady and cold, like a second heartbeat.
Elena’s strange composure, her sister’s sudden visit—it all felt too deliberate.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror, droplets sliding down my neck, my face half-veiled by steam. For a fleeting moment, I could almost see another outline behind my own—fainter, softer. Then my gaze drifted lower.
There it was.
Barely noticeable beneath the towel’s edge, but undeniable—the faint swell of a life I’d been pretending not to see.
I pressed a trembling hand against the curve.
Dmitri hasn’t spoken about getting rid of the baby again. I don’t know what stopped him—he never forgets. But whatever it is, it’s protecting me for now. I just hope it continues to.
I tore my gaze away from the mirror and grabbed my clothes, forcing my hands to move, to do something before my thoughts swallowed me whole.
The name still echoed through my mind—Seraphina.
Stepping out into the cool evening air, I was ready to leave the day behind when a horrific sight stopped me cold.
A man, bloodied and lifeless, was lashed to a rusted lamppost just outside La Sirena’s entrance, his right hand severed at the wrist, the stump a gruesome mess of torn flesh and bone.
His head hung low, his tattered shirt soaked crimson, the pavement below stained dark.
A placard dangled from his chest, the words scrawled in stark black ink: “Whoever touches what’s mine, with or without consent, dies first.”
My stomach churned, bile rising as fear gripped me, my heart pounding so loudly I could barely hear the distant hum of the city.
Who would stage such a brutal display? And why here, at my doorstep?
Then I saw him.
Giovanni stood beside a sleek black SUV, leaning casually against the door as if this carnage were just another night in Lake Como. The bandages were gone from his leg, though he still favored one side.
His scarred face was unreadable, eyes flat and cold.
Relief at seeing him twisted with dread.
He pushed off the car and limped toward me, his voice low, almost conversational.
“Dmitri did it,” he said, nodding toward the corpse. “Cut off his hand and left him here while you were inside. The guy groped you earlier.”
For a heartbeat, I couldn’t move. Couldn’t think.
The words blurred before my eyes, the world narrowing to the mangled thing hanging from the post.
The man who claimed to despise me, who said he married me only to avenge what he thought my family had done to him—had torn another man apart in the street as if human life meant nothing.
For touching me.
My stomach twisted violently; I turned and braced myself against the stone wall, forcing back a wave of nausea.
This wasn’t love. This was ownership—blood-soaked and absolute.
Giovanni gestured at the placard, a grim smile tugging at his mouth.
“Didn’t you read the warning he scrawled on the placard? The one hanging off that dead boy?”
I had—but it hadn’t crossed my mind that Dmitri himself had written it.
The message hit harder the second time:
Whoever touches what’s mine, with or without consent, dies first.
Every letter dripped with his brand of control—his madness written in ink instead of blood.
Damian Morozov had been a sleaze earlier, leering at me from across my desk, his words slick with arrogance, his eyes crawling over me like hands. And just when I thought he was finally leaving, he proved what he was—smacking my backside like I existed for his amusement.
Apparently, Dmitri had seen it all.
My stomach twisted. How many hours did he spend watching me?
How long had I been performing under his invisible gaze—every smile, every step, every breath recorded for his satisfaction?
Did he even sleep, or did he just sit somewhere in the dark, studying me like I was the only thing left in his world?
But this?
Dismemberment and death?
My mind reeled, torn between horror at the savagery and a sick, shameful flicker of satisfaction that Dmitri had acted so ruthlessly to “protect” me.
The duality made me nauseous. My hands shook as I fought to look anywhere but at the mutilated body.
When I finally found my voice, it came out hoarse.
“He... killed him for that?”
Giovanni’s shrug was almost careless. “You know how he gets. Especially when it’s you.”
The words slid under my skin like ice.
Especially when it’s you.
I looked at the corpse again—its lifeless weight not just a warning, but a claim.
Dmitri hadn’t punished a stranger. He’d made a statement.
He’d marked territory. Mine.
The need to run—truly run—hit me with blinding clarity.
“He didn’t have to go this far,” I whispered, my gaze fixed on the pavement, refusing to meet the corpse’s vacant stare.
Giovanni gave another indifferent shrug. “No one tells Dmitri what to do—or how to react.”
“He’s declared war on the Morozovs,” I said, my voice hollow. “He killed their only heir—publicly humiliated him. They’ll come for blood.”
“Yeah,” Giovanni replied, almost casual, as if war were just another Tuesday.
Then, with a faint smirk: “So... how was your first day?”