Chapter 26
PENELOPE
Giovanni parked at the private airstrip.
The morning sun glinted off the blades of a sleek black chopper, waiting like a promise.
“It’ll take you to New York,” he said, his voice gruff but steady.
Then, softer, “Penelope, please—listen to the doctor’s advice.
Don’t do anything that could put the child at risk.
Avoid stress, take your medications faithfully. ”
He paused, the weight of unsaid words hanging between us. “And when you finally have your baby...” His voice faltered for the first time. “Write me a letter. Let me know the baby made it.”
I smirked, leaning back, pretending the weight in my chest didn’t exist. “I could just call you when I finally give birth, you know.”
Without a word, he took my burner phone, his thick fingers surprisingly deft as he entered his number, then handed it back. “Keep it safe,” he said, a trace of softness threading through his gruff tone.
I hesitated, then stepped closer, hugging him tightly.
He stiffened at first, shoulders rigid as stone, but slowly relaxed, wrapping his arms around me.
He was a jerk. A complicit enforcer in Dmitri’s cruelty. Yet... he cared. That acknowledgment made my chest ache, a jagged pang I hadn’t expected.
I pulled back and walked toward the chopper.
Two cabin crew members waited at the steps—a woman with a warm, practiced smile and a tall man with a crisp, professional posture. Their name tags gleamed under the morning light.
“Welcome aboard, Mrs. Volkov,” the woman said, her tone both polite and deferential. “I’m Clara. We’ll make sure your flight is as comfortable as possible.”
Mark, the tall male attendant, took my small bag and stowed it in a compartment, then gestured me into a plush leather seat.
I sank into it, the cushions soft, grounding me.
Clara draped a blanket over my lap and handed me a bottle of water. “We’ll depart in five minutes,” she said, checking the cabin, while Mark ran a final inspection outside.
This isn’t a dream, I thought, buckling my seatbelt.
The click sounded impossibly loud in the quiet cabin, a tether to reality. The rotor blades whirred to life, vibrating beneath me.
I was truly leaving Lake Como.
As the chopper lifted, the villas and lakes shrank into a glittering mosaic, the world below losing its grip on me.
Memories surged—violent, vivid, inescapable.
I remembered the day Dmitri had invited me to what I thought was his wedding—my twenty-fifth birthday.
I’d dressed in my usual shirt and jeans, excitement and disappointment thrumming through me at the thought of watching him marry another woman.
But when I arrived, the truth unfolded like a cruel joke.
I wasn’t a guest. I was the bride—his bride, his captive.
I remembered how he had carried me in his arms—bridal style—onto the plane when I refused to walk after our forced wedding in New York.
I’d fought him, clawed, kicked, screamed that I’d never go with him to Lake Como.
But Dmitri was stronger. He always was. He subdued me effortlessly, my defiance nothing against his will.
And I remembered another time... at the Lupo Nero Club.
A glamorous socialite had mocked me, her words dripping with venom as she ridiculed my body, calling me names that stung.
I’d expected Dmitri to ignore it—to laugh, maybe.
Instead, he’d drawn his gun and shot her without hesitation. Just like that. For me.
I remembered defying him before Lake Como’s elite—exposing our forced marriage in front of the men who revered him, humiliating him in his own world of power and pride.
They had promised me freedom, those officers at Lake Como. I’d believed them, desperate to escape. But I hadn’t known their plan—to sell me to my ex’s family, the same people who had once placed a bounty on my head.
Dmitri didn’t have to come for me after that. Not after I had shamed him so publicly. But he did. He came. He saved me.
My chest tightened, the memory twisting like fire in my veins.
Then came the abandonment—four endless months alone in his sprawling mansion, pregnant and adrift in silence. The marble halls echoed with my footsteps, each sound a cruel reminder of how hollow the place had become without him.
The loneliness was a weight that never lifted, pressing into my chest until breathing felt like a chore. My body changed with each passing day, the secret of my pregnancy pulsing beneath my skin—a heartbeat known only to me.
But the emptiness wasn’t what hurt most. It was her—Seraphina. The ghost he’d tried to hide, the woman who still owned pieces of his heart. He’d lied, denied her, and for that, I could never forgive him.
If I carried this child to term, I vowed he would never claim it. The thought of keeping what was his, yet forever out of his reach, became my quiet act of rebellion—my only power left.
Hours passed, the chopper’s hum a steady, hypnotic lullaby, until New York emerged beneath us, the city lights a warm embrace against the night.
At 8 p.m., the wheels touched down, and my pulse quickened the moment I spotted them—Mom and Nonna—standing near the arrival gate.
Their faces lit up, emotions flickering between disbelief, joy, and something rawer—relief. My chest tightened, my throat constricting with a wave of feelings I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in months.
I ran to them, straight into Mom’s arms. Her jasmine perfume enveloped me, familiar and grounding, pulling me back to a time when the world still made sense.
“Penelope, my baby!” she cried, her voice breaking as she cradled my face between trembling hands, tears streaming freely.
“You’re home... oh, thank God, you’re finally home. ”
Nonna’s thin hands reached for mine, her touch gentle yet desperate, silver hair glinting beneath the airport lights. “My sweet girl,” she whispered, her lips trembling into a smile. “We’ve missed you so terribly. The house hasn’t felt alive since you left.”
“I missed you both,” I whispered, my voice catching as I folded into Nonna’s arms.
Her embrace was soft but fierce, the kind of hug that made you feel small and safe no matter how old you were. “I’m so glad to be back. You don’t even know how much I needed this.”
They guided me toward a sleek black car waiting outside. The leather seats were cool beneath my fingertips as we settled in, the hum of the engine a low, steady comfort.
Isabella’s hand lingered over mine, her thumb brushing gently as her eyes filled with unshed tears.
“Your twenty-fifth birthday,” she said softly, voice trembling.
“You were supposed to cut your cake with us. You said you’d attend Dmitri’s wedding.
.. but you never came back. Not even after midnight. ”
Nonna’s voice joined hers, quiet but heavy with the weight of months of fear.
“Your father sent his men to search every corner of the city. When days turned into weeks, we called everyone we knew. And then—” she hesitated, her wrinkled hands tightening around her rosary— “we found out that monster had taken you to Lake Como. Forced you into marriage.”
“It was torture not knowing where you were,” Isabella whispered, her hands twisting together in her lap. “Every night, I kept thinking—what if he’d killed you?”
I forced a shaky smile, squeezing their hands, letting the warmth of their touch anchor me. “I’m here now,” I said softly. “That’s all that matters. And Isabella...” I gave her a weak grin. “I’m betting you’ve already made a feast to welcome me home.”
She laughed, swiping at her tears with the back of her hand. “Your favorites—lasagna, tiramisu, garlic bread—all waiting for you.”
“And Nonna,” I teased, smiling through my exhaustion, “you’re more beautiful than ever. Age be damned—you’re glowing.”
Nonna chuckled, eyes twinkling with that familiar mix of pride and mischief. “Flatterer. Wait until you taste what we’ve made. You’ll eat until you forget the world.”
For the first time in months, the walls around my heart began to crack.
The car filled with the comforting scent of Nonna’s lavender perfume, the faint hum of the city outside, and the warmth of the women who had raised me.
Home smelled of love, safety, and everything Lake Como had stolen from me.
As the car rolled through the quiet streets toward the Romano estate, I let my head rest against the window, the lights blurring past.
I had escaped one prison—but a new chapter was beginning. And this time, I would live it on my own terms.
At the mansion, I slipped into my old room, the familiar scent of lavender and oak grounding me instantly.
The walls had been freshly painted—a soft cream now, replacing the pale blue I remembered.
A new quilt adorned the bed, its vibrant patterns a splash of color against the muted walls.
On the nightstand, a framed photo of Mom and me at Coney Island smiled back at me, a small, grounding reminder of a life before Lake Como.
I fought thoughts of Dmitri—his touch, his lies—focusing instead on the divorce papers I expected, the tangible proof that I could finally reclaim my life.
In the shower, a sharp pang of panic seized me.
Blood trickled down my thigh, thin and dark, snaking toward the drain.
My chest constricted. Since when? Had it started in the chopper? Or in the car on the way here?
My pulse spiked, dread curling in my stomach. Would this bleeding ever stop? Maybe once I began the medication the Russian doctors prescribed... maybe then it would.
I rinsed quickly, water scalding against my skin, praying Mom and Nonna hadn’t noticed. The thought of their worry—or worse, their questions—made my cheeks burn. I just needed to get out, dry off, and breathe.
Calm down, Penelope. It’s going to be fine... it has to be.
The living room was a feast, a banquet of comfort and care: lasagna layered with rich cheese, garlic bread golden and crisp, tiramisu dusted with cocoa, and a bottle of red wine glinting under the chandelier.
I sank into my chair, inhaling deeply as the aroma of garlic and baked cheese filled the room. “There’s no way I’m finishing all this in five days,” I said, forcing a laugh to mask the knot in my chest.
My stomach growled, betraying me.
Isabella’s laugh rang out—soft, melodic, but tired around the edges. “Then we’ll help you try, sweetheart. You’ve lost weight... it’s time you started eating again.”
Nonna’s fork clinked softly against her plate.
Her gaze lingered on me—searching, heavy with questions she didn’t ask. “You need it after everything,” she said quietly. “Your eyes look... older.”
The words landed like stones. I managed a small smile, blinking back the sting in my eyes. “Guess I missed home cooking.”
Nonna pushed back her chair with a sigh, the weariness in her movements cutting through me. “I should rest. The heart doesn’t hold up well to too many shocks these days. We’ll talk properly later, sì?”
“Go on, Nonna,” I said softly, reaching to squeeze her hand. “We’ve got time now. Plenty of it.”
Her eyes glistened, as though she didn’t quite believe me.
Nonna shuffled off down the hall, her slippers whispering against the tiles, leaving only the quiet hum of the refrigerator between us.
When Isabella finally spoke, her voice was low, deliberate—like a blade sliding from its sheath. “You were bleeding.”
My spoon stopped midair.
The air left my lungs. I’d hoped she hadn’t noticed. “Yeah,” I murmured, forcing steadiness I didn’t feel. “It’s... nothing serious.”
Her gaze didn’t waver. “A miscarriage?”
The word hit me like a slap.
I swallowed hard, eyes on the plate. “No. Just... complications. The doctors said it happens sometimes.”
“We’re going to a hospital tomorrow,” she said, her tone clipped, maternal authority creeping back into her voice. “And I need you to tell me the truth, Penelope—are you pregnant?”
My throat burned.
“Yes,” I whispered. The word hung between us like a confession. “But I don’t want Dmitri to know.”
Something flickered in her eyes—pain, fury, maybe guilt. “Your marriage...” She paused, searching my face, her voice softening just enough to hurt. “It was bad, wasn’t it?”
“What do you expect?” I snapped, a flicker of bitterness cutting through my words. “He kidnapped me. Forced me into his world. Forced me to be his wife. There was no fairytale.”
She watched me, silent, eyes full of questions she didn’t voice. “I thought... you two were... lovers as teenagers?”
“We were,” I admitted, voice low, the memory tasting bitter on my tongue. “But that was before. Before he became the monster who broke me. Before he tried to own every part of me.”
Isabella’s hand hovered over mine, hesitated, then withdrew—a fleeting gesture of comfort I wasn’t sure I deserved.
Her gaze held me, warm yet piercing.