Chapter 28
PENELOPE
Then, shaking, I grabbed my burner phone and dialed Giovanni’s number. The line rang—once, twice, thrice—then fell silent. I tried again. And again. Nothing.
Had I misdialed?
Had he blocked me?
Panic coiled in my stomach like smoke, tightening with every failed attempt. I had no money, no resources, no one to turn to.
I sank back against the bed, clutching the quilt, my mind spinning.
Fragments of erased memories, suppressed horrors, the darkness of Lake Como—they suddenly felt safer. At least there, I understood my enemies. Here... my enemies were my parents. The thought of memory manipulation, of someone wielding the power to wipe pieces of my life, chilled me to the bone.
With trembling hands, I dragged my bag closer and began repacking, fingers shaking so violently I nearly dropped everything. As I zipped a side pocket, something gleamed in the dim light—a black credit card, embossed with DMITRI VOLKOV.
My chest tightened.
He’d left it in my bag—a silent message. A lifeline. Freedom without him. Relief should have surged, but it didn’t. Instead, grief struck like a fist.
He was truly done with me: no apology, no farewell, no chance to reclaim what we had lost.
I pressed the card to my chest, my fingers curling around the edges. “Is that it?” I whispered aloud, my voice rough. “Is this all I get? A card? A number? A way to survive without you?” My voice rose in frustration, cracking. “After everything... after what we lost... this is it?”
I laughed then, a bitter, hollow sound, shaking my head. “You left me a card, and nothing more. You didn’t even say you’re sorry. You... you just... sent me away.”
Tears streaked down my face, furious, blurring the world into molten light. I pressed the black card against my forehead, its edge biting into my skin like a brand. My voice broke in the empty room, shaking.
“You think this fixes anything?” I hissed. “You think money erases what you did to me? What they did to me?” My fingers curled around the card until it bent, trembling. “This doesn’t make you redeemable, Dmitri. You can’t buy forgiveness. You can’t buy me back.”
A shudder ran through me.
I swallowed hard, voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m alone. I always have been.”
My fingers trembled over the card.
I couldn’t stay. Not here. Not with parents who had drugged me, used me, killed for power.
Nightfall came, the mansion’s lights dimming, guards’ voices fading to murmurs.
I remembered the paths I’d taken as a teenager, sneaking out to meet Dmitri under the moon, dodging my father’s security with a mixture of fear and thrill.
Tonight, I would do the same—but this time, survival and freedom were at stake.
At midnight, I moved.
Small bag slung over my shoulder, every step silent, every breath measured.
I crept to a side window in the hallway, its glass cold against my fingers. Fingers trembling, I grabbed a letter opener from my desk and pried it open. The frame groaned, protesting, and my stomach twisted with fear that a guard might hear, that everything would be over before it began.
I slipped onto the grass below, the night air biting through my gown, making it cling to my arms and legs.
The mansion rose behind me, black and monolithic, like a prison I had finally managed to leave.
I froze for a moment, listening. Nothing but the distant murmur of voices and the rustle of leaves.
I moved like a shadow along the perimeter, hugging walls, keeping to the darkest areas, every muscle coiled and alert.
Security lamps painted bright circles on the lawn ahead, and I timed my movements between them, sliding past in silence.
A guard’s low laugh drifted to me, punctuated by the faint glow of a cigarette ember.
I pressed myself into the cold stone of the mansion’s wall, my breath shallow, trying to vanish into the darkness.
A rosebush snagged my gown, thorns tearing at the fabric, petals sticking to damp skin.
Pain flared, but I didn’t stop.
Only when I crossed the boundary of my father’s estate — when the mansion’s hulking silhouette sank behind me into the night — did I let out the breath I’d been holding for hours.
My legs trembled so hard it felt like they might fold beneath me, but I forced each step forward.
Behind me lay manipulation, betrayal, and cold-blooded murder; ahead lay nothing but uncertainty, survival, and the slim, stubborn promise that Dmitri’s child might one day grow up beyond their corruption.
My lungs burned and my chest tightened, but something in me clenched harder still — a small, fierce resolve.
For a moment I let myself think the word aloud: free. For now.
I paused on the empty street, my father’s mansions standing like black sentinels, windows shuttered, gardens manicured to the point of cruelty.
The betrayal sat under my ribs like a live coal: my parents had shaped me into a weapon, erased pieces of my past, and destroyed the only love I’d ever known.
Anger and grief flared hot and raw.
But under them all, a different heat steadied me — the life inside me. For him, for her, I would survive. I would fight.
I needed to know if Dmitri’s card would actually buy me that future.
The neon glow of the ATM sliced through the darkness, harsh and accusing, casting long shadows across the empty Brooklyn street.
My hands trembled so violently the black card—embossed with Dmitri Volkov’s name—slid slightly in my grip. It felt heavier than any suitcase I had ever carried.
A lifeline, yes—but also a verdict. His final act, a silent severance, and its weight pressed down on me with every heartbeat, each pulse a reminder that I was alone.
Every small sound — a dog barking, a car rolling by, a distant voice — tightened my shoulders.
Vulnerable, exposed, I fed the card into the slot, my hands trembling as if the machine itself might betray me.
Every nerve screamed, every memory clawed at me, but I forced my fingers to move.
The screen flickered to life, demanding a PIN.
I tried my birthday first, numbers flowing from muscle memory, but the machine spat back failure.
My stomach sank, a cold, hollow weight.
Desperation clawed at me.
I pressed the digits of a day etched deeper than any calendar, the first time Dmitri had kissed me beneath the old oak tree, the memory seared into my soul.
The machine whirred.
Lights flashed.
My balance appeared.
My breath caught.
Enough.
Enough to vanish, to escape, to breathe without fear.
I withdrew a small stack of crisp bills, their edges sharp.
The notes burned warmth into my palm, a concrete proof of freedom.
I slipped the card back into my bag like a talisman, a lifeline tethered to a man who both ruined and saved me.
I hailed a cab, the driver indifferent, cigarette smoke curling from the open window like ghostly fingers.
I slid inside, voice low, giving him the address of Penn Station.
New York receded behind me—the looming towers, the suffocating weight of my parents’ empire pressing like stone against my chest.
At Penn Station, I purchased the next train ticket to New Jersey, choosing instinctively a place far from my father’s reach, far from the Romano empire’s shadow.
The train smelled of damp concrete and polished metal, a faint undercurrent of stale coffee lingering in the air.
I sank into a window seat, the carriage nearly empty save for a few late-night travelers, their presence a faint reassurance of life continuing outside my personal chaos.
I was alone.
Truly alone.
No husband, no family, no friends.
Dmitri’s betrayal, Seraphina’s shadow, My parents’ monstrous truths. Each one had stripped away another piece of me until nothing remained but skin, breath, and the faint thrum of a life growing inside me.
My hand found my belly, trembling, protective—the only warmth left in a world gone cold.
My face in the glass looked like a stranger’s—pale, hollow-eyed, barely holding together.
I pressed my forehead to the window, feeling the vibration of the tracks beneath me, each mile pulling me further from the cage I’d called home... and deeper into the unknown.
And though the night felt endless, I pressed my hand to my belly and whispered, soft and cracked but certain.
“We’ll survive this,” I said to the child who would never know the monsters I’d left behind. “You and me. Together.”
I traced the curve of my belly through my gown, as if the movement of my fingers could soothe the panic coiling inside me.
Around me, passengers dozed or scrolled on their phones, oblivious to the storm inside me.
I envied their ignorance.
The train slowed into a station, lights flickering across the darkened platform.
I gathered my bag and stepped down, the chill of the night pressing against my skin.
For a brief, foolish second, I glanced over my shoulder, half-expecting to see Dmitri there—the tailored black suit, the unreadable eyes, the way he filled a room with his presence.
The thought of him finding me both terrified and tempted me.
I wanted him to come, to storm through the darkness and pull me back—but I also wanted him to stay far away. Because if my father’s men found me first, there would be no mercy.
The city beyond was quiet at this hour, streets slick with rain, neon reflections shimmering on wet asphalt.
I hailed a cab, the driver’s face a shadow beneath the streetlamp, and gave him the address of a small, unassuming apartment I’d scouted earlier—a modest place, but far enough from the reach of my father’s empire.
Inside, the apartment smelled faintly of mildew and old wood.
I locked the door behind me and let my bag fall onto the floor.
I sank onto the threadbare couch, exhausted, but sleep eluded me.
I traced the lines of the apartment: a kitchenette with chipped tiles, a small bedroom barely large enough for a twin bed, a bathroom with a flickering light. It wasn’t much, but it was mine, for now.
I sank onto the bed, every muscle taut, my body trembling with exhaustion and the echo of fear. My hand pressed against my belly, tracing the soft, almost imperceptible rise beneath my fingers, a fragile rhythm tethering me to the world.
“You’re safe now,” I murmured, my voice barely more than a breath. “I’ll keep you safe. I swear it.”
The burner phone blinked faintly in my palm, its dying light flickering like a heartbeat on the verge of stopping. I hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen before pressing call. Giovanni’s number.
Straight to voicemail.
Again.
And again.
By the fourth try, the silence on the other end felt louder than a scream.
I bit down on my lip until I tasted the metallic tang of blood.
My breath shuddered as I scrolled to Alexei’s contact — the last ghost of Dmitri’s world I hadn’t severed. My thumb hovered, then pressed record.
“Alexei,” I said, the name catching in my throat. “It’s Penelope. I’m in New Jersey. I need the divorce papers expedited. Please... help me end this.”
The message sent.
The silence that followed was deafening — heavy enough to crush what little courage I had left.
From my bag, I pulled the small foil packet the Russian doctors had given me. My fingers trembled as I peeled it open, the pills glinting under the dull yellow light.
For a long moment, I just stared — wondering if they’d really help, or just numb me enough not to care.
I swallowed the evening dose dry. The bitterness clung to my throat, spreading like ink.
Lying back, I stared at the cracked ceiling.
My mother’s voice replayed in my head The words tangled in my skull, a haunting chorus I couldn’t silence.
The medication crept in slowly, fogging the sharp edges of thought, but the ache beneath my ribs refused to fade.
Memories of my last night with Dmitri crashed over me like a tidal wave.
The way I had given myself to him without hesitation, moving against him with desperate need.
My hands clung to his shoulders like he was the only thing keeping me grounded.
His eyes never left mine, dark and burning, watching every shiver, every breath, as if I was the only thing that existed in his world.
How he had held me so close I could feel the steady beat of his heart against mine. How he had begged me to stay in his embrace, as if the world could vanish around us, and refused to let go even after I awoke, stubborn and trembling.
How, for the first time since our marriage, he had slept beside me like a child, his body relaxed and weighty, seeking the same safety and closeness I had always feared to give.
He had killed my uncles for what they’d done to me—truth buried in the fractured corners of my mind—yet he’d still sent me away... for Seraphina.
The woman who preserved his empire.
And shattered me in the process.
I was no longer his wife.
I was Penelope—carrying a life pure and untainted, a fragile pulse that deserved a world free from the scars he had left behind.
I pushed off the bed, pacing the narrow room.
The carpet scratched against my bare feet—rough, grounding, real.
I needed to think.
The fortune on that black card wasn’t salvation—it was danger disguised as wealth.
Dmitri’s men could trace it.
My father could smell it.
Every dollar carried blood on its surface.
I stopped by the window, pushed it open. The night air cut through the stale heat of the room.
New Jersey stretched before me—neon-lit streets, faceless people, a new city that knew nothing of Penelope Volkov.
A blank canvas.
But freedom, I realized, was heavier than chains.