“For an ordinary woman, yes,” he agreed. “For someone under Ruslan Baranov’s protection? No.”
My eyes flicked up sharply.
“She lived quietly under Ruslan’s protection. She wasn’t the only one. We all know Ruslan Baranov’s reputation—he findspeople at the point of collapse and reforges them. New names. New lives. New spines.”
His gaze held mine. “The way he did for you.”
The words landed with surgical precision.
After my mother’s murder.
After the foster family I’d trusted sold me to my enemies. After I’d crawled out of that hillside half-dead, soaked in blood that wasn’t all mine.
Ruslan had found me then.
Had turned me into something that survived.
“What about contact?” I asked, my voice neutral by sheer force of will.
“I’ve tried contacting Ruslan,” Giovanni said. “Repeatedly. His assistant stonewalls everyone. Reaching Ruslan Baranov directly is nearly impossible unless he decides the conversation is worth having.”
I stared down at the dark wood of the desk, at the faint scar near the edge where Penelope had once slammed her hand in an argument and then laughed at herself for losing her temper. The memory cut deeper than any blade.
“Any rational man,” he said slowly, “would assume this woman is Penelope. That she survived. That Ruslan helped her disappear the way he helped you.” Giovanni didn’t hesitate. “But you don’t believe that.”m
“I watched her die,” I said, each word dragging itself up from somewhere deep and rotten.
“She took a bullet for me, just minutes after giving birth. They admitted her to the hospital, removed the bullets, and I stayed by her side every single day, every single moment—barely alive myself, praying constantly for Penelope to recover, promising I would make up for every wrong I’d done.”
“The doctors told me the chances were grim—the bullet had struck her femoral artery, a delicate spot. One night,while holding her hand in that hospital room, chaos erupted. Gunshots. Since New Jersey wasn’t my territory, her father’s men had the upper hand. And I... I watched the machines flatline as she panicked at the sound of the shots. I saw the blood. Saw her skin turn gray.”
My throat tightened despite myself.
“And then her father’s men stormed in and took her body,” I continued, voice low and ragged. “I thought it was vengeance. A final cruelty. Denying me even the right to bury her.
Giovanni shifted his weight, a barely audible hiss escaping him as the movement tugged at the bandage wrapped tight around his shoulder.
He masked the pain quickly—he always did—but I’d known him too long not to notice.
“Are you certain those men were Marco’s?” he asked, voice measured, careful. “Think about it, boss. Marco Romano never gave a damn about Penelope herself. Not really. He cared about bloodlines. About the grandson she carried. That was always his obsession.”
I stayed silent, letting him continue.
Giovanni pressed. “And Marco took a bullet from you just days ago. You hit him clean. A man bleeding out doesn’t assemble a surgical extraction team in under a week. And if the bullet struck Penelope’s femoral artery—the main artery along the thigh—have you even examined her body for the wound?” Giovanni’s voice was cold, relentless.
“If there’s a mark along her femoral artery, then she is Penelope. It’s the easiest way to see if she’s been deceiving us.”
My jaw tightened.
“My money’s on Ruslan,” Giovanni finished. “He staged it. All of it. This woman is Penelope and Vanya is yours.”
I exhaled slowly, forcing the breath through lungs that felt too tight. “There are differences,” I said at last. “The way Penmoves. The cadence of her voice when she’s angry. Sometimes she looks at me like she’s seeing a stranger.”
Giovanni didn’t hesitate. “Five years will do that.”
He glanced at the desk, at the crystal ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, one still burning down to the filter.
“You quit smoking for her once,” he added quietly. “Cold turkey. Threw the packs into the fire yourself because her asthma made you nervous. Now?” His eyes lifted to mine. “Now the ashtray is never empty. Try smoking near her—see if she can even stand it. That’s another way to tell if she’s really Penelope—or lying.”
