Antonio, my ex.
He lounged there with casual ownership, legs crossed, jacket perfectly tailored, posture relaxed in the way only truly dangerous men ever are. His slow clap echoed softly between us—three deliberate strikes of palm against palm.
Up close, he looked exactly as memory had preserved him: devastatingly handsome in a cruel, polished way. Dark hair slicked back, sharp cheekbones, eyes like obsidian—empty, reflective, merciless.
“Penelope,” he said, savoring my name like a delicacy he’d waited years to taste. “You fooled all of Lake Como.” He smiled, lazy and venomous. “Bravo. Really. Rising from the dead to wed Dmitri Volkov again—impressive, even by my standards.”
My pulse hammered, but my face remained serene. Survival demanded it.
“I see you’ve finally lost the weight,” he went on, gaze raking over me with deliberate contempt. “Though that doesn’t mean my favorite nickname no longer fits, does it... whale?”
The word hit like ice water to the spine.
I tilted my head, confusion carefully painted across my features. “I’m sorry,” I said politely. “Do I know you?”
His smile widened, delighted. “Oh, we’re pretending now? Excellent.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice to something intimate and poisonous. “Tell me, whale—how does it feel to sleep beside a man who thinks you’re dead?”
I said nothing.
“Does he fuck you,” Antonio continued softly, each word calculated for maximum damage, “like he’s trying to resurrect a ghost?”
For a heartbeat, the room blurred. Rage surged—hot, blinding, lethal. Not for myself. For Vanya. For the woman I had been. For the blood I’d lost on concrete while men like him negotiated my worth.
I inhaled once. Slowly.
Then I smiled.
A real one this time. Calm. Cold. Controlled.
“You must have me confused with someone else,” I said lightly. “I don’t discuss my sex life with strangers.”
His eyes flickered—surprise, quickly masked.
“And as for ghosts,” I added, lifting my glass, “the dead have a habit of coming back to haunt men who underestimate them.”
Antonio’s smirk widened—slow, deliberate, venomous—as if my denial only entertained him further.
“Pretend all you want, Penelope,” he murmured. “I dated you for three solid years. I know that face. That body. Those eyes.” His gaze dragged over me with invasive familiarity, stripping me bare beneath silk and diamonds. “You don’t forget a woman you broke.”
My fingers tightened around the stem of my glass until the crystal bit into my skin. I didn’t react. I couldn’t afford to.
“I saw you trying to work Ricci,” he went on, amusement curling through his voice. “Cute. But pointless. He’s far too clever to get dragged into Dmitri Volkov’s little crusade. All this”—he gestured vaguely toward the glittering ballroom—“because of his pathetic devotion to a dead woman. A ghost.”
I said nothing. Silence was armor. Engagement was blood.
Antonio leaned closer, invading my space, his cologne sharp and overpowering. “Ricci will sit back and watch the Volkovs, Orlovs, and Morozovs tear each other apart. And while everyone’s busy bleeding?” His lips curved. “I’ll move.”
My stomach twisted.
“I’ll kidnap you again,” he whispered, relish thick in every syllable. “This time for good. No negotiations. No deadlines. Forever.”
Cold crept up my spine, old fear clawing its way out of buried places. But I kept my voice level, bored even. “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”
Antonio chuckled, unbothered. “The first time I kidnapped you—on the day you nearly lost the baby—Dmitri and I had an agreement. One that had to be fulfilled within forty-eight hours. I held up my end, letting you go. He? He didn’t.” His eyes glittered with cold amusement. “He thought I was weak. Thought his shiny new ex-military dogs could keep you safe... forever.”
He leaned back, satisfaction blooming. “They can—until war starts. Until his attention is elsewhere. Until every guard is watching the wrong enemy.”
I opened my mouth to repeat the denial—to keep playing the fool—
