I drew in a shaky breath, placing a tentative hand against his arm. “You two... have history?”
Dmitri’s face hardened further, the shadows in the ballroom amplifying every line of anger etched into his features. “He kidnapped my late wife,” he said, voice rough, ragged with memory and old rage. “She was pregnant. I spared him thenbecause of a deal with his family—a temporary truce. But I warned him: stay away, or there would be no mercy next time.”
The words landed like a physical blow.Pregnant.
My throat tightened. I swallowed, forcing my voice into something even and detached. “I’m... sorry,” I murmured, letting myself collapse back into the chair, legs unsteady beneath me.
Dmitri followed, looming above me. The air seemed heavier where he stood. “What did he say to you?”
I met his gaze, steadying my voice with effort. “That I looked like someone he used to know,” I lied smoothly, letting my tone suggest casual dismissal. “I told him he was mistaken.”
Dmitri’s eyes narrowed, scanning every twitch of my expression, every breath.
He studied me for a long, silent moment before giving the faintest nod. “He won’t come near you again.” His hand extended—solid, grounding, possessive. “Come.”
I took it without hesitation, letting him pull me to my feet. His warmth pressed into me, anchoring the storm of fear and old memories churning inside.
Together, we moved through the glittering throng.
Whispers floated like smoke: curious sidelong glances, knowing smiles, subtle head tilts. The entire room seemed to sense the Volkov 's presence—the mysterious bride, the whispered rumors of a three-month contract, the pulse of power circulating through every crystal chandelier and polished floor.
Dmitri guided me toward a side door, his hand firm at the small of my back. I felt the protective weight of him in every step. Just as his fingers closed around the handle, it swung open from the other side.
Ricci Ferraro stepped through, flanked by four men whose presence shifted the air like a cold front. They were unmistakably Colombian cartel—tailored linen suits in whiteand cream, heavy gold watches catching the light, intricate tattoos just visible at collars and wrists. Their eyes were flat, calculating, the kind that had seen everything and felt nothing.
“Dmitri,” Ricci said warmly, extending his hand with genuine, practiced charm.
Dmitri shook it briefly, his other hand resting protectively at my back, an unspoken warning in the subtle shift of his stance. The crowd gave the pair a wide berth, sensing the gravity of the interaction.
Ricci gestured toward his companions, each standing like statues of quiet menace. “Allow me to introduce my new partners: Señor Castillo, Señor Vega, Señor Montoya, and Señor Ramirez—patriarchs of the most respected cartels in Medellín and Cali. They’ve arrived to discuss expansion. Clean product routes through our ports, joint investments in security, and a percentage of our legitimate shipping ventures. With their backing, Lake Como becomes a gateway to Europe—untouchable, prosperous. No more petty turf wars. Real money. Real power.”
Each man nodded with precise politeness, their accents thick but English flawless, the subtle menace in their stance suggesting lethal efficiency at a moment’s notice.
“That sounds... promising,” Dmitri replied, measured, approving, every syllable deliberate, keeping his cards close.
Ricci’s smile sharpened, keen and knowing. “We should speak further before the night ends. With your wife present, of course.”
Dmitri’s gaze flicked to me, a fleeting acknowledgment of my role in this delicate dance of power. “We should,” he agreed. His hand lingered lightly at my back, grounding and unyielding—the subtle reminder that I was part of his world now, whether I liked it or not.
Ricci inclined his head once, the gesture smooth and deliberate, and moved on. The Colombians followed in silent formation, their presence receding like a closing door.
Dmitri didn’t wait for the hum of the ballroom to reclaim us. He steered me through the side door and up a narrow private staircase tucked behind the villa’s grand façade. Each step pulled us farther from the noise, from the lies and laughter and veiled threats, until only the night remained.
The terrace opened above us like a secret. Cool air kissed my skin, scented with lake water and pine. Below, Lake Como stretched black and endless, stars shattered across its surface like scattered coins.
The villa’s music drifted up in fragments, muffled and distant, as if belonging to another world entirely.
We took seats on high wrought-iron stools beside a small marble table. Dmitri didn’t sit at first. He leaned against the balustrade, one arm braced behind him, gaze fixed on the water as if it might answer questions he hadn’t yet voiced.
I studied him in the quiet. The tension in his shoulders hadn’t eased; it had merely changed shape.
“You respect Ricci,” I said at last.
He didn’t look at me. “Yes.”
The single word carried weight. I pressed gently. “Why?”
Dmitri exhaled, slow and measured. “He’s intelligent. Disciplined. He earned his position through work and strategy—not inheritance and tantrums like the Morozov and Orlov heirs.” His mouth curved into something sharp, humorless. “He’s brutal when necessary, but never wasteful. That kind of control commands respect.”
