“Blood for blood,” the woman replied simply.
Dmitri’s eyes sharpened. “Define your terms.”
“Bring me the head of any Ferraro family member,” she said. “Deliver it personally to Albania. Then I release the wife.”
Dmitri tilted his head slightly. “You think that’s feasible?”
Ricci pushed himself upright, his face hollow, eyes feral but resolved. “It is,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll bring my brother’s head.”
Even I flinched.
The woman laughed—a short, satisfied sound. “Even better, Ricci Ferraro. I’ll be waiting.”
The line went dead.
Silence crashed down around us.
Dmitri slipped the phone into his pocket with deliberate calm. “You can’t go to Albania alone,” he said. “And your brother’s been dead a year. The Albanians don’t know?”
“They don’t,” Ricci replied dully. “His body was preserved. Frozen. If a head buys her freedom...” His jaw clenched. “I’ll do it.”
“Then I’m coming with you,” Dmitri said without hesitation.
“No.”
The word tore from me before I could stop it—sharp, instinctive, absolute.
Both men turned.
“You will not,” I said, stepping forward, my heart hammering. “This is madness. It’s a trap built on grief and bloodlust. You walk into Albania with a severed head and think you’ll walk out alive?”
Dmitri’s gaze softened—but only for a second. “I won’t let him do this alone.”
“And I won’t let you become a martyr,” I shot back. “Not for revenge. Not for honor.”
Not when he has a son sleeping on his roof who needs him alive.
Dmitri went still.
Albania was a black hole. Even in the twenty-fifth century, parts of it operated like medieval fiefdoms: slavery, blood feuds, no law but vengeance. Men went in; few came out unchanged. I couldn’t lose him. Not the father of my son. Not again.
Ricci met my eyes briefly, something almost grateful flickering there before it hardened into steel. “I don’t need anyone,” he said, voice low and tight. “I’ll save her myself.” He turned, long strides carrying him down the staircase, disappearing into the shadows of the villa without another word.
Dmitri watched him go, jaw tight, one brow raised as if calculating some unseen equation. “If Ricci joins our war,” he said finally, voice clipped, “he’s putting his life on the line willingly. Yet you think it’s too dangerous for me to go to Albania and bring his wife home?”
“What if they refuse to let you leave?” I countered, voice low but sharp. “You heard her—blood for blood. They have a grudge against the Ferraros. They could chain you too, just like they did her. Or worse.”
He stepped closer, the terrace lights cutting shadows across his face, highlighting the hard angles I’d memorized long ago. “You think I’d walk in there blind? Without leverage? I’m not that reckless, Pen. I never have been.”
I exhaled shakily, trying to steady my racing pulse. “Then at least advise Ricci not to go alone. These people—they hate his family enough to kill anyone who steps in. He doesn’t have your resources, your army, your reach.”
Dmitri’s expression darkened, and I caught the flash of old pain in his eyes. “Every fortress has cracks,” he said slowly, voice low, almost haunted. “My late wife... she was kidnapped on this very soil. By her ex. Right under everyone’s noses. The only real safety is fewer enemies. Make too many, and no army in the world can guard you twenty-four hours a day. Sooner or later... they find a way.”
His words settled over me like a cold wave, heavy and unyielding.
The night air had grown cooler; the distant music from the gala faded, leaving only the soft lapping of the lake against the shore and the whisper of wind through the cypress trees.
Dmitri glanced at his watch. “It’s late. Vanya will be missing you.”
