“Finally—finally—he was about to marry a bride worthy of him, and now this disaster? Poor Seraphina, she didn’t deserveany of it. She belongs in Lake Como. Not like that American mistake they buried... the one who should’ve been shopping in a Walmart aisle, not walking down a Volkov aisle.”
“He only married that American because she got pregnant. Lost the baby, lost her purpose... no wonder she killed herself. And now—our Seraphina, the one who belongs here—fainting on this glorious day? Absolutely scandalous.”
Each word carved another strip from my skin, leaving raw, bleeding anxiety behind.
It’s no surprise that most people here despise Americans—whether from envy, low self-esteem, or some twisted sense of tradition. But to feel it burn for me... even five years after my ‘death’... it tugs at my heart in ways I can’t fully name.
I tasted coppery blood on my tongue—bitten through my lip in silent fury.
They were carrying Seraphina out now—six men hoisting her limp body like a shattered puppet, her cathedral-length veil dragging across the marble like surrender incarnate.
Her father roared orders, veins straining, his face mottled red with terror and rage.
Dmitri simply stood at the altar, hands loose at his sides, eyes cold and detached, watching the tableau unfold as if he were observing a chess piece topple on the board.
I turned to pull Vanya close—and the pew beside me was empty.
Ice coiled through my veins. Panic clawed at my throat.
I whipped around—heart hammering against my ribs—and there he was: a tiny, determined figure in navy weaving between giant men like a comet hurtling toward its target. His curls bounced, dark eyes blazing with the same stubborn fire I knew so well. My breath caught.
No. God, no.
I half-rose, terror and desperation warring inside me. If I stood fully, Dmitri would see me. Giovanni would see me. Every single eye in the cathedral would see Penelope Volkov—alive, standing where a ghost was supposed to remain.
I sank back into the pew, nails biting fresh crescents into my palms.
Vanya reached the altar steps. Reached Dmitri’s leg. Tugged hard on the midnight-blue trousers with all his five-year-old might.
“Papa!” he cried, voice sharp and pure, reverberating across the vaulted ceiling.
Dmitri’s head snapped down. Storm-grey eyes locking on the small figure clinging to his ankle. For the first time that evening, the ice around him fractured, microseconds of raw recognition flickering across the marble features.
His breath hitched imperceptibly.
I leapt from the pew, heart thundering. “Vanya! Stop!” I screamed, but my voice was drowned by the gasps and cries of the onlookers.
Dmitri’s eyes widened, just a fraction, but enough to send a shiver down my spine.
Recognition, shock, disbelief—it all collided there, raw and unguarded, before the mask snapped back into place.
His jaw clenched, a muscle jumping violently as his gaze swept from Vanya to me.
“Vanya!” I hissed under my breath, lunging forward, but the boy’s small hands clung to Dmitri’s trouser leg like a lifeline.
He was fearless, utterly unaware of the enormity of the moment—or perhaps too aware, his instincts telling him this man was his father.
The cathedral erupted into whispers, the organ stuttering under the collective gasp.
Guests shifted uneasily, nobles and mafiosi alike leaning forward, craning to see the anomaly—a child at the altar, a woman in black at the back, breathing life into a corpse’s legend.
Dmitri froze. His hands flexed at his sides, and for a fraction of a heartbeat, I saw it: the same vulnerability that had once drawn me to him, the ache of love buried under grief, fury, and pride.
He stepped forward, slow, deliberate, his dark eyes never leaving Vanya’s small, determined face.
“Vanya...” His voice was low, hesitant, almost unfamiliar, as if the words themselves were foreign in his mouth.
My stomach twisted.
