That single utterance—his name from his lips—was a dagger coated in honey.
Vanya’s hands remained firm, but he glanced up at me, confusion and defiance battling in his gaze. “But... Papa!” he said, voice trembling with the mix of awe and indignation unique to a five-year-old who had discovered his father mid-story. “Why are you marrying her? Why not us?”
Dmitri’s chest rose and fell sharply.
His eyes darted to me, a single flicker of the man I had once loved breaking through the armor of Pakhan.
The room seemed to shrink around us, the whispers fading into a dull hum. For the first time in years, he was unarmed—not in body, but in spirit—facing the living proof of the life he’d abandoned.
Vanya tightened his grip on Dmitri’s trouser, his small brows drawn together in fierce determination. “I don’t care about weddings, Papa. I want you. Just me and Mama.”
The words struck Dmitri like a blow.
His hands twitched, almost reaching out, then faltered. The storm in his eyes clashed with the ice he had perfected over the years.
For a single, endless moment, the cathedral, the guests, the organ, the golden light—it all vanished.
There was only a ruthless king and the miniature version of himself, standing before him with defiant grey eyes that carried the weight of every accusation.
Vanya looked at him, unwavering. “Papa,” he said again, voice firmer this time, “don’t you see me? Don’t you see us?”
Dmitri looked mid-sentence at Giovanni.
Giovanni went ghost-white. His grip shot out, snatching Vanya’s small wrist, yanking him back a step. “Where the hell did this brat come from?!” His voice was a hiss of panic, sharp enough to cut through the murmurs of the stunned congregation.
Dmitri’s gaze never wavered from the boy.
Something raw, animal, and terrifying flickered across his face.
Giovanni leaned closer to Dmitri, voice low, frantic. “Dmitri, we need to—”
Dmitri ignored him.
Slowly, deliberately, he crouched, one knee bending with predatory precision, until he was eye-level with Vanya. His storm-grey eyes were an arresting storm, the kind that could break mountains and hearts alike.
Vanya didn’t flinch. His little chin lifted in fearless defiance, fists balled so tight his knuckles went white.
Giovanni’s eyes widened in terror. He signalled to two guards, who moved with lightning precision, their steps silent but lethal.
They reached Vanya and, with gentle firmness belying their brute strength, lifted him away from the father who had never truly left his thoughts, never truly left his life.
Giovanni’s hand clamped over Vanya’s small shoulder like a man trying to contain a live wire, holding him steady while the world erupted around them.
Dmitri straightened.
His face went blank again, the mask of the don perfectly restored.
Without a word, he pivoted and strode to the side exit, moving like a shadow consuming the light.
The cathedral dissolved into chaos but all I could hear, all I could feel, was the echo of that single, devastating “Yes” he had spoken earlier, and the searing, furious promise burning through my chest.
Chapter 3
PENELOPE
My gaze ricocheted between the side exit Dmitri had disappeared through and the small, furious boy now kicking and twisting in the iron grips of two guards twice his size.
Vanya was screaming—half Greek, half English—his little sneakers flailing in the air, his face blotched red with rage and tears.
