I hadn’t even drawn a full breath before a knock came—soft but insistent—followed by the door easing open as if it belonged to them, not me. Giovanni’s head appeared first.
Of course.
Of course they wouldn’t even let us breathe.
He stepped inside fully, hands folded neatly in front of him. “Vanya. Miss Pen. I officially welcome you to our abode,” he said with a crisp politeness that felt like a bowstring pulled tight. “But this is not the room Mr. Volkov assigned for you. Please follow me to your designated quarters. I apologize for the inconvenience. I’ll carry your luggage and do anything necessary to reduce your stress, as I understand it has been... a long day for you both.”
A laugh nearly tore out of me—bitter, hysterical—but all that came was a tired exhale.
I sank back into the chair, exhaustion crashing over me like a wave.
Coming to Lake Como.
Listening to Ruslan.
God, what was I thinking?
Giovanni lifted the suitcases effortlessly, then gestured for Vanya. “Let’s leave,” he said gently.
Vanya glanced up at me. The small, pitying look in his eyes—five-year-old pity—shamed me more deeply than Dmitri ever could.
So I forced myself up, muscles trembling, and took his hand without a word.
We followed Giovanni through endless hallways until he stopped before a pair of double doors—tall, midnight-dark, hewn from a wood so flawless it looked grown, not crafted.
Giovanni turned toward us. A silver key dangled from his fingers, delicate and unthreatening in a way this place absolutely was not.
“Two rooms,” he said quietly. “Connected by a curtain. One for you. One for the boy. As Mr. Volkov assigned.”
He extended the key with a reverence that made my skin crawl—like he wasn’t giving me access to a room, but to a gilded cage I wasn’t meant to escape.
I stepped inside and locked it behind us with hands that wouldn’t stop trembling.
The suite was... obscene.
Vanya’s half was a child’s fever dream.
A racing-car-shaped bed, glossy and bright.
Shelves overflowing with limited-edition toys, each one probably worth more than a month’s salary.
A glowing aquarium stretching across the wall, neon fish darting through electric-blue water.
On the desk sat a brand-new iPad and MacBook—sleek, untouched, waiting like offerings.
My side was a different world entirely.
Cool greys and soft whites.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Lake Como, the water glittering like a sheet of hammered silver.
A bed so massive it felt like an island.
A heavy midnight-blue curtain hung between our spaces—thin enough to see the outline of light through it, thick enough to pretend at separation.
In Greece, Vanya had always slept pressed against me, one leg thrown over mine, his small foot wedged between my calves. He used to tuck his head beneath my chin and sigh in his sleep.
The idea of him sleeping alone—even with only a curtain between us—sent a dull ache through my chest.
