High above, framed by one of the mansion’s vast windows, Dmitri stood motionless—dark suit, rigid posture, a solitary silhouette carved against the golden glow of the interior lights. He didn’t chase me. Didn’t shout. Didn’t try to stop me.
He simply watched.
The sight twisted something vicious in my chest.
“Bastard,” I whispered, the word breaking apart as tears blurred the road ahead. If only he knew. If he knew Vanya was his flesh and blood, his son, he wouldn’t be standing there like some grieving statue, letting me drive straight into hell alone.
I wiped my eyes with the heel of my hand and pressed harder on the accelerator.
Lake Como unspooled around me in cruel serenity—winding roads hugging the water, villas glowing softly in the dusk, balconies spilling warm light and laughter. It was obscene, how peaceful it all looked, while my world burned.
By the time the Orlov estate rose into view, my hands were shaking on the wheel.
Their mansion was nothing like Dmitri’s modern fortress. This was old power. Old money. A traditional behemoth of ochre stone and wrought iron, ivy clawing up the walls like it was trying to reclaim the place, fountains murmuring in the courtyard with theatrical elegance. Generations of blood and entitlement lived in those stones.
I pulled up to the gates and rolled down the window.
A guard approached immediately, rifle slung with casual arrogance, eyes sharp and assessing. He spoke rapidly in Italian, tone hostile, dismissive.
“English,” I said, my voice steady only through sheer force of will. “Please.”
His brows knit, then he switched, accent thick. “Identify yourself, ma’am.”
I inhaled.
“Pen,” I said. The name tasted like ash and iron in my mouth. “New wife to Dmitri Volkov.”
The effect was immediate.
Shock flickered across his face, followed by something darker—interest, calculation. He straightened, barked orders over his shoulder in Italian.
The guard leaned closer to my window, a sneer curling his lip. “You have the guts to come here?”
I cut the engine.
The silence that followed felt heavy, ceremonial.
I stepped out of the car and slammed the door hard enough to make the metal ring.
“Yes,” I said, my voice sharp, unflinching, cutting through the air like broken glass. “I have the fucking guts.”
I met his stare without blinking.
“Because you took my child,” I continued, every word vibrating with something feral and unbreakable. “Now you’re going to walk back inside that palace, tell the Orlovs I’m here, and tell them to release my son.”
I leaned closer to the iron bars, gripping them with white-knuckled hands.
“Now.”
The Orlov guards erupted in laughter, harsh and guttural, echoing off the stone walls like hyenas circling a wounded animal. Each chuckle was sharp, slicing through the heavy, sun-baked air, testing my resolve.
“Just like that?” one sneered, stepping closer, a thick Italian accent dripping with contempt. “You think you snap your fingers and we hand over the boy? Go home, turista. This is not Disneyland.”
I didn’t flinch. I stood beside the Aston Martin, fists clenched so tight my nails bit into my palms, the sting a grounding reminder that I was still alive, still fighting.
“I won’t leave without my son,” I said, voice steady, every syllable deliberate. I wasn’t negotiating. I wasn’t begging. I was warning.
The mocking laughter faltered.
