One hundred.
The speedometer climbed as the coastline twisted ahead, merciless and beautiful. One wrong turn and the lake would swallow me whole—but fear of death paled beside the agony burning in my chest.
The world streaked past in violent blurs: terracotta villas bleeding into green hillsides, iron balconies flashing by like knives, the water to my right a cruel ribbon of sapphire glinting in the sun.
Wind tore through the cracked window, tangling my hair, drying the tears I refused to let fall.
Mommy, I’m scared.
Vanya’s voice echoed in my head, fragile and broken, looping endlessly until it felt carved into my skull.
My grip tightened until my fingers ached, nails biting into the leather steering wheel. He was with strangers. He was hungry. Terrified. Wondering why I hadn’t come for him yet.
The thought drove me harder.
I swerved around a delivery truck, horns exploding behind me. A tourist bus loomed—I cut in front of it, tires screaming as I took the corner too fast. Someone shouted. Someone cursed.
I didn’t care.
Let the world burn if it had to.
Lake Como flashed by in fractured snapshots: cafés buzzing with laughter that felt obscene, couples strolling hand in hand, yachts rocking lazily in the harbor like nothing terrible had happened.
The Duomo’s ancient spires cut into the sky—witnesses to centuries of sin, betrayal, blood.
My breath came in sharp, ragged pulls. Sweat beaded at my temples. My heart slammed so violently I was sure it would crack my ribs open.
By the time Dmitri’s mansion came into view, I was no longer thinking.
I was pure momentum.
I tore into the courtyard and slammed the brakes.
The Aston Martin skidded, stopping inches from the fountain. Water sloshed violently over marble edges. I killed the engine, flung the door open, and stepped out like a woman walking into war.
The air felt thinner here. Charged.
My heels struck the marble foyer in sharp, furious snaps as I stormed inside, past startled guards who straightened too late, past priceless art and polished stone that meant nothing to me now.
“Where is he?” I shouted, my voice ricocheting through the cavernous space. “Where the hell is Dmitri Volkov?”
A guard hesitated.
That was his mistake.
I didn’t slow. I didn’t stop. I moved like a blade through the halls, pulse roaring in my ears. Chandeliers glittered overhead. The waterfall wall murmured mockingly.
I was done being patient.
Done being someone else’s bargaining chip.
They had taken my son.
And Dmitri Volkov was about to learn exactly what that meant.
The living room felt like a bunker masquerading as luxury.
Firelight clawed up the stone hearth, casting restless shadows over black leather couches and glass tables polished to a cold shine.
