An ashtray on the table overflowed with cigarette stubs, crushed and burned down to nothing, like Dmitri’s patience.
He sat at the center of it all, carved from shadow and firelight, a cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers.
Giovanni stood beside him, murmuring in a low voice, shoulders tense, jaw set like a man delivering bad news he’d already delivered ten times before.
Giovanni saw me first.
His eyes widened, just a flicker, before he leaned down and murmured something into Dmitri’s ear. Dmitri didn’t look at me—just nodded once, curt and final.
Giovanni hesitated, glanced at me with something like apology, then disappeared through a side door, leaving the room to swallow us whole.
I crossed the space in long, furious strides and dropped into the armchair opposite Dmitri, the leather creaking under my weight. Smoke curled lazily between us, stinging my eyes. I didn’t blink.
“How do you plan on getting my child back?” I demanded.
No greeting. No restraint.
Dmitri took a slow drag, eyes on the fire instead of me, then exhaled toward the ceiling like he was bleeding tension with the smoke.
“We’ve communicated with the Orlovs,” he said evenly. Too evenly. “They offered terms.”
My fingers curled into fists. “Let me guess. Extortion dressed as diplomacy.”
His gaze finally met mine—flat, lethal. “Two options.”
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.
“First: I take Seraphina as my mistress immediately. Publicly. The boy is returned within the hour. At the end of our three months, I divorce you and marry her.”
The words landed like stones.
“And the second?” I asked, though my chest already burned.
“I send you and Vanya back to Greece. Immediately. Quietly.” His mouth twisted. “You live comfortably. Protected. After the divorce, I marry her.”
“And neither works,” I snapped. “Why?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Because I can’t let you go, Pen.”
The words stole the air from my lungs.
I surged to my feet, pacing the room like a caged animal. “This is not about me,” I said, barely holding it together. “This is about my son. I don’t care about your vendettas, your councils, your blood feuds. I want my child back.”
“I know,” he said quietly.
I laughed—sharp, broken. “Do you? Because it feels like you’re choosing pride over a five-year-old.”
His jaw flexed. He crushed the cigarette into the ashtray with brutal force, the glass clinking sharply.
“I could wipe out the Orlovs in seventy-two hours,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “I’ve done worse for less.”
“Then do it,” I shot back. “Burn them to the ground and bring my son home.”
He stood abruptly, towering now, the firelight cutting him into angles of fury and restraint.
“No,” he said.
The word hit harder than a slap.
