Ruthless Addiction: Chapter 8

“I’m not trying to have sex with you,” Dmitri said calmly. “Relax.”

The words should have eased something in me. They didn’t.

His voice was low, unhurried, carrying that infuriating certainty he wielded like a weapon. Before I could step away, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to my cheek.

Not rushed. Not careless. Deliberate.

His lips barely touched skin, just enough for the rasp of his stubble to graze me, just enough to remind my body of every bad decision it had once made in his arms.

A shiver betrayed me, sharp and immediate.

Heat flooded my face, my pulse spiking beneath my jaw.

I hated that he felt it.

He pulled back slowly, eyes locked on mine—not smug, not amused. Studying. Cataloguing.

“Are your parents in Greece too?” he asked.

The question landed like a slap. Something cold coiling in my gut.

My parents. The architects of my ruin. The ones who had fed me lies and pills and obedience, who had erased years of my life with syringes and threats and pretty words about what was best for me.

Gone now. Hiding.

Running from Dmitri Volkov like hunted animals.

“What business is it of yours where my parents are?” I snapped.

I took a step back, needing distance from the way his nearness made my resolve wobble. From the dangerous impulse to reach out—to touch him first and lose the upper hand completely.

He didn’t follow. Didn’t crowd me.

“I’d like to meet my wife’s family,” he said evenly.

As if that sentence didn’t contain violence.

I let out a short, bitter laugh. “That won’t be happening. We don’t speak. Haven’t in years. And I’d prefer it stays that way.”

His gaze sharpened. “Why?”

“Because they’re not good people,” I said flatly. “And neither am I when they’re around.”

I turned away before he could dig deeper, crossing the room toward the wardrobe like retreating into cover. My back to him, I opened it and scanned the hanging clothes until my hand landed on black.

Black always worked.

I slipped behind the wardrobe door, dropping the towel and pulling on fresh underwear—black lace, clean lines, something that felt like armor rather than invitation. I slid the dress over my head, the fabric cool against my skin, hugging my body without apology. It didn’t try to make me smaller. It didn’t beg for approval.

Good.

At the vanity, I sat and began to rebuild myself piece by piece.

Foundation. Control.

Bronzer. Strength.

Mascara. Clarity.

Red lipstick. Defiance.

My hands were steady, practiced, even though my thoughts were anything but. I felt him behind me—not touching, not moving—his presence heavy in the room, watching without shame. Not like a man ogling.

Like a man recognizing something he’d once lost.

“You hate them,” he said quietly.

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” I replied, meeting my own gaze in the mirror. “And before you ask—no. You don’t get to use them against me.”

His reflection appeared behind mine. Still. Dangerous.

“I wasn’t planning to,” he said.

Then, softly, he said, “Wear black more often. It suits you.”

“I’ll wear whatever color I choose,” I replied.

He didn’t respond.

He just kept staring—too intent, too focused—as if I were something he couldn’t afford to lose sight of, not even for a millisecond.

When I finished, I turned to face him.

Dmitri Volkov hadn’t moved.

He stood exactly where I’d left him—arms crossed, broad shoulders filling the space like a barricade, his presence dominating the room with effortless authority.

He looked carved from command: still, unyielding, every inch the ruler of this dark empire he pretended not to enjoy.

“And where is my son?” I demanded.

My voice was calm. The kind of calm that came just before something broke.

“He should’ve been brought here by now.”

For the first time since I’d met him again, Dmitri hesitated.

His phone rang before he could answer—a sharp, intrusive sound that snapped through the room like a gunshot. He glanced at the screen, jaw tightening, then answered.

He listened in silence.

No pacing.

No swearing.

Just the gradual hardening of his face, the subtle crease between his brows deepening, his fingers curling tighter around the phone.

“Get yourself treated,” he said at last, voice clipped and dangerous. “Then come home. Immediately.”

The call ended.

I knew then.

Something was wrong.

Dmitri Volkov didn’t lose control easily. Whatever had just reached him had cracked the surface of his iron restraint.

“Where is Vanya?” I demanded, stepping toward him. My heart had started to race now, an ugly, crawling panic clawing up my spine.

He lifted his eyes to mine.

And the words fell like stones.

“He’s been taken.”

The room tilted.

“I didn’t hear you right,” I whispered, the sound barely leaving my throat.

My knees weakened.

My ears rang. The world narrowed until there was nothing but his mouth moving, his voice cutting through me like shrapnel.

“The Orlovs found out about the secret wedding,” he said, each word measured. “My men were the only witnesses—yet news travels faster than light.”

His jaw tightened. “Worse, Seraphina is awake. She was supposed to be in a coma for months, but she regained consciousness. The Orlovs will have already deduced that I was behind her collapse at the altar—and the reason our wedding never happened.”

He paused, letting the implication settle.

“They took Vanya as leverage,” he continued coldly. “Whatever demand they intend to make, he’s their bargaining chip. They ambushed Giovanni on his way back to the house and took him.”

A beat.

“They took my son as leverage.”

Something inside me shattered.

“What the fuck!” I screamed, the sound ripping out of me raw and feral as I lunged toward him. “This is a joke. This has to be a fucking joke!”

“It’s not.”

I swung at him, blind with terror and fury—aiming to wipe that calm right off his face—but he caught my wrists effortlessly, twisting me with brutal efficiency. In one fluid movement, he hauled me back against his chest.

Hard.

His arm locked around my waist like iron. The other pinned my wrists to my stomach. I struggled uselessly, breath knocked from my lungs as panic exploded into violence.

“I’ll get him back,” he growled into my ear, his voice low, vicious, vibrating with promise. “I swear it.”

I lost it.

I thrashed wildly—kicking, elbowing, clawing at him like a cornered animal, screams tearing out of me as sobs wracked my chest.

“Let go of me!” I screamed. “Let me go! You selfish bastard—this was your doing! I should have known this marriage was a trap!”

My vision blurred with tears. My chest burned. Every instinct in me screamed to run, to tear the world apart until my son was back in my arms.

“I can’t breathe without him,” I sobbed, my voice breaking completely now. “Do you hear me? I can’t— I can’t exist without my child!”

He tightened his hold just enough to keep me from collapsing.

“Listen to me,” he said fiercely, his mouth close to my ear, his breath hot with barely leashed rage. “No one touches what’s mine.”

That word—mine—should have made me recoil.

Instead, it was the only thing holding me upright.

“I will burn every Orlov asset to the ground,” he continued, each word a vow carved in blood. “I will peel this city apart until I find him. They will regret breathing the same air as your son.”

My strength finally gave out.

I sagged against him, sobbing, shaking, the fight draining out of me as terror hollowed me from the inside.

He held me through all of it.

Unmoving. Unyielding. Like a mountain that refused to break no matter how violently the storm raged against it.

He let me break against him.

And then, when there was nothing left—

When my lungs burned and my throat shredded and my sobs turned thin and empty—

I spun on him without warning.

My forehead pressed against his chest. My tears soaked straight through his shirt. My hands fell limp at my sides.

Only then did he release me.

Slowly. Carefully. Like I might shatter if he moved too fast.

I stumbled back a step, chest heaving, vision blurred. My cheeks were wet, my throat raw, my dignity in ruins.

“It’s my first day as your wife,” I said, a broken laugh ripping out of me, sharp and hysterical, “and you’ve already failed to protect us. How fitting.”

My voice cracked hard on the last word.

“Go,” I hissed, wiping my face with the back of my hand. “Go and find my son.”

Dmitri stepped back and sank into the armchair like a king reclaiming his throne, his calm slicing into me deeper than any insult.

“He isn’t lost,” he said evenly. “He’s with the Orlovs.”

That tone.

That infuriating composure.

Something inside me snapped.

“Fine.” I whirled toward the door. “Then I’ll go to the Orlovs myself and take my child back.”

“They’ll demand you divorce me.”

I froze at the threshold.

Turned slowly.

“And you think I’d hesitate?” I asked, my voice deadly quiet now.

He rose to his feet again, eyes dark, unblinking. “No,” he said. “I don’t think you would.”

“Then move,” I spat.

“But divorce isn’t possible,” he continued, unruffled. “Not right now. It’s in the contract. Three months.”

The room seemed to tilt again.

“So you’re telling me,” I said hoarsely, “that I won’t see my son for three months?”

“I’m telling you I’ll get him back long before that,” he said, stepping closer, his voice lowering. “But you need to stay calm.”

A laugh tore out of me—bitter, hollow, almost unhinged.

“Calm?” I echoed. “My son has been taken, Dmitri. And you want calm?”

I shook my head, backing away. “This marriage does nothing for me. Nothing. It only saves you from marrying Seraphina and her vipers. You get protection. Power. Time.”

My chest tightened painfully.

“And I get this,” I finished. “You’re a selfish bastard.”

I didn’t wait for his response.

I stormed out, the door slamming behind me like a gunshot.

The mansion swallowed me whole.

Corridors blurred past.

I flew down the grand staircase, fingers grazing the carved balustrade, the sound of my heels ricocheting through the cavernous foyer.

The waterfall wall murmured softly, mockingly serene.

I burst through the front doors into the courtyard, cool evening air slapping my overheated skin.

One of Dmitri’s cars waited in the drive.

A sleek black Aston Martin.

Keys inside. Always.

Old habits die hard.

I slid into the driver’s seat, slammed the door shut, and turned the ignition. The engine roared to life, feral and impatient.

Gravel sprayed as I reversed out hard, tires screaming in protest.

I didn’t look back.

All I knew was this—

If Dmitri Volkov wouldn’t bring my son back to me, then I would tear the Orlovs apart myself trying.

In the rear-view mirror, I caught him.

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.

A low growl of an approaching engine cut through the tension like a blade. Heads snapped toward the entrance as a sleek silver Bentley glided into view, its tinted windows reflecting the guards’ startled faces.

The lead guard’s smirk vanished. He barked, stepping closer, hand brushing the holster at his side. “Ma’am, remove your car from the premises immediately. And let me warn you—don’t come here again. It’s not safe for tourists like you.”

I planted my feet wider, chin high, veins burning. “I’m not leaving without Vanya.”

The Bentley stopped at the gates. The guards stiffened, the mockery gone, replaced by sharp-edged unease.

One guard lunged toward me, hand snapping for the keys in the ignition. “Give me those!”

I twisted instinctively, jerking back. “Don’t you dare touch me with your filthy hands!”

He grabbed my arm anyway, fingers biting into my flesh. Pain shot up my arm, and fury roared in my chest.

“Let go!” I screamed, wrenching myself free, hair whipping across my face.

A new voice cut through the chaos—smooth, sharp, lazy amusement woven into each word.

“What’s going on here?”

The guards froze, uncertainty rippling through their ranks.

My heart plummeted into my stomach.

Antonio.

My ex.

The man I had dated for three years—the man I had loved genuinely, foolishly believing he loved me the same. I hadn’t known that all along he’d harbored darker intentions: to take me to his father’s house in Rome, strip me of my freedom, and use me as a means to claim my father’s wealth and power.

He had hated me. Every smile, every promise, every touch had been a lie.

The betrayal had come on our wedding day, right there at the altar. Just moments before he was meant to slide a ring onto my finger and seal the marriage, he confessed everything—coldly, triumphantly—as if my devastation were a victory he’d been savoring for years.

Thank God Dmitri had come that day and stopped it. Without him, my life would have become something far worse than this.

Antonio watched me now with that same expression—a smirk permanently etched into his dark eyes.

He leaned against the Bentley’s door, cigarette lit, smoke curling like lazy threats around him. Calm. Collected. Deadly indifferent.

He flicked the ash from his cigarette and smiled, the kind of smile that made you want to shove a fist through his smug face. “Penelope… still dramatic as ever.”

Penelope?

Antonio still believes I’m Penelope?

Didn’t everyone in Lake Como think I was dead? Why did he seem so certain otherwise—so convinced—when the rest of the world had already buried me?

I gave him nothing. I smoothed my expression into something unreadable, locking everything behind my eyes so he couldn’t see through me.

The passenger door opened. My pulse froze.

Seraphina Orlov stepped out.

Heat surged through my veins.

She was even more devastating up close.

Seraphina Orlov looked like something sculpted rather than born—porcelain skin flawless beneath the sun, platinum hair spilling in perfect, deliberate waves down her back.

Her body was all slim elegance, wrapped in a pale pink silk blouse and tailored trousers that whispered money and power. Diamonds glittered at her throat and wrists, catching the light with every subtle movement, as if even the sun knew better than to ignore her.

Her eyes locked onto mine.

Doll-like. Pale. Empty.

Pretty in the way knives were pretty.

Her nails were long and lacquered blood-red, makeup heavy but precise—smoky eyes, sculpted cheekbones, nude lips curved into a knowing, satisfied smirk.

She took her time approaching, each step slow and calculated, heels clicking softly on the gravel. Predator’s rhythm. The kind that didn’t rush because it didn’t have to.

Her perfume reached me before she did—rose and vanilla, thick and cloying, feminine to the point of suffocation.

Antonio remained by the Bentley, watching me with lazy interest, dark eyes sharp and amused, as if he were observing a play whose ending he already knew.

That familiar chill crept down my spine.

Seraphina stopped inches from me.

Close enough that I could see the faint shimmer of cruelty behind her lashes.

“You stole my marriage from me, sweetheart,” she said, voice silk-wrapped venom. “So I stole your son.” Her lips curved wider. “Fair game, don’t you think?”

Something ugly and feral surged in my chest.

I stared at her, rage tunneling my vision. “You’re proud of kidnapping a five-year-old?” I said coldly. “How utterly barbaric.”

She laughed softly, as if I’d complimented her.

“Oh, please.” She stepped past me, circling slowly, heels tapping against the gravel like a countdown. “You say barbaric. I say strategic.” She paused behind me, close enough that I felt the warmth of her breath brush my neck. “What wouldn’t a mother do for her child?”

My fists clenched.

“Coming into Orlov territory alone?” she continued, voice dropping to a whisper meant only for me. “That’s either bravery or insanity.” A beat. Then, with surgical precision, she struck. “Tell me… did you have plastic surgery to look like his dead wife? Because it’s painfully obvious why Dmitri married you so quickly—before I even had the chance to recover properly.”

The words were meant to humiliate. To unmake me.

My gaze flicked to Antonio.

He exhaled smoke lazily, the corner of his mouth lifting into that same familiar smirk—the one he’d worn the day he betrayed me. Like he was in on a joke I didn’t understand yet.

My stomach sank.

What was his role in this? Why was he here—silent, watchful, smug? How much did he know?

I didn’t have time to think.

A small, terrified voice sliced through the courtyard.

“Mom!”

The world shattered.

“Vanya.”

He burst from the mansion doors, running down the grand stone steps, curls bouncing wildly, cheeks wet with tears. His little arms stretched toward me, fingers grasping the air, panic written across his face.

Behind him—

Viktor Orlov, the Orlov Patriarch.

Old. Broad. Unyielding. His iron grip closed around Vanya’s arm, halting him mid-step, dragging him backward toward the doors like a possession instead of a child.

Something inside me broke completely.

I ran.

I didn’t think. I didn’t breathe.

Five steps—maybe six—before the guards surged forward in a wall of muscle and brutality. Hands seized me everywhere—arms, waist, shoulders—pinning me in place with terrifying efficiency.

“No!” I screamed, thrashing wildly. “Vanya! Mommy’s here!”

I kicked, twisted, clawed, nails raking skin, heels scraping against the gravel as raw panic tore through me. My body moved on instinct alone, feral and desperate, every cell screaming the same truth:

That is my child.

“Let me go!” I sobbed, voice breaking apart. “Let me go, you monsters! He’s scared—he’s just a baby!”

Vanya cried out again, reaching for me as Viktor hauled him back, his small body shaking with sobs.

“Mommy!”

The sound ripped straight through my chest.

Seraphina watched it all with cool fascination, arms folding neatly across her chest.

“Careful,” she said lightly, like she was commenting on the weather. “You’ll upset him even more.”

I fought harder, lungs burning, vision swimming with tears and rage. “I swear to God,” I screamed, voice raw and shaking, “if you hurt him—if you touch him—I will burn this entire family to the ground.”

My son fought too.

Small fists pummeled Viktor’s thigh in useless, desperate blows, his little body straining with everything he had. “Mommy!” he screamed, voice cracking into sobs. “Let me go to my mommy!”

The sound gutted me.

Viktor didn’t slow. He didn’t even look down. One iron hand clamped around Vanya’s arm as he dragged him toward the mansion doors, his grip impersonal, practiced—like a man who’d moved human cargo before.

“No—no, stop!” I screamed, my voice tearing apart. “That’s my baby!”

Vanya twisted, reaching for me, fingers grasping air. “Mommy! Please!”

Then the doors swallowed him.

The heavy stone and iron shut with a final, echoing boom that reverberated through the courtyard like a gunshot.

Seraphina stepped directly into my line of sight.

Perfectly timed.

She was tall—taller still in heels—and she positioned herself with deliberate precision, blocking the doors completely. Every time I tried to crane my neck, shift sideways, catch even a glimpse of him—she mirrored me effortlessly, an elegant wall of silk and cruelty.

“Vanya!” I screamed past her shoulder, my throat raw. “Mommy will get you, okay? You won’t sleep there tonight, baby—I promise!”

For a heartbeat, I heard him.

Muffled now. Distant.

“Mommy, I’m scared.”

The words ripped straight through me.

My vision blurred, tears burning hot behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall—not here, not in front of her, not in front of men who fed on weakness.

Seraphina smiled.

Slow. Cold. Triumphant.

“If you want your child back,” she said softly, like she was offering tea, “I only ask for one thing…”

“Stop throwing yourself at a man who doesn’t want you,” I snapped, voice shaking with fury. The words tasted like acid. “You’re pathetic.”

Her smile sharpened.

“Will you let me finish,” she said mildly, “before embarrassing yourself further?”

She tilted her head, studying me with clinical interest. “He married you in secret. Our sources confirmed that.” A pause—then the blade slid in deeper. “The marriage is temporary. Three months.”

My breath caught.

“Our spy,” she continued lightly, “says it’s a contractual arrangement. I’m not entirely convinced you can survive three months without your precious boy.”

The word spy rang in my skull like a warning bell.

Of course there was one.

She stepped aside just enough—just enough—to let me see the last sliver of Viktor’s broad back disappearing down the corridor, my son dragged beside him.

“Vanya!” I screamed.

The sound tore out of me—raw, animal, unrecognizable.

My knees trembled as agony ripped through my chest, so sharp it felt physical, like something was being torn loose inside me. My hands shook violently, my entire body vibrating with the need to run, to tear down walls, to kill if necessary.

I surged.

Adrenaline exploded through my veins. I wrenched myself sideways, nails raking flesh, elbow driving hard into a guard’s gut. He staggered back with a grunt of surprise.

Another grabbed for me—I twisted, feral and wild, fueled by nothing but terror and rage.

Seraphina watched it all with open amusement.

“So,” she said calmly, adjusting a diamond bracelet at her wrist, “here are my terms.”

I froze, chest heaving, eyes locked on her.

“You convince Dmitri to let me move into the villa,” she continued. “I want the room next to yours.” Her lips curved. “Close enough to hear everything.”

The audacity nearly stole my breath.

“Do that,” she finished, “and you get your son back.”

I laughed.

It tore out of me—broken, hysterical, soaked in tears I refused to shed.

“Tell Dmitri yourself,” I said hoarsely. “Let’s see how far you get.”

Her gaze flicked to mine, something sharp and dangerous flashing beneath the porcelain calm.

“Oh, I will,” she replied softly. “But it will sound much sweeter coming from his wife.”

She leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper meant only for me.

“And if you refuse…”

A pause. A smile.

“…children adapt. Especially when they have no choice.”

Something inside me went very, very still.

She mirrored my smirk.

Only hers held no cracks—no pain, no desperation. Just ice.

“When you’ve convinced him to let me stay under his roof,” Seraphina said smoothly, each word placed with surgical precision, “with a room directly next to yours—”

Her eyes dipped briefly, deliberately, as if already imagining it.

“—then you’ll have your son.”

She didn’t wait for my answer.

She turned away, hips swaying with calculated elegance, heels crunching softly against the gravel as she crossed toward the Bentley like a queen retreating from a conquered battlefield.

Antonio finally moved.

That alone sent a chill down my spine.

He opened the driver’s door and slid inside without a word.

And why was Antonio acting so close to Seraphina, right there with the Orlovs?

But just before the door shut, his gaze flicked to mine.

The cigarette paused halfway to his lips. Smoke curled lazily upward, forgotten. His dark eyes narrowed—not in recognition, not in certainty, but in suspicion. Like a man staring at a ghost he refused to believe in, even as his instincts screamed otherwise.

You know, I thought savagely. You know it’s me.

The Bentley rolled away.

Its tires whispered over the gravel, smooth and effortless, as if nothing monumental had just occurred—no child stolen, no mother shattered.

Dust settled slowly around me.

I stood there shaking, humiliation crawling over my skin like ants. Eight guards remained—eight armed men spaced deliberately around the courtyard, their stares ranging from amused to openly predatory.

I counted them automatically.

Training. Survival. Futility.

I couldn’t fight them.

Not here.

Not now.

Not without turning this into a bloodbath that would end with Vanya paying the price.

The realization cut deeper than any insult Seraphina had thrown.

So I leave without him.

The thought was a fresh blade driven straight through my abdomen, twisting slowly.

My legs carried me back to the Aston Martin on instinct alone. I slid into the driver’s seat and slammed the door, sealing myself inside the quiet cocoon of leather and glass.

My hands locked around the steering wheel.

And then I broke.

Tears spilled freely now—hot, silent, relentless—blurring the dashboard, streaking down my cheeks, soaking into my collarbone. My chest hitched as I tried—and failed—to breathe normally.

God.

This was not how I had imagined coming back to Lake Como.

Not like this.

Not married to a man who didn’t know the truth.

Not negotiating my son’s life with a sociopath in silk.

I shouldn’t have listened to Ruslan Baranov.

I should have stayed hidden. Stayed careful. Stayed in Greece where the sea was blue and Vanya slept safely beside me every night.

But the gates loomed in my rearview mirror now—tall, iron, impenetrable.

And my son was behind them.

I wiped my face with the back of my hand, straightened my spine, and started the engine. The growl of it grounded me, reminded me I wasn’t helpless. Not yet.

As I pulled away and the Orlov estate disappeared behind the curve of the road, one thought burned brighter than the rest—white-hot and unwavering.

I will get Vanya back.

Even if it meant playing Seraphina’s game.

Even if it meant walking straight into Dmitri’s arms—and detonating the truth I’d buried for five years.

Even if everything burned.

Because a mother could survive losing a man.

But she would burn the world down for her child.