Silence stretched between us.
“If,” Ruslan continued, “fortune smiles on you—and that is a very large if—you will have one year. One year to prove you are worthy of being in her life again. Not as her jailer. Not as her owner. As her husband.”
My throat tightened.
“At the end of that year,” he said calmly, “if she has not chosen you of her own free will, my men will escort you out of Greece permanently. And I will make damn sure you never set foot here again.”
I closed my eyes.
This was worse than war.
This was surrender.
“And my son?” I asked hoarsely.
“He will not be weaponized against you,” Ruslan replied. “You will not poison him with guilt or fear. You will not pressure him. You will be a father—not a conqueror.”
The line hummed softly.
“Do you understand me, Dmitri Volkov?”
I exhaled slowly. “Yes.”
“Good.” A pause. Then, quieter: “For what it’s worth—I hope you succeed. Penelope deserves peace. If you can give her that, you may yet keep your family.”
I clenched my jaw so hard my molars screamed.
Ruslan paused on the line—just long enough to make sure I was listening—then continued with that same infuriatingly calm precision.
“Meanwhile,” he said, “should Penelope ever complain to her butler—or to anyone in my employ—that you are frustrating her in any way, harassing her, or making her uncomfortable, you will be removed immediately. No explanations. No appeals.”
My grip tightened on the phone.
His voice dropped an octave—not louder, not angrier, just colder. Deadlier.
“And Dmitri—if you ever threaten me again, one of your toes will be the price. Consider it a down payment on what could follow.”
The threat slid under my skin like a blade. Ruslan never bluffed. When he named a price, he fully intended to collect.
I swallowed hard, bile rising in my throat, forcing my breathing to slow. Rage would get me nowhere—not with him.
“Now,” he continued, almost conversational, “do you have anything else to say, son? Because my boy has been kidnapped, and I need to hunt down the bastards who dared lay a hand on him.”
The word son landed like a gut punch.
He used it the way generals used medals and chains—something that bound as much as it honored.
He was treating me like family even as he stripped me of leverage, boxed me in, and reminded me exactly how small I was in his world.
I forced the words out, my voice tight and stripped bare of pride.
“That will be all.”
The line went dead.
For half a second, the room was silent.
Then the rage detonated.