I would apologize until my throat bled.
Explain everything—every lie, every manipulation, every truth unearthed in that basement in New York. I would beg if she demanded it. Kneel if she wished it. I would show her the man I could have been—the man I should have been—the father our son deserved.
If she wanted my life as payment, I would give it.
I reached my door and pressed the keycard against the lock.
A soft beep. A click.
I stepped inside.
The apartment was... humbling.
No marble. No sweeping luxury.
Just two modest rooms that felt deliberately stripped of excess, as if designed to remind its occupant that status did not pass through Ruslan’s gates.
The living area was small but clean. A worn leather armchair sat in the corner beside a low wooden coffee table scarred with years of use.
The kitchenette ran along one wall—single-burner stove, compact fridge humming quietly, a sink with a slow drip that echoed in the silence like a metronome counting down my sentence.
A narrow window let in slanted sunlight, dust motes drifting lazily in its path, casting gold across a threadbare rug over cool tile.
Beyond a half-open door lay the bedroom.
A double bed with crisp white sheets, military-tight. A single nightstand with a lamp. A closet barely wide enough for a man who owned too many suits he would never wear here.
A deliberate message from Ruslan:Your power stops at my gate.
So this was where the great Dmitri Volkov—lord of Italy’s underworld, butcher of rivals, kingmaker and destroyer—would live.
Weeks, turning into months. Months bleeding into a year, if I played my cards right. A monk’s existence for a man who had once commanded empires with a glance.
Madness.
And yet... I would endure it.
No—more than that. I would embrace it.
If this was the price of reclaiming what I’d lost, I’d pay it gladly. Penelope. Our son. A future not poisoned by my ignorance and cruelty.
I set the duffel bag on the bed with a dull thud and unzipped it slowly, grounding myself in the mundane motion.
My hands were steady despite the storm clawing at my chest. Control had always been my strength—external chaos, internal order.
One by one, I unpacked.
Crisp shirts folded with military precision.
Tailored trousers. A few casual polos I’d chosen carefully, neutral colors, softer lines—nothing that screamed power or intimidation.
No weapons. No suits. No reminders of the man she feared.
I hung each item in the narrow closet, the hangers clinking softly against the metal rod. The sound echoed louder than it should have in the quiet room.
As I smoothed a wrinkle from a sleeve, my mind spiraled.
Where did one even begin after destroying everything?