I had been taken from Lake Como, Italy—a place that now felt almost gentle in comparison.
Lake Como was another mafia-controlled territory, yes, but one dressed in luxury and sunlight.
It was an open prison masquerading as paradise, built and owned by Italian syndicates who understood optics.
Women there were allowed the illusion of freedom: manicured gardens, polite dinners, carefully supervised outings.
Some even worked—safe, meaningless jobs meant to convince the world that everything was normal.
No whips. No public punishment.
But freedom there was conditional.
Here in Albania, the mask was gone.
This was raw savagery. Ownership without apology. Women reduced to commodities, discarded the moment they broke. There was no pretending this place was civilized. It thrived on cruelty, and cruelty was the point.
And yet, my story hadn’t started in Europe at all.
I was born in New York City—raised among glass towers and relentless ambition, where the world felt vast and full of possibility.
My life had been school deadlines, late-night laughter with friends, and dreams that felt attainable simply because I’d been young enough to believe in them.
Then I turned fifteen.
That was when I met Dmitri Volkov.
Back then, he was nothing like the man who would later destroy my life.
He was quiet, almost gentle, with dark hair that fell into his eyes and a shy smile that made my chest ache.
His gaze held warmth—real warmth—and when he laughed, it felt like something private, something just for me.
We were reckless in the way teenagers always are, convinced the world couldn’t touch us. We kissed beneath the trees in Central Park, whispered promises we were far too young to make, believed love could shield us from anything.
And then something went wrong.
Something I never fully understood.
One day he was there—and the next, he was gone. No explanation. No goodbye. Just absence, sharp and unresolved, leaving behind a wound that never quite healed.
Ten years later, on my twenty-fifth birthday, Dmitri returned.
Not as the boy I loved—but as a storm made flesh.
He forced me into marriage.
“You belong to me now, Penelope,” he said, his voice low and unyielding, as he shoved the ring onto my trembling finger.
I screamed. I fought.
It didn’t matter. His power swallowed every ounce of resistance I had.
After the wedding, he took me from New York—ripped me away from the only city that had ever felt like home—and delivered me to the shores of Lake Como.
That was where I ceased to exist as a person and became his possession.
His villa at Lake Como was breathtaking—ancient stone, manicured gardens, windows that looked out over the lake like a painted dream—but it was nothing more than a beautifully disguised cage.