Replaced with Seraphina’s polished lies. Her syrup-sweet bedtime tales. Her gifts wrapped in silk and obligation. Her presence, pressed into the empty spaces where I used to live.
My fists clenched until my nails bit crescents into my palms. I felt the ache distantly, like it belonged to someone else.
What I really wanted—to lunge, to tear, to wrap my hands around her elegant throat and squeeze until that smug light finally dimmed—burned hot and bright in my chest.
But I didn’t move.
Because I knew better.
One wrong step. One raised voice. One crack in the careful silence—and she’d have me back in chains before dawn. Shipped off like damaged property. Forgotten again.
Seraphina saw it anyway. The violence I kept caged behind my eyes.
Her smile widened.
“No one will believe you,” she said calmly, almost kindly, “if you claim to be Penelope.”
She let the name hang between us, fragile and deliberate.
“Not Dmitri. Not Vanya. And certainly not anyone in Lake Como.” She shrugged lightly. “Penelope Volkov is dead. Buried in New Jersey, according to every record that matters. Death certificates. Police reports. Church registries.” Her eyes gleamed. “A very convincing grave.”
My throat tightened.
“So when Dmitri asks who you are,” she continued, unhurried, “you give him a new name. You stay what you alreadyare to him—a grateful stranger his son felt sorry for. A woman he allowed into his house out of mercy.”
She leaned closer, lowering her voice.
“Anything else,” she whispered, “and I’ll make sure the Albanians come to reclaim their property.”
The word property scraped something raw inside me.
“You want to know how easy it would be?” she went on, almost conversational now. “I know exactly which clan bought you. Names. Routes. Payment ledgers. A single phone call is all it would take.”
She straightened, pacing slowly, like a lecturer addressing a captive audience.
“There’s a partnership contract,” she said. “Signed in blood. Between the Lake Como families and the Albanians. Mutual extradition clauses. Legal. Binding. Ironclad. Neither side wants to break it—too much money, too many bodies already buried.”
She stopped in front of me.
“They’ll claim you as theirs,” she said softly. “And Dmitri will hand you over without hesitation. Because to him...” Her gaze flicked downward, dismissive. “You’re nothing. Just a filthy stray his child dragged home out of misplaced kindness.”
I felt hollow.
Seraphina smoothed invisible wrinkles from her blouse, reclaiming her composure.
“So be careful, Penelope.” She smiled again. “It’s not Dmitri you should fear. Not Vanya.”
Her eyes locked onto mine, sharp and absolute.
“It’s me.”
She paused, savoring it.
“I hold your leash now.”
The word wrapped around my throat.
“I really must learn to call you something else,” she mused. “Any preferences? Or shall I choose for you?”