“Dmitri deserves to know his son,” he said finally, voice low but firm. “No matter what he’s done. Even with the diary the Orlovs fed him—false memories, rewritten pages—everyone sees the resemblance. Vanya looks like him. Everyone. Dmitri can’t deny it. You can’t bury it anymore. What you tried to hide is already exposed.”
I leaned forward, fists braced against the wrought-iron railing. “Stop dodging,” I snapped. “Tell me why you let ithappen. Why didn’t you tell him the truth the moment you realized what the Orlovs had done, way before you were forced to marry done—long before you were forced to marry Elena?”
Giovanni’s voice fell, rough and ragged with something far older than anger—fear, exhaustion, regret. “Because while they were erasing Dmitri’s memory, they were forcing me to sign a contract at the same time.”
He lifted his left hand, the platinum band glinting in the waning light.
My eyes lingered on it, a silent accusation and proof of his own chains.
“I could stay in Dmitri’s orbit—remain his underboss, his shadow—but only on one condition: I could never, ever speak of his true past. To seal it... the Orlovs forced their second daughter on me. A marriage in blood, not love. Consummated by their command. And just so you understand... two months ago, she gave birth. My son.”
The words hung in the air, heavy, suffocating.
I could feel the weight of it pressing down on my chest, a physical presence I couldn’t escape.
My breath caught. “They... trapped you with a child.”
“They trapped all of us,” he corrected, tone sharp, bitter. “They couldn’t kill Dmitri—no legal basis under Lake Como law. Murder is sanctioned only if the code is broken or a war is formally declared. So they didn’t kill him. They neutered him. Wiped his mind clean. Rewrote his life. And tied my hands with a baby.”
His gaze finally met mine. “If Dmitri ever remembers—if he learns I kept this from him—he’ll see betrayal. And he’ll be right. But I can’t lose my boy to protect Dmitri’s pride.”
The silence stretched, oppressive and unbroken. I felt it in my bones, pressing in from every direction.
I swallowed, forcing the words out like bitter medicine. “And Seraphina? What is she to him now? Does he... love her?”
Giovanni exhaled slowly, letting the tension fold into a faint shadow. “He believes he does,” he admitted, and there was no pride in his voice, only the weight of inevitability. “Because she rewrote the story, she filled in the gaps, she presented herself as everything he thought he’d lost. His memory’s a patchwork. She’s everywhere it matters. In his mind, in Vanya’s life. And he’s not looking back. Not yet. Not at you.”
Giovanni gave a short, bitter laugh that held no humor at all. It sounded scraped raw from his chest.
“But Dmitri is still mourning you,” he said. “In his own way. He hasn’t touched anyone—not really. He makes a show of it, sure. Women come and go, smiles and perfumes, but it’s empty. Mechanical. He’s made it clear to everyone: no wife, no replacement. No future.”
My heart stuttered, traitorous and weak, but I crushed it down.
“Seraphina remains his mistress,” Giovanni continued. “She lives here. She manages the staff, oversees the accounts, tends to Vanya. She runs this house as if it already belongs to her. But she’s not pushing for marriage.” His mouth twisted. “She knows better. Seraphina Orlov never looks desperate. Ever.”
“She doesn’t need to push,” I said quietly. The truth tasted like ash. “She already has everything she wants. They buried me so deep that if I ever surface, I’ll have to take a new name just to breathe in this city.”
“Exactly,” Giovanni said.
He dragged a hand over his face, exhaustion etched deep into his features. “You’re a ghost now. Officially. Legally. Penelope Volkov died years ago. If you try to claim your place—your marriage, your child—they’ll have you put on a plane before dawn. Back to the Albanians. And Dmitri...” His voice faltered,thick with something close to shame. “Ignorant Dmitri will sign the papers himself. He won’t even hesitate. He’ll believe he’s doing the right thing.”
The image sliced through me—Dmitri’s steady signature sealing my fate without recognition, without memory.
I forced myself to breathe. To think. Panic wouldn’t save Vanya.
“Giovanni,” I said, stepping closer, lowering my voice. “You have to help me get my son back. I don’t care about Dmitri anymore. Let him believe I’m dead. Let him mourn a ghost. But Vanya?” My throat tightened. “I won’t let another woman raise him. Not her. Not after everything.”
Giovanni met my eyes, and I saw real pain there. Not indifference. Not cruelty. Fear.
“I can’t,” he said. “Not without risking my own child. If the Orlovs even suspect I’m helping you... they won’t kill me. They’ll take my son first.”
“So that’s it?” My voice rose despite my effort to contain it. “You’ll just stand by and watch her steal him from me? Watch my child grow up believing I abandoned him?”
“I don’t have a choice,” he repeated, softer now, almost pleading. “But if you need something else—something that doesn’t put my family in their sights...”
I seized the opening before it could close.
“Ruslan Baranov,” I said. “Can you get a message to him?”