Giovanni’s brows knit together as he considered it. The wind off the lake tugged at his shirt, ruffling the stillness.
“If you write a letter, I can make sure it reaches Greece,” he said slowly. “Discreetly. No names attached. But be realistic—Ruslan Baranov receives hundreds of messages. Pleas. Threats. Business proposals. He may not read yours for months.”
“I know,” I said. “But it’s my only shot.”
After a moment, he nodded once. “All right. When it’s ready, bring it to me.” He hesitated, then stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper sharp with urgency. “And Penelope—when Dmitri’s around, we’re strangers. You’re just the injured woman his son felt sorry for. Nothing more. One slip. One look held too long. And we’re both finished.”
He turned to leave.
“Wait,” I said quickly. “Where is Dmitri right now?”
Giovanni paused, his back to me. “Rome,” he said. “Meeting with remnants of his old network. Trying to rebuild what’s left.”
He shook his head faintly. “The last twelve months have been brutal. The Orlovs chased most of his soldiers out of Lake Como. Replaced them with fifty hand-picked men who answer directly to them. Dmitri thinks they’re his. Thinks he still commands them. Thinks he’s still equal under the law.”
He looked back at me then, eyes dark.
“The Four Families are supposed to share power equally. But in reality?” He exhaled. “Dmitri has nothing. No army. No leverage. Every morning I wake up and watch my boss live inside a cage he doesn’t even know exists. It’s... painful.”
For the first time, Giovanni looked old. Not in years—but in weight. In regret.
“Be careful, Penelope,” he said quietly. “This house isn’t safe for you anymore. Not now. Not ever.”
Dmitri had no power.
Giovanni was leashed by a child.
Seraphina held every string.
And Vanya—my Vanya—was upstairs, calling another woman family.
“One last question, Giovanni, before I let you go.”
He froze mid-step, hand lingering on the polished railing as if the words had stopped him mid-motion.
His eyes flicked left and right, sharp, calculating—scans of the empty corridors, the shadows pooling in the corners, the distant reflection of glass doors down the hall.
Every movement was too precise. He’d lived in this world too long to ever feel safe, even here.
“What are the chances Dmitri recovers his memory?” I asked quietly, forcing the words through a throat that had been tight all day. “What about Vanya?”
Giovanni exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders sagging just a fraction. “I had someone check. Discreetly. A neurologist we trust—off the books. Someone who doesn’t ask questions and doesn’t file reports.”
His eyes, dark and steady, met mine. “It’s not permanent. Science doesn’t support total, irreversible memory erasure from trauma like that. Those memories... they don’t vanish. They sink. Deep. Into the subconscious. But triggers—triggers can pull them back up. Places, smells, a song. A voice. A touch. People.”
He paused, as if weighing the danger of each word, then leaned slightly closer, voice dropping almost to a whisper. “If he decides to keep you around instead of shipping you out—your face, your voice, the way you move... It’s possible. You could bring it all back. All of it.”
I swallowed hard, the words cutting through the chill air around us. “Should he decide to keep me?” I repeated, letting the question linger.
Giovanni shook his head slowly—not denial, but resignation.
His gaze softened briefly, a fleeting warmth hiding behind layers of caution and exhaustion. “I have to go,” he said finally. “You ask too many questions, and someone’s going to notice. There are eyes everywhere here. Always watching. Always listening.”
He gave me one last look—half warning, half apology, a silent admission that he wished things were different.
Then he turned and walked away, the echo of his boots fading down the corridor until the space seemed impossibly empty.
Chapter 4