“And Vanya?” I asked quietly.
The pause this time was longer. Deliberate.
“Your son is Dmitri’s now,” Marco said at last. “No one can take him from Volkov custody—not legally, not practically. He’s protected. He’s well cared for.”
I almost laughed. Almost.
“But you,” Marco continued, as if offering a consolation prize, “can still have a life. Marry someone of your choosing here. Have more children. Build something real. You’re still young enough, Penelope. Don’t waste yourself clinging to a past that’s already buried.”
I closed my eyes.
The offer dangled like poisoned fruit—sweet on the surface, lethal underneath.
Leave Lake Como.
Leave Seraphina.
Leave Dmitri.
Leave the danger.
Leave my son.
“Do you accept the offer or not?” Marco pressed, impatience creeping through the polish.
I didn’t answer immediately.
Seraphina leaned against the banister now, arms crossed, watching me openly.
There was no pretense of privacy anymore. She wanted to see which way I’d bend. Whether I’d choose survival or motherhood. Whether I’d remove myself neatly from the board.
I thought of Bianca—still in that cell, still whispering Ricci’s name into the dark.
I thought of the other women who’d escaped with me—scattered, terrified, but alive.
I thought of Vanya’s small, serious face as he told Seraphina,My real mom is dead. I can’t forget about her. Ever.
I thought of the letter somewhere between here and Greece.
I lifted my gaze and met Seraphina’s eyes deliberately.
Then I looked back at the phone.
“No,” I said.
The word landed cleanly. Sharply.
A beat of silence.
“Penelope—”
“No,” I repeated, firmer now, my spine locking into place. “I’m not leaving my son.”
Marco’s voice hardened, the warmth draining out of it like a switched-off lamp.
“You’re making a mistake,” he said. “You’ll regret this when Dmitri tires of you and the Albanians come knocking. Men like him always do. And when they do, you won’t have anywhere left to run.”
I let the threat settle instead of flinching from it. Marco always expected fear. He fed on it.