Seraphina sat beside me. Her thigh pressed against mine—deliberate, intimate. The kind of closeness meant to unsettle, to imply alliance where none existed. As if we were two women sharing confidences instead of enemies locked in a silent war.
Laughable.
Mocking.
I didn’t move away. Let her have the illusion. Let her believe this was surrender and not restraint.
“I wonder,” she murmured, voice silk-smooth, conversational, “what Marco has planned for you once you’re back in New York.”
I said nothing.
She tilted her head slightly, studying my profile. “Surely nothing pleasant. Your father never did anything without an angle.” A faint smile curved her lips. “A new marriage, perhaps? Another memory wipe?” She paused, letting the silence stretch. “Or something more... permanent.”
My gaze stayed fixed on the opposite wall—on the massive abstract painting fractured with jagged lines of black and violent streaks of red. It reminded me too much of shattered glass. Of blood on concrete. I refused to give her the satisfaction of flinching.
Seraphina leaned closer, close enough that I felt the warmth of her breath brush my ear.
“Don’t worry about Vanya,” she whispered. “I’ll take excellent care of him while you’re gone.”
The words landed like a blade sliding slowly between my ribs.
“I’ve been doing it for a year already,” she continued lightly. “He calls me Aunt now. It’s rather sweet.” Her lips curved. “But give it time. Children adapt. They forget. Especially when the replacement is... consistent.”
My fingers curled into fists in my lap, nails biting into skin. My pulse roared in my ears. Still, I said nothing. I would not beg. I would not crack.
Seraphina’s hand came to rest on my thigh—light, possessive, uninvited.
She left it there for several long seconds, as though branding territory, then slowly withdrew and stood.
She smoothed her skirt with elegant care, as if we’d just concluded a pleasant exchange instead of a calculated execution.
“Greet your parents for me when you get to New York,” she said sweetly.
I finally turned my eyes to her then, and something in my gaze must have pleased her—because her smile sharpened.
“And anytime you hear the name Orlov from now on,” she added softly, “run.”
She reached the top of the stairs and paused, glancing back over her shoulder, triumph undisguised now.
“As you can see, we defeated Dmitri Volkov before the war even began,” she said. “Right, left, and center.” A final smile. “Enjoy your flight, Penelope.”
Her heels clicked away, the sound crisp and final, fading into the upper corridor.
I didn’t turn to watch her go.
The night beyond the tall windows had deepened to ink. Stars glittered coldly above the black mirror of the lake, distant and indifferent.
I rose slowly, my legs unsteady, and walked to the edge of the landing. The marble chilled my bare feet, grounding me in the present.
I pressed my palms to the railing and stared down into the foyer far below—empty, immaculate, untouched by the violence threaded through its walls.
Leave tonight?
Walk out the service gate at 2:00 a.m.
Climb into a waiting car with tinted windows and silent men.
Board a jet already warmed, engines humming, ready to lift me out of Italy and erase this place from my life.