It was horrified.
I didn’t look at him. I stared straight ahead at the black ribbon of road disappearing into the trees.
“Yes.”
“Penelope...” The way he said my name—soft, aching—split something open inside me.
The same tone he’d used years ago under that Brooklyn oak tree, when the world had been small enough to outrun.
“What can I do?” he asked. “What do I have to do to earn your forgiveness?”
I laughed once, bitter and short.
“Nothing,” I said. “Forgiveness isn’t a transaction.” I swallowed. “I just want to take my son and go back to Greece. Please.”
“Greece?” He frowned. “I thought you were from New York.”
“My parents are in New York,” I said. “They’re not good people.”
The words tasted old. Heavy.
“After I took that bullet for you in New Jersey,” I continued, “someone in Greece sheltered me. Hid me. Helped me raise Vanya for five years.” My voice softened despite myself. “A real life, Dmitri. Quiet. Safe. No guns. No guards. No lies.”
I finally turned to face him.
“My entire world turned upside down the moment I left Greece,” I said. “The moment I came here to watch you marry Seraphina.”
He closed his eyes briefly, as though the weight of it all had finally pressed through.
A single drop of blood fell from his clenched fist onto the leather gearshift—dark, almost black in the low light, glistening as it spread.
I realized then he’d been driving with white knuckles the entire way, skin split where his nails had dug in. He hadn’t noticed. Or hadn’t cared.
“I’ve caused you so much pain,” he murmured. The words sounded torn out of him rather than spoken. “I can’t remember the details, but I feel it.” His hand trembled where it rested against the console. “Like a weight I can’t shake. Like something rotten sitting in my chest. I feel... horrible.”
The man beside me barely resembled the ruthless figure the world feared. Dmitri Volkov—untouchable, unbreakable, a myth sharpened into flesh—looked like he might shatter if one more truth landed on him wrong.
His eyes were glassy, unfocused, as if he were staring at something far behind me. His breathing was uneven. Controlled only by force of will.
“Seraphina has stolen my son’s love,” I said quietly.
The words didn’t come out sharp.
“Vanya doesn’t remember me,” I continued. “Not the way he should. Not the way a child remembers his mother. Every day I stay here is another day she tightens her hold. Another day she rewrites me out of his world.” My throat tightened. “I need to leave with him before it’s too late. Before he forgets I ever existed.”
He flinched as though I’d struck him.
“You want me,” he said slowly, disbelief creeping into his voice, “to help you leave me?”
The last word cracked. Not loudly. But it broke all the same.
I didn’t soften it. “After everything you’ve done to me—everything you took—this is the only thing you can do that might ease even a fraction of my pain.”
He turned away, staring through the windshield at nothing. His jaw worked, muscles flexing as he swallowed hard, again and again, like he was trying to choke down something that refused to go.
When he turned back, his eyes were wet. Not glossy. Wet. Tears threatening, barely restrained by pride and sheer effort.
“If you leave,” he said hoarsely, “what happens to me?” His voice dropped. “I’m Vanya’s father. And you’re the only person I trust right now.”