“I’ll buy her freedom if I can,” he said. “Money talks. Especially to men like the Kompania brothers. But if they refuse—if they so much as touch her again—I’ll take her by force.” His eyes darkened, something feral flickering there.
I studied his face in the dim light. The man who’d once locked me in a dark room. The man who’d broken me without remembering my name. And now... sitting inches away, poised to grant whatever I ask.
“I don’t forgive you yet,” I said quietly.
He nodded once. No argument. “I know.”
He exhaled, the sound shaky and unguarded, like he’d been holding his breath for years.
Then he leaned in and pressed his lips to my forehead—slow, reverent, lingering.
A few minutes passed in silence, broken only by the quiet rhythm of our breathing.
I sighed and reached for his hands, threading my fingers through his.
His grip tightened immediately—warm, steady, calloused from a lifetime of violence and survival.
He adjusted his position, sitting fully upright so we were eye to eye, moonlight carving sharp lines across his face and leaving the rest in shadow.
“You have to be careful, Dmitri,” I said softly. “I don’t want you doing anything reckless. You don’t have the power you usedto. And there’s that agreement—the one between the Albanians and the four families here in Lake Como. You can’t just engage them openly. It would be war.”
A corner of his mouth lifted in a small, dangerous smirk—the expression that used to make men hesitate and women forget themselves.
“I’m not daft, Penelope,” he said. “I’m not walking into this blind.”
“Then tell me,” I said. “What you’re planning.”
“I’m building my own army,” he replied calmly. “Quietly. Outside Lake Como’s borders. No banners. No colors. Loyal ones. Men who answer only to me.”
His gaze burned into mine, intense and unwavering. “Mercenaries. Ex-special forces. Ghosts. They don’t care about old alliances or family pacts.”
I stiffened. “That’s dangerous.”
“Yes,” he agreed without hesitation. “But necessary.”
“You’ll draw attention.”
“Only if I’m sloppy.” His thumb brushed over my knuckles in a soothing motion that didn’t match the violence of his words. “And I won’t be.”
I searched his face. “You’ve already given the order.”
“Hours ago.” No pride. Just fact. “My men near the border are already probing the Kompania brothers’ holdings—looking for cracks. Weak points. Blind spots in their surveillance. Corruptible guards. We won’t storm their territory. We’ll cut it out from under them.” His voice dropped. “Surgical. Fast. Silent.”
A chill slid down my spine.
“They’ll wake up one morning,” he continued, “and half their leadership will be gone. The rest will be too terrified to retaliate.” He paused, eyes softening as his thumb traced the faint outlineof my ring. “No one will trace it back to me. Not until it’s far too late.”
I held his gaze, torn between fear and a dark, dangerous sense of justice.
“Still,” I said, tightening my grip on his hands as if I could anchor him in place. “Be careful. Promise me.”
He didn’t answer immediately.
He studied my face instead—really studied it—like he was memorizing every line, every flicker of fear I hadn’t managed to hide. Then he nodded once, slow and solemn, the kind of nod that carried weight.
“I promise,” he said.
The word settled uneasily in my chest. Promises had always been fragile things in our world—easily made, easily broken. Still, I held on to it.