Hope—bright and terrifying—threatening to tear something open inside my chest.
“Tell me this isn’t a prank,” I whispered, my voice cracking around the words.
“This matter is far too sensitive for a prank,” he said softly.
A long pause. Then—
“Even if I can’t remember the full extent of what I did to you... I know it was unforgivable.”
His grip on my hand tightened, just a fraction.
“All I ask is the chance to spend the rest of my life making it right. Serving you. That’s why I put that ring on your finger.”
I stayed silent.
Hated how handsome he still was—how his eyes still had the power to make my pulse stutter after everything.
I turned back to the window, watching Lake Como’s empty streets slide past, villas dark and sleeping, the water a sheet of ink beside the road.
How had he done it? Four weeks. Captured an entire trafficking network. Tracked and rescued six traumatized women. Kept them hidden, protected, fed, watched. The logistics alone were staggering. The risk... incalculable.
The drive stretched on, time thick and elastic, every second testing my restraint.
Then the headlights swept across a lonely bungalow tucked against a tree line—single story, peeling paint, shutters drawn tight. No lights in the windows. No sign of life.
Dmitri slowed.
I was out of the car before it fully stopped. Gravel bit into my bare feet as I ran to the door and tried the handle.
Locked.
“They won’t open for just anyone,” Dmitri said behind me. “They’re hiding. Scared. They don’t trust easily anymore.”
I pressed my forehead to the wood, the grain rough and real beneath my skin. My throat tightened until it hurt to breathe.
“Bianca... Carina... Sofia... Ana... Christina... Simona” My voice shook, breaking apart with each name. “It’s me. Penelope.”
Silence.
Seconds stretched into an eternity.
Then—movement. A faint scuff behind the door. A whisper, too soft to make out.
The lock clicked.
The door opened just a crack.
A single eye peered out—wide, wary, impossibly familiar.
“Penelope?” Bianca breathed.
The door flew open, and suddenly there were arms around me—thin, shaking, real.
Bianca sobbed into my shoulder, her body trembling as if she couldn’t believe I was solid. Behind her, faces appeared in the dim—Ana’s tear-streaked smile, Sofia’s guarded eyes filling with wet shine, Carina clutching Christina’s hand like a lifeline. Simona hovered in the back, frozen, until I reached for her and she collapsed into the embrace.
We cried together in a tangled heap on the threshold, grief and relief pouring out in waves.
Dmitri stood a few steps back, silent and watchful, giving us space.