My son was in there.
And so was the man who had burned an empire for me.
I squared my shoulders.
And walked in.
Chapter 9
PENELOPE
THE MOMENT I CROSSEDthe threshold of the Basilica di Sant’Abbondio, the sacred hush that usually swallowed the air vanished.
The cathedral no longer felt like a house of God. Its soaring arches and mosaic of Christ in Majesty no longer inspired awe—they pressed down on me like stone and secrets, a courtroom carved from centuries of power and fear.
Rows of dark oak pews had been shifted into a semicircle facing the apse, where a long, polished table stood beneath the golden mosaic.
The air smelled of old incense, melted wax, and the faint tang of barely restrained violence.
Dmitri stood at what passed for the witness stand—a carved wooden lectern near the altar rail.
His posture was rigid, shoulders squared, hands loose at his sides.
His face was unreadable, calm as stone, and terrifying in its stillness.
I scanned the pews quickly, heart hammering. Giovanni sat directly behind him, jaw tight, expression grim.
And there—pressed close against Giovanni’s side—was Vanya. My son. My baby. His small shoulders were hunched,eyes wide and frightened, fingers clutching the sleeve of Giovanni’s coat like a lifeline.
My heart seized in my chest. Every muscle froze.
“Penelope,” intoned one of the elders from the central chair, silver hair gleaming under the wavering candlelight, voice smooth, practiced, like oiled marble grinding across stone. “You are the final witness we have been waiting for. Step forward. We have questions.”
A man in black tactical gear—Ferraro muscle—moved to escort me. I ignored him entirely, stepping forward with my gaze fixed solely on Vanya.
Dmitri’s eyes never left the table.
He did not look at me. No nod. No softening in his expression. Nothing. The silence from him terrified me more than any words from the elders.
I realized, in that instant, that I feared him losing control—or perhaps that he had already decided to sacrifice himself for me.
I reached the lectern. The wood was cold under my palms, grounding me against the pounding of my heart.
The elder at the table leaned forward—a Morozov this time, broad and scarred, eyes sharp and calculating. “State your full name for the council,” he demanded.
I swallowed hard. A flicker of movement caught my eye. Seraphina sat in the front row, flawless in black silk, eyes glittering with warning.
Her lips moved silently:Lie.
I met her gaze for one heartbeat, defiance burning behind my own, then turned my attention back to the council.
“My name is Penelope Volkov,” I said, clear, unwavering. “Wife of Dmitri Volkov. Mother of Vanya Volkov.”
A ripple went through the room—murmurs, sharp intakes of breath, a stifled curse.
Before anyone could respond, the great west doors burst open.
Heavy boots thundered across the marble. Dozens of Italian state police poured in, clad in black tactical gear, ballistic shields raised, Beretta ARX160 rifles leveled.