I can’t remember the last time I felt this close to losing control.
My blood roars in my ears, anger and guilt swirling in equal measure as I step out of the car. The Petrov mansion looms before me, though it’s not Petrov property anymore—the Abramovic family snatched it up after the war.
The gate is locked, though they are expecting me. It wasn’t easy to convince Galina Abramovic to take my call, let alone agree to a meeting. It took more than a few favors and a carefully worded promise that I wasn’t coming to stir up old blood feuds.
The heavy iron gates creak open, the guard on duty leveling me with a hard stare, his fingers twitching near the weapon at his hip. He doesn’t say a word, but his hostility is clear—if it were up to him, I’d still be standing outside.
Fair enough. The people that live in this place have every reason to hate me and my name. But I have to do this. I have to see the place Eva once called home.
Days ago, I discovered the truth. Eva isn’t really Eva Smith. She’s the daughter of a Bratva lieutenant killed in the same war between the Russians and Italians that took my father and brothers. The knowledge sits like a rock in my gut, reminding me of the role I played in the events that claimed so many lives.
I knew she was hiding something. I just never imagined it would be this.
My footsteps crunch on the gravel drive. The mansion’s facade is grand but marred by signs of neglect. Paint peeling here and there, windows that need attention. The Abramovics probably keep it as a spare property, not their primary residence. Even so, its aura remains heavy, steeped in old blood.
I knock on the front door. A moment later, a slender woman answers, an aging caretaker if I had to guess. Her face pales the second I give her my name.
“I’m here to see the matriarch. I understand she has the Petrov archives.”
The caretaker hesitates. “Yes, but…” She glances over her shoulder, then sighs in resignation. “Fine. Come in.”
I follow her through halls filled with ghosts from the past. Photographs line the walls, none of which are the Petrovs. Still, I sense the echoes of a time when they walked these corridors. Eva’s father. Her mother. Eva herself. A child with bright eyes and a future stolen by bullets in the shadows.
The caretaker leads me into a dimly lit study. Behind a massive desk sits an older woman—poised, regal, and etched with the kind of lines that come from a life of violence and hard-won survival. She looks up, eyes narrowing with immediate recognition.
“I am Galina Abramovic,” she says, her voice low and guarded. “You have nerve, Bellacino. Showing your face here.”
“I’m not here to fight. I just need answers.”
She studies me for a beat, then nods to a nearby chair, signaling for me to sit. I stay standing. The caretaker slips out, quietly shutting the door behind her.
“Answers,” Galina repeats with a humorless smile. “Your family cost the Petrovs everything. We owe you nothing.”
My chest tightens. “I know. I’m here about Eva Petrova.”
A flicker of recognition crosses her face before quickly vanishing. “Eva Petrova is dead.”
“That’s the official story,” I say, “but it’s not true. She’s alive. She changed her name to Eva Smith.”
Galina’s mouth flattens into a thin line. She doesn’t say a word. Instead, she slowly rises and moves to a tall cabinet. She unlocks it, shuffling through a few boxes before lifting out a worn file. “I kept these from the old days. The Abramovic’s inherited the Petrov estate, but most of their things were destroyed.”
She sets the file on the desk and opens it carefully. Faded photographs spill out, my breath catching when I see a small blonde girl with wide eyes and a bright smile—definitely Eva. Maybe six or seven years old, clinging to a man I assume is her father. Another picture of Eva with her mother’s arms wrapped around her, both beaming at the camera.
“She was bright, that one,” Galina says, wistfully. “Rumor had it she vanished during the war, and vanish she did.”
My throat tightens.
“Officially, she was declared dead, but many suspected she survived. Now, here you are, telling me she’s alive and using a new name.”
“She was declared dead, but the body was never found,” I say, more to myself than Galina. For a moment, all I can do is stare at the photos. My Eva. Younger, innocent. We ruined her life and she’s probably carried that knowledge for years.
Galina’s expression hardens as she gathers the images and slides them back into the file. “You can look, but you can’t take them.”
“That’s fine.” I glance up. “So she’s the only surviving Petrov?”
She nods grimly. “Seems so.” Her eyes narrow. “Why do you care, Bellacino? Why are you here, asking all these questions?”
Because I love her. The words appear in my mind unbidden.
“I can’t tell you why, I just needed to know,” is all I can manage.
We lock eyes for a tense second then Galina waves me off. “Take your answers and go. We have nothing left to discuss.”
She’s right. My head is pounding, my heart thudding in my chest.
“Thank you,” I say, before turning to leave.
My conscience is shattered.
I can’t breathe.
Eva is the daughter of a man my family helped kill.
I was there. I can’t even process the weight of it.
My staff must notice my turmoil because nobody meets my gaze as I walk down the corridor to my office. They sense I’m in a mood and make it a point to avoid me.
Good. I don’t wish to be bothered.
Finally, I reach my office and slam the door shut. My phone’s been buzzing with messages—some of them from my men, others from business associates. I ignore them all.
I punch the intercom. “Janine, have Ms. Smith come to my office. Immediately.”
My assistant starts to say something about Eva’s schedule, but I interrupt her. “I said now.”
I’m pacing my office, heart pounding in my ears when Eva steps in. She looks tense, her brow furrowed. There’s a flush to her cheeks, a fragility to her I’ve never seen before. It tugs at me, but anger and betrayal override my concern.
“Dante—” she starts.
“Close the door.” I cut her off, my tone icy.
Her eyes flash, but she does as I say, quietly sealing us in. “What’s going on?” she asks. “You sound furious.”
“I am furious, Eva Smith,” I snap, stepping around my desk. “Or is it Petrov?”
She pales, staggering backward. “How did—?”
“How did I find out? I have connections. I’ve suspected something was off for a while now, and I just came from the Abramovic estate. I saw the pictures. I know you’re Eva Petrova.”
She stands rigid, hands trembling at her sides. Surprise and fear flicker in her eyes before being replaced by resignation. “Dante, I never meant—”
“To lie to me? To use me?”
“No!” She almost shouts the word, tears brimming. “My family died. We lost everything. I had to hide, Dante. I had no choice.”
I throw my arms wide. “Until when? Until you met me and decided to get your revenge?”
Her face contorts, tears spilling freely now. “Revenge? I never wanted revenge. I just wanted to survive, to build a life away from all the pain and loss.”
The heartbreak in her voice nearly cracks my fury, but I cling to it, needing answers. “So you ended up working for me—did you think it was poetic justice, gaining access to my systems?”
She shudders, pressing a hand to her stomach. “You’re twisting it. I’m here because I needed a job, because I’m good at what I do, and because I—”
“Because you what?” I demand, stepping closer. “Did you hope to bring the Bellacinos down from the inside?”
She looks at me in horror. “No!” She staggers a bit as her eyes roll back, her face even paler than before.
Alarm jolts through me. “Eva?” I catch her as her knees buckle. She’s clammy with sweat.
“Dante,” she breathes, her voice faint. When her knees give out entirely, I lower her to the floor, my pulse racing.
I run to the intercom, consumed with worry. “Janine! Get an ambulance!”
“No,” Eva protests weakly, reaching out for me. Her eyes flutter open, panic in them. “Don’t… no hospitals.”
“You need to see a doctor. You nearly passed out.”
She shakes her head. “I’m pregnant.”
My stomach free falls. “You’re what?”
She pulls away, face crumpling. “Pregnant. With your child.” Tears slip down her cheeks. In a flash of motion, she rights herself and bolts for the door. “I quit,” she says, her voice cracking. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“Eva, wait.” I scramble to my feet, but she’s already yanking the door open.
“I quit, Dante,” she says again. Then she’s gone, fleeing down the corridor before I can form a coherent response.
For a moment, I just stand there, chest heaving. Pregnant. The word pounds in my skull. The last few months whirl by as a blur in my mind; the passion, the arguments, the secrets.
I force my legs to move, tempted to chase after her. But after a couple of steps, an invisible chain holds me in place. My mind is locked in shock—swirling with questions, fear, and guilt.
For the first time in ages, I have no idea what to do.
