Page 111 of Ruthless Addiction

And then the darkness.

The day he forced the ring onto my finger. The cold ceremony. The vows that felt like chains. The nights where love curdled into possession, into cruelty sharpened by jealousy and pride.

In one lifetime, this man had given me heaven and hell.

I hated that heaven still glimmered brighter.

“You’re not sleeping,” he said.

His voice rumbled low, certain, cutting through the silence like a stone dropped into still water.

I flinched, turning my head toward him. His eyes were still closed.

“How did you know?” I asked quietly.

The faintest smirk touched his mouth. “I know the sound of your breathing when you’re pretending.”

Of course he did.

I let out a slow breath, my fingers tightening briefly over my stomach before I forced them to relax. “I’m trying,” I said.

“If you’re worried I might touch you without your consent, put your mind at ease,” he said softly, his voice edged with warning and restraint. “I never have—and I never will.”

A pause.

“Sleep,” he added. “We have a party tomorrow evening.”

His chest rose and fell once, deeper this time.

He opened his eyes then.

Storm-gray. Unforgiving. They fixed on me with that familiar intensity that always made the air feel thinner, like breathing required permission.

“What party?” I asked.

“The annual gathering of the four families.” He replied, careful to keep his tone neutral.

He shifted, pushing himself up against the headboard. The muscles in his arms flexed with the movement, the duvet slidinglower across his waist as if the bed itself yielded to him. He didn’t bother pulling it back up.

“Every year,” he said, “the Volkovs, Orlovs, Morozovs, and Ferraros come together. A masquerade of civility.” His mouth twisted faintly. “We parade new soldiers, new alliances, new brides. We drink expensive wine, exchange pleasantries, and pretend we aren’t all calculating how best to kill one another when the night is over.”

His gaze never left my face.

“It’s how Lake Como stays standing,” he went on. “One evening of restraint so the rest of the year doesn’t drown in blood.”

I nodded slowly, a prickle of unease sliding down my spine. “And I have to be there?”

“Yes,” he said. “In fact, I’ll need you to handle a task for me tomorrow.”

The way he said it—calm, deliberate—made my pulse stutter.

“The Orlovs have already secured the Morozovs as allies,” he continued. “If I’m going to have any advantage when war breaks out, I need the Ferraros on my side before the Orlovs poison them too. That’s where you come in.”

His gaze held mine.

“They’ll be at the party tomorrow. I need you to speak to the Ferraros—Ricci Ferraro in particular. He’ll be there. He’s been... resistant to choosing sides.”

A knot formed low in my stomach. “You want me to speak to him.”