Page 28 of Ruthless Addiction

Then another.

“How dare you!” Vanya shouted, voice shaking, face wet with tears.

“How dare you blow that in her face! You wicked, wicked man!”

He kept hitting him, small palms slapping against muscle, each blow fueled by pure, unfiltered rage.

For a moment the entire cathedral—hundreds of crime lords, billionaires, heirs—went dead silent.

Watching a five-year-old try to defend his mother.

Air still wouldn’t fill my lungs. My vision darkened at the edges.

The guard laughed—an ugly, barking sound—amused by a five-year-old’s fury and an asthmatic woman on her knees.

He didn’t laugh long.

Because I used the last molecule of oxygen left in my collapsing lungs to launch forward, dragging air through the tightening vise in my throat, and I drove my fist straight into his nose.

CRUNCH.

Cartilage shattered under my knuckles. Blood sprayed across the marble in a red arc.

He staggered back, eyes rolling, hands flying to his face.

I didn’t give him time to breathe.

A vicious uppercut—years of boxing classes, grief, and survival distilled into one strike—snapped his head back. The cigarette flew from his mouth, hitting the floor in a pathetic little bounce.

He toppled like a felled statue, crashing onto the marble with a wet thud.

Out cold.

The other guards didn’t move to help him.

They just stared.

Then—they started laughing. Deep, rumbling, mafia-born laughter that climbed the frescoed ceiling and bounced back down like mockery from God Himself.

“Holy shit—did she just fold him with one hit?”

“Yeah Riccardo is out cold. Hard to blame him, though—she hits like she’s got steel in her bones.”

“Oh, I’m waking him up with a bucket of ice and one question: ‘How’s it feel to get knocked out by a lady?’ Man’s never living that down.”

Another guard whistled under his breath. “Wild, though... she’s got the same face as—”

“Shut the hell up.”

The senior guard stepped forward, eyes ice cold. “You got a death wish? Boss doesn’t tolerate anyone talking about his late wife. Not a whisper. Not a comparison. Keep your tongue or lose it.”

I didn’t wait for round two.

I grabbed Vanya, who latched onto me like a terrified little monkey—arms around my neck, legs locking around my waist—and I ran.

We tore down the aisle, out through the carved wooden doors, and burst into the blinding Lake Como afternoon. Sunlight stabbed my eyes.

I sprinted across the courtyard, heels skidding on the cobblestone, Vanya clinging to me with his whole trembling body.