Page 130 of Twisted Addiction

The emptiness hit me instantly.

I sat up, wincing at the pull of my stitches, my stomach swollen and tender.

My body was unfamiliar—soft, stretched, altered—but I pushed the insecurity aside.

My son was alive, and that alone made every ache and scar worth it.

Hours later, Dr. Patel returned, clipboard in hand, her expression professional but tinged with concern. “Ms. Romano,” she said, voice clipped, “we need payment for the C-section, NICU care, and your postpartum recovery. You’ll also need a specialized formula for premature infants, high in calories to support growth, and a portable pulse oximeter to monitor his oxygen levels at home. These are critical to prevent complications until he’s strong enough for discharge.”

My pulse quickened as I reached for my purse, hope sparking at the thought of Dmitri’s card.

But when I opened it, my stomach dropped.

Instead of the card, a single candy wrapped in shiny red foil sat mocking me.

My hands shook, disbelief twisting into panic. “Someone put a candy in here?” I whispered, my voice barely audible.

Dr. Patel’s expression darkened, her tone grave. “That’s... a signature tactic of street thieves here in New Jersey. They steal valuables and leave candy to mock their victims.”

My chest tightened, the air leaving my lungs.

That card—the twelve million dollars—was supposed to secure our survival.

Without it, I was trapped, penniless, powerless. “Ma’am, do you have another option?” Dr. Patel asked softly, urgency threaded through her words.

I clenched my fists, desperate, thinking back to the past month.

I’d considered transferring the funds to a new account, but the pregnancy and exhaustion had kept me from acting.

Now, it was too late.

I was alone, uninsured, and my baby’s life hung in the balance. “Hold on,” I said, grabbing the burner phone. “I’ll figure something out.”

Dr. Patel gave a brief nod. “I’ll return shortly,” she said, stepping out, leaving me with the sterile silence and my spiraling fear.

Calling my parents was unthinkable—their betrayal was still raw, a wound that refused to heal.

But for a fleeting, foolish moment, I thought of their grandson. Surely... they’d help him.

I dialed my father’s number, my voice tight and trembling as I leaned back against the hospital bed. “Dad,” I said, wincing at the sting of my stitched abdomen, “I just gave birth... they won’t discharge me without payment. Please, If there’s even a trace of decency left in you... send something. For your grandson.”

The response was not my father’s.

A deep, familiar voice cut through the line, sharp and urgent. “You were pregnant?”

My heart froze.

It wasn’t Dad.

I blinked at the screen, confusion rippling through my exhaustion.

Dmitri.

A sick chill crept down my spine as realization dawned. I hadn’t dialed my father’s number at all. I had called the one Giovanni gave me at the airport, back when he escorted me out of Lake Como.

Only now did the truth sink in. Giovanni hadn’t saved his own number in the burner phone.

He’d saved his boss’s.