Page 132 of Twisted Addiction

My heart plummeted.

For a fleeting, shameful second, that voice almost soothed me.

Then the memory came back. The sedatives. The manipulation. The way my parents had turned me into aweapon, erased my memories, and sent me to destroy Dmitri Volkov’s family from within.

The burn in my chest spread until it reached my throat.

“The call was a mistake,” I said flatly, my tone scraping against the silence. “It won’t happen again. Goodbye.”

I ended the call and dropped the phone beside me, burying my face in my hands.

No tears came this time. I’d wasted too many of them.

A few minutes later, the steady hum of hospital life faltered—muffled footsteps paused in the hall, nurses whispering, and then, above it all, the low thunder of helicopter blades.

My heart seized.

The sound was unmistakable.

Volkov choppers.

Dmitri’s.

The room tilted for a moment, adrenaline cutting through the fog.

He was coming. Here.

But when the door opened, it wasn’t Dmitri.

It was my father.

Marco Romano filled the doorway like a storm—immaculate suit, polished shoes, and eyes that gleamed with pride and something far darker. His smile was a surgeon’s incision—practiced, lethal.

“New York isn’t far from here, my dear,” he said, stepping inside. “Did you truly think you could vanish from your own bloodline?”

I gripped the edge of the bed, my pulse stuttering as he came closer.

“You’ve finally given me a grandson,” he murmured, voice thick with something that almost sounded like affection. “A Romano heir... A son. The family will be... pleased.”

“I’m not giving you anything,” I spat, my voice steady. “The call was a mistake. You shouldn’t be here.”

He tilted his head, almost amused. “Still dramatic,” he murmured. “You don’t even have money for the hospital bill, do you? That’s why you called. And don’t bother reaching Dmitri—your calls won’t connect. I made sure of that.”

The words hit me like cold water.

“You... what?”

“I have friends,” he said casually, adjusting his cufflinks. “Telecommunications, logistics, law enforcement—New Jersey isn’t outside my reach.”

My breath caught.

He wasn’t bluffing. The same power that had turned me into his pawn was now circling again, this time aimed at my son.

“Are you trying to hurt me?” My voice shook, anger and fear colliding. “You’ve already done enough, Father.”

He smirked, the mask finally slipping. “Hurt you? No, figlia mia. I’m here to collect what’s mine—my grandson.”

His words crawled over my skin.