Page 18 of Twisted Addiction

They knew she was my Achilles’ heel, the one vulnerability in my ironclad armor. They’d exploit it without hesitation, using her as leverage to dismantle everything I’d built.

Memories of my foster home bled into my thoughts, bitter and sharp as broken glass.

I’d been the intruder—the unwanted foster boy in a house that already had heirs.

Alexei, ever the serpent, once locked me in the cellar for three days, slipping food through the gap only to snatch it away, whispering through the darkness that I’d never belong.

Viktor, the brute, had pinned me down in the yard, forcing dirt into my mouth until I choked, laughing as he called me “the stray dog their parents pitied.”

Nikolai, the youngest and most sadistic, had orchestrated “games” where they’d hunt me through the woods with air rifles, pellets drawing blood as they jeered about my worthlessness.

Those torments forged me. Pain turned to a geometry I could use—angles, patience, the slow learning of how cruelty bent a man toward violence. They left scars, yes, but more importantly they left fuel: a hatred I learned to stoke and aim.

Years later, I repaid them in the only language they understood.

I slipped into their parents’ villa at night and poisoned the wine—an elegant end that read like a heart attack on paper.

The dynasty I was meant to inherit crumbled into silence. I took what was left: the name, the ledger, the empty throne.

The foster brothers melted into shadow, nursing grudges I did not fear.

Now, they were back, not just for blood over their parents’ graves, but to reclaim the throne they believed was rightfully theirs.

They despised that a “stray” like me had seized what their family had bled for generations to build. But this position was mine—etched in blood, secured by ruthlessness—and I’d die before surrendering it.

Giovanni was capable, a bodyguard who’d taken bullets for me in the past, but against my scheming brothers, one man wasn’t enough. I needed an army.

I stepped closer to the recruits, my presence looming.

“Betrayal in Lake Como doesn’t end with your death,” I said, my tone quiet, lethal—the kind of calm that made men shift on their feet.

The silence in the underground chamber thickened. “It takes everything you love with it. Your wives. Your children. Your bloodline. We have contacts everywhere. If one of you so much as thinks of crossing me, your name will be erased from this world before sunset.”

Their jaws tightened, eyes forward, the weight of my words sinking deep.

“I don’t tolerate weakness,” I continued, pacing slowly before them. “Loyalty is survival. Betrayal is extinction.”

A beat of silence followed, and then—

“As you command, Boss,” they thundered in unison, voices deep enough to make the concrete walls vibrate.

Satisfied, I turned and gestured for Giovanni to follow.

We ascended the hidden staircase, emerging into the opulent main house, the transition from stark utility to lavish excess, a reminder of what I’d claimed.

As I approached the front door, Giovanni’s hurried, uneven footsteps echoed behind me—his limp a constant, grating sound.

“Boss...” he called, breathless.

I didn’t pause until my hand gripped the doorknob, twisting it open with deliberate force.

He caught up as I strode through the foyer, his labored breathing filling the air.

We headed straight for the master bedroom, but he persisted, dogging my heels like a shadow unwilling to fade.

Only at the bedroom door did I halt, turning to face him. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his scarred face twisted in exertion, pain etched into every line.

I glanced down at his bandaged legs—still wrapped in gauze, the wounds from Antonio’s ambush fresh and festering. Normally, I’d have sidelined him for weeks, letting him heal before resuming duties. But no. He didn’t deserve that mercy.