Page 3 of Twisted Addiction

My mind reeled, suspicion knotting with unease.

Let’s go?

Where? Why now, after binding me like an animal, would Antonio suddenly release me? Each step deepened the questions clawing at my chest, but dread smothered the words before I could ask them aloud.

We moved through the house—a sprawling labyrinth of corridors that seemed to stretch forever, each step echoing too loud in the silence.

The guards stationed at each intersection stood like statues, their eyes sharp, faces devoid of humanity.

They didn’t move, didn’t speak—only watched. Cold, predatory.

My skin prickled as we passed, as though I’d become a ghost walking through the underworld, unseen but not unjudged.

By the time we stepped into the courtyard, the open air felt no less suffocating. A sleek black chopper waited, its blades idle but poised, like a predator ready to lunge.

“It’ll take you back to Lake Como,” Antonio said flatly, jerking his chin toward the chopper. But his voice carried an edge, brittle with anger.

His jaw clenched so hard a vein pulsed at his temple, and when he shoved his hands into his pockets, I caught the twitch of his fingers—like a man itching to strangle what he couldn’t keep.

He didn’t want this. He hated every second of it. But something bigger than his pride forced his hand. I could see it in the tight set of his shoulders, the simmering loathing in his eyes. He had to let me go—or choke on the consequences.

“I don’t understand,” I said, pulse thrumming in my throat. “You said my father ordered you to take me back to New York—that night you cornered me at the club. So why are you letting me walk away now? What changed?”

Deep down, I already knew why: Dmitri Volkov. Whatever he’d done, however he’d bled, Antonio was cutting his losses because Dmitri had made it impossible to hold me.

Antonio’s smirk curved back, dark and mocking, but the edge of strain pulled at it. “Don’t you get the memo? I’ve already pissed off all four mafia families in Lake Como. If I keep you one second longer, I’ll have their bullets in my skull before dawn. I’m in enough trouble—leave.”

For the first time, fear flickered in his eyes, warping the mask of arrogance.

His confidence cracked, just enough for me to glimpse the desperation beneath.

I edged toward the chopper. The three guards nearby shifted uneasily, exchanging quick glances. Their hands twitched toward their weapons, but none of them moved to stop me. Instead, they stepped back, as if even they wanted me gone.

The pilot, a wiry man with a scar across his cheek, nodded curtly and opened the door for me, his eyes averted.

The interior was sparse—leather seats worn from use, a small console flickering with lights, the cabin side separated by a thin partition where the pilot settled in.

No one else—just me, alone in the empty space, the engine’s hum vibrating through the floor as the blades began to spin.

I buckled in, sinking against the headrest, my palms instinctively pressing to my stomach.

Fear gnawed at me, sharp and merciless, now that the adrenaline had ebbed and I was fully conscious of my body. Had I really lost the pregnancy? The heavy bleeding, the stabbing cramps, the hollow ache inside me—it all screamed yes. Yet I clung to a fragile, desperate thread of hope. Maybe it had only been a scare. Maybe, somehow, the child still lived.

The chopper lurched upward, blades roaring as the ground fell away beneath me. My chest tightened, panic pressing against grief, and I forced my eyes shut.

I couldn’t face the void of the present. Not yet. So I let my mind slip, clawing for solace in memories—anything to drown the pain.

I remembered one sweet afternoon with my mother, Isabella, in our New York kitchen, the air thick with the scent of fresh basil and simmering tomato sauce.

I was twelve, standing on a stool beside her, my small hands kneading dough for homemade ravioli.

“See, tesoro,”she’d said, her warm laugh filling the room as she guided my fingers, “the secret is in the love you put in. Too much force, and it tears. Just like life.”

She’d kissed my forehead, her pearls brushing my cheek, and for that moment, the world felt safe, full of promise.

Tears stung my eyes, blurring the view below.

A painful smile tugged at my lips, a ghost of comfort in the middle of despair. I might never see them again—my family, my mother, Nonna. The thought hollowed me out, a fresh wound layered over all the others. I’d sworn I’d never end up like this, caged and traded between men like a bargaining chip.