Page 34 of Twisted Addiction

The hum of engines filled the air long before I saw them—hungry, alive.

Giovanni’s “reset button,” as he called it, was nothing like I’d imagined.

Beneath Lake Como’s postcard charm, a different world thrived—a hidden network of tunnels lit by flickering neon and lined with people hungry for speed and danger.

“You’re joking,” I muttered, eyeing the sleek black Ferrari parked under the pulsing lights. “You expect me to race?”

Giovanni leaned against the hood, that easy grin never slipping. “You said you wanted to forget for a while. Trust me, this will help.”

“By getting myself killed?”

“By living,” he corrected softly. “You’ve done enough dying already.”

I wanted to argue, but the thought of Dmitri—his cold commands, the sterile mansion, the silence—made my chest tighten.

The car’s polished surface reflected me back: pale, tired, scared. I didn’t even recognize myself anymore.

“If you hate it,” Giovanni added, tossing me the keys, “you walk away. But if you don’t—” his grin turned sharp, “—you’ll finally remember what it feels like to breathe.”

My fingers closed around the keys before I could stop myself.

I walked toward the car, its sleek black frame gleaming under the pulsing lights like a predator waiting to be unleashed. Three other cars were already lined up beside mine, their drivers revving in sync, impatient for blood and glory.

There would be four of us tonight. Four chances. Four risks.

I slid into the driver’s seat, the leather cold against my palms, my reflection trembling in the windshield.

My heart raced faster than the engines. I could drive—but not like this. Not against men who treated danger as a game.

Still, when the starter raised the gun, I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. The air was thick with smoke and adrenaline, time stretching thin and sharp.

The gunshot cracked.

And the world exploded into motion.

The engine roared beneath me.

The steering wheel vibrated under my palms, leather biting into my skin as I fought to control the beast beneath me.

The tunnel walls flashed with streaks of neon—red, violet, electric blue—blurring into a fever dream of color and noise.

Exhaust fumes mixed with the metallic tang of adrenaline on my tongue.

I slammed the pedal.

The tires shrieked, the world snapped into motion.

The three other racers tore down the narrow road beside me, engines howling like wolves in pursuit. Crates splintered as one clipped the edge of a turn; sparks flew, painting the darkness gold.

The wind whipped through my hair, wild and cold, and for a moment, I forgot everything—Dmitri, the doctor’s warnings, the life growing and dying inside me.

For the first time in months, I felt free.

I leaned hard into the turn, the car’s frame trembling as the rear fishtailed.

A stack of wooden pallets appeared out of nowhere—I twisted the wheel, missing them by inches. My breath hitched, my stomach lurching as the tires screeched in protest.

Every muscle in my body was wired, my pulse thrumming in time with the revving engine.