Page 35 of Twisted Addiction

The lead racer, a wiry man in a red Mustang, surged ahead, his taillights taunting me with every flash.

I gritted my teeth and downshifted, feeling the car snarl beneath me.

The silver Porsche on my right tried to cut me off. I swerved, our side mirrors nearly colliding, the sound of metal kissing metal sharp as a gunshot. The car tilted dangerously, the edge of the road a whisper from my tires, but I held firm, forcing my way back into my lane. Adrenaline burned through me like wildfire. I wasn’t losing—not tonight.

We tore through a maze of abandoned warehouses, graffiti-streaked walls flashing by like ghosts of the city’s sins.

My hands were slick on the wheel.

A barricade of tires appeared at the last second. I slammed the brakes, the car fishtailing in a violent arc. For a moment, I thought I’d lost it—then the tires bit back, and I steadied, breathless.

That split second of hesitation cost me.

The woman in the green Viper shot past, her engine roaring, her laugh echoing faintly through the open window as she disappeared into the tunnel ahead.

I cursed under my breath and slammed the accelerator to the floor. The engine roared, the world narrowing to speed and sound.

The wind tore through my hair as if stripping away the suffocating air of Dmitri’s mansion. For the first time in months, I wasn’t a wife, or a prisoner. I was just—alive.

The finish line appeared—a frayed banner strung between steel beams, flickering under dying floodlights.

The crowd, a sea of leather and smoke, roared as the Mustang, Porsche, and Viper crossed ahead.

My car rolled in last, the engine growling low before it quieted, the silence almost taunting.

Disappointment hit hard, sharp as a bruise. I’d lost. But beneath the ache, something wild and electric throbbed in my veins. A thrill. A rebellion.

I threw the door open and stumbled out, my legs shaky, the cool night air cutting through my heat. My breath came fast, visible in the chill.

Giovanni limped toward me from the crowd, a familiar grin breaking across his scarred face. The neon lights caught the mischief in his eyes.

“You did well, Penelope,” he said, his voice light, teasing. “Didn’t crash. Didn’t cry. You’d be surprised how few manage that their first time.”

I huffed a laugh, still catching my breath. “I came in last.”

He shrugged, the movement lazy. “Maybe. But you drove like someone who finally remembered what it feels like to live.”

Something in his tone made my chest tighten. The noise of the crowd faded. All I could hear was the echo of my own heartbeat—and the distant purr of the engine cooling between us.

I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand and scoffed. “Coming last counts as an achievement now, doesn’t it? You don’t have to mock me.”

My voice came out sharper than I intended, brittle against the noise of the engines cooling around us.

The other racers were already being swallowed by cheers, their supporters chanting names, slapping backs, lighting cigarettes in victory.

Me? I had silence.

No applause, no name on anyone’s lips—just the reminder that I didn’t belong here.

Giovanni only chuckled, unbothered, and handed me a towel. “Mocking you? No. Just impressed you didn’t crash and take half the crowd with you.”

I snatched the towel from him, wiping sweat from my face and neck, the fabric rough but grounding. For a fleeting moment, I let myself breathe.

Then the air changed.

A ripple of tension cut through the noise—conversations faltered, engines idled into uneasy silence. The crowd’s laughter died in their throats as figures emerged from the edges of the alley, shadows solidifying into men in dark tactical uniforms. Their boots struck the pavement in unison, a rhythm that made my pulse stumble.

Lake Como’s private enforcers. Not quite police—never police—but worse. Men who worked for whoever paid more.