Page 45 of Twisted Addiction

Dmitri’s brother.

His tattooed hands rested loosely on the table beside a half-eaten plate of grilled octopus, and his gaze, lazy but sharp, cut through the din like glass.

The female server beside him looked flustered, her cheeks pink, her eyes flicking to me as if begging to be saved.

I dismissed her with a calm nod. “It’s fine. I’ll handle this.”

She scurried away.

“Mr. Alexei,” I said evenly, schooling my tone into something neutral. “We’re deeply sorry if the dish didn’t meet your expectations.”

His hazel eyes flicked to the retreating staff, then back to me — assessing, cool, and unmistakably amused.

“Sit,” he said. Not asked — ordered.

I blinked. “Sit?” My voice hardened. “You realize I’m the manager here, not your waitress, right? Why would I sit with you?”

A ghost of a smirk touched his lips. “Because I wouldn’t say what I’m about to say twice.”

Something in his tone made my chest tighten. I stayed standing, jaw set.

He exhaled slowly, his eyes steady on mine. “Your uncles, Rocco and Carlo,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “have been murdered.”

The world stilled.

The chatter. The jazz. Even the low hum of the kitchen beyond the double doors. Everything went silent, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.

My fingers twitched at my side, “Oh my God,” I whispered, sinking into the chair across from him to keep from collapsing.

Tears burned my eyes, glittering under the soft amber lights as grief crashed over me like a tidal wave.

Uncle Rocco — always smelling of espresso and cigar smoke, with a grin that could light up the darkest room. He’d lift me onto his shoulders during the summer parades, waving at strangers like we owned the whole block, shouting that family was the only crown worth wearing.

Uncle Carlo—always the softer one, who’d sneak me extra scoops of pistachio gelato and wink conspiratorially when my father wasn’t looking.

Those memories—those fragments of something good—bled into the nightmare that had haunted me.

Uncle Rocco’s grin twisting into a leer.

Uncle Carlo’s warmth curdling into something vile.

And that faceless third figure—towering, familiar, monstrous.

I pressed a shaking hand to my mouth. The contrast was unbearable, the dissonance sharp enough to split me in two.

“Why?” I rasped finally, lifting my gaze to Alexei. “Why were they killed? Was there a war... a hit?”

He leaned forward, forearms resting on the table, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that slid over me like silk and ice.

“Dmitri’s fingerprints were found on both bodies.”

The air left my lungs in a violent rush.

Alexei didn’t stop. “They were tortured—methodically. Whoever did it wanted them to suffer. Tell me, Penelope, whoelse would have the access, the power, the precision to make that happen if not Dmitri?”

My pulse thundered in my ears. “You’re saying he killed them? My uncles?”

He leaned back slightly, studying me. “I’m saying he wanted you to bleed without touching you. Killing your family... that sounds like Dmitri’s kind of message.”