Page 59 of Twisted Addiction

Dmitri’s lips curved into something that wasn’t a smile. “You won’t shoot me,” he said softly, taking another step.

“Don’t test me,” I warned, my voice cracking.

He kept coming.

Every step echoed like a countdown.

“You won’t shoot me,” he repeated, his voice low—almost reverent. “Because even now, even hating me, you still want to save me.”

“Stay the hell back, Dmitri!”

He stopped—just out of reach, close enough for me to see the flicker of madness in his eyes. “I don’t fear death, Milaya,” he whispered. “But I do fear you leaving me again. So if I have to be the monster that keeps you breathing, then so be it.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. The gun trembled in my hands. I couldn’t tell if my tears were rage or heartbreak anymore.

“Dmitri—get the fuck back!” I screamed, voice cracking as adrenaline shoved the world to its edges.

My finger was white-knuckled on the trigger; my lungs burned.

He kept coming.

Not running, not lurching — he advanced with the terrible calm of a man convinced the world will bend to him. He reached for the gun as if reclaiming a toy. Instinct snapped. I fired.

The shot detonated, glass tinkling from the chandeliers.

The sound rolled through the basilica like a thrown thing.

Dmitri jerked, an arc of red blossoming across his forearm and splattering the sleeve of his suit. He stumbled back, more surprised than hurt, and then steadied as if the wound were an inconvenient detail.

Giovanni and the doctor lunged. The doctor’s face went paper-white as he fumbled for his kit; Giovanni’s jaw clenched so hard I could see the tendon jump. They dropped to their knees around Dmitri, hands moving with practiced urgency.

Guilt hit me like a wave. For one dizzy heartbeat I saw only the blood—bright, obscene—and my mouth went dry. Then the old iron in my chest steeled itself.

“You will not make this choice for me,” I said, my voice small and brittle and somehow steadier than I felt. “Not now. Not ever. This is my body. My child. My decision.”

I moved on shaking legs, keeping the gun trained on him as I bent to gather the divorce papers from the marble. My fingers left red smears on the edges as I slapped the file down on a nearby lectern, breath coming in sharp, hot bursts.

“Sign these,” I forced out, the gun level, my throat raw. “Now. Do it — or I will shoot again.”

He looked at me then. Not with dread. Not with surprise. With the same steady, dangerous curiosity he wore to look at a chessboard where he knew every outcome.

A smirk crossed his face — small and contemptuous and utterly certain. The doctor pressed a square of gauze to the wound, swearing softly, hands shaking. Giovanni’s eyes pleaded at me, then slid to Dmitri as if begging permission to act.

Dmitri moved like a man bored with theatrics.

He tore the gauze away from his arm, drew one of the bloody divorce papers toward him, and, with a grunt that was almost amusement, pressed the page flat against his bleeding skin. The ink ran, red streaks joining the printed words. He ripped the page in two and let the pieces flutter to the floor.

“You think a scrawled signature will set you free?” he said, each syllable soft as velvet and sharp as a blade.

Blood dripped from his forearm onto the marble. “You’ll pay for this, Penelope.” His voice was a low growl now, threaded with something worse than promise — an unhinged calculus of retribution.

“You think I won’t shoot again?” I shot back, the steadiness in my tone belying the way my hands shook.

The gun felt like the last honest thing I owned.

He swayed, breath shallow, and Giovanni steadied him, easing him onto a pew.

The doctor’s fingers worked quickly, clean and clinical. “Mr. Volkov, sit. Please,” he urged, voice tight, pulling out forceps and a small suction device. “I need to remove the bullet. Sit and hold still.”