Page 64 of Twisted Addiction

I slid into the passenger seat, leather cool beneath me, and my fingers brushed the torn remnants of the divorce papers.

My thumb lingered over the embossed seal, thoughts spinning. Alexei... I have to contact him. I’ll let him help me—divorce, escape, anything. I can’t stay here another second.

Giovanni’s hands were steady on the wheel as he started the engine. The SUV rolled forward, the hum of the tires against the pavement blending with the thrumming of my pulse.

Chapter 16

PENELOPE

The car ride back to the mansion was suffocating in its silence.

Giovanni’s plan—to fake the abortion—hung over me like a blade: a lifeline for my child, yet a threat to both our lives if Dmitri ever uncovered the truth.

As the wrought-iron gates of the mansion loomed ahead, moonlight glinting off their intricate curls, I gripped the gun tighter, the cold metal a talisman against the storm I knew awaited me.

I had drawn Dmitri’s blood in the sacred halls of the Basilica di Sant’Abbondio—crossed a line that could cost me everything—but I wasn’t going down quietly.

The gravel crunched sharply beneath my boots as I strode toward the grand entrance.

The night air was crisp, scented faintly with lake water and pine, but it did nothing to slow the frantic rhythm of my pulse.

I pushed through the heavy oak doors.

The foyer greeted me with its cold marble floors, fractured by the light of the chandelier overhead.

Shadows stretched long and dark across the space, mirroring the chaos in my mind.

I headed straight for the kitchen, my steps echoing in the cavernous hall, searching for anything to anchor me, anything to still the storm that raged within.

In the kitchen, the stainless-steel counters gleamed under the soft recessed lighting, a cold, clinical reflection of the chaos in my chest.

I grabbed a crystal glass from the cabinet, hands trembling as I filled it with water, the liquid sloshing and catching the light.

I drank deeply, but the cool slide down my throat did nothing to ease the tight knot of panic and dread.

My eyes fixed on the dark window above the sink, the reflection of my pale face staring back at me like a ghost.

Every thought of Dmitri—the rage in his eyes, the memory of the gunshot—crept through my mind like a shadow clawing closer, relentless.

A sudden clatter shattered the fragile stillness.

The gun slipped from my left hand, skittering across the tile with a metallic thud. I lunged, but it was too late.

Dmitri stood there, polished shoe pinning the weapon to the floor, his presence filling the kitchen like a storm cloud pressing down.

My spine hit the cold counter, and I froze, defenseless, chest hammering.

“You... how?” I whispered, disbelief and terror warring in my chest.

He had left the cathedral barely an hour ago, his arm bleeding, treated by the doctor. And yet here he stood, like a shadow made flesh.

His suit jacket was gone, the stark white bandage on his arm smeared with crimson, a brutal contrast against the bloodied fabric.

His eyes—piercing, ice-blue daggers—locked onto mine, unblinking, unyielding, unreadable, and in that instant, the air in the kitchen thickened with a weight I couldn’t breathe through.

He didn’t speak at first, just leaned slightly, the shadow of a smirk brushing his face, eyes dark with obsession and something colder—danger.

My pulse jumped.