Ruthless Addiction: Chapter 10

Iwatched from the shadowed landing of the staircase, half-hidden behind the carved balustrade, like a man spying on a life that should have been mine.

Pen sat on the edge of the velvet chaise in the center of the foyer, one long leg crossed over the other, her heel tapping an erratic rhythm against the marble floor. Tap. Pause. Tap-tap. The sound echoed through the vast space like a countdown clock wired to my nerves.

She didn’t look up. She didn’t need to. Her entire body was tuned to absence—listening, waiting, bracing.

The movement of her foot made the hem of her dress ride up her calf, revealing muscle where softness used to be. She was stronger. Sharper. A woman forged by survival, not sheltered by love. Every restless shift of her weight was a scream she refused to voice.

She was the only woman who had ever kept me sane.

And the only one who could still unmake me.

I hated her.

I told myself I hated her with every breath I dragged into my lungs.

Hated the way she wore Penelope’s face but with new edges—cheekbones honed by hardship, eyes stripped of innocence, a mouth that had learned how to lie without flinching. Hated that her body was fuller now, curved in ways that made my blood heat and my hands ache with remembered hunger.

Hated that she hid things from me with the precision of someone trained to survive monsters.

Hated that I wanted her anyway.

Wanted her with a violence that made even me uneasy.

Five years.

Five years since I buried Penelope.

Five years since I’d held her in my arms while her blood soaked into my clothes, her breath shallow, her fingers clutching my jacket like she could anchor herself to life through me. Five years since she’d whispered my name the way she always had—soft, intimate, devastating.

Mitya…

That sound haunted my sleep.

Five years of guilt that gnawed at me like a disease.

I had let vengeance rot my judgment. I had punished her for crimes she never committed. I had shamed her, abandoned her, ordered the death of the child she carried with a voice so calm it still made me sick to remember.

I had failed her in every way a man can fail the woman he loves.

And now fate had delivered me this woman—same fire, same defiance, same chin tilted in challenge. The same infuriating ability to look at me like I was both shelter and executioner.

The Orlovs had crossed a line tonight.

They’d ambushed Giovanni on the return route.

Shot him through the shoulder like an animal.

Taken the boy.

An act of war.

One they would repay in blood, bone, and screams that would echo for generations.

I had been too quiet these past five years.

After burying Penelope, I’d withdrawn. Let my capos run the empire while I rotted in smoke and silence. I’d taken up cigarettes again—the ones I’d quit cold the day Penelope’s asthma attack landed her in my arms, gasping, terrified. I used to crush them without lighting them if she was in the room.

Now I smoked like oxygen depended on it.

Women disgusted me.

Not just Seraphina—all women.

The thought of another body in my bed, another scent on my sheets, turned my stomach. No one had lasted a full night. No one had been allowed close enough to try.

Until now.

Until Pen sat downstairs, waiting for her son, wrapped in nerves and rage and restrained terror.

Fifteen minutes had passed since the call.

Five more, and Vanya would be delivered.

Along with the viper.

Pen moved again, dragging a hand through her hair, frustration rippling through her posture. She worried her lower lip. Her fingers drummed on her thigh, fast, furious, like she was barely holding herself together.

She was perfection in motion.

Full breasts straining slightly against the dress.

Rounded hips that fit perfectly into my hands.

Thighs strong enough to wrap around me, to anchor me, to ground me.

She was a ghost made flesh.

And I was starving.

Tonight, she would sleep in my bed.

The first woman to do so in five years.

The thought alone sent a brutal thud through my chest, pulse roaring in my ears.

Not because I wanted sex.

Because I wanted possession.

Because I wanted proximity.

Because having her under my roof, in my bed, breathing the same air—it felt like fate circling back to finish a story that had been torn apart too soon.

Penelope shifted again, finally lifting her head, eyes scanning the foyer as if she could will the doors open by force.

Soon.

I straightened in the shadows, extinguishing my cigarette against the banister, crushing it with unnecessary force.

The past was walking toward me.

And this time—

I would not let it slip through my fingers again.

The front doors swung open with a deliberate echo.

Seraphina stepped in first, petite, flawless, and poisonous, dragging Vanya’s hand with her as if she had any right to claim him. Every movement screamed entitlement, every breath she drew was a warning.

Everything about her repelled me.

Her nails—long, sharp, blood-red talons—looked like weapons, ready to carve her dominance into anyone who dared cross her.

Her makeup was aggressive: sculpted cheekbones so sharp they could cut glass, false lashes that made her eyes insect-like, lips painted nude with a message: Look at me, but pretend it’s natural.

And then there was the way she moved—hips swaying with calculated seduction, every step measured, every glance deliberate, her body speaking before her mouth ever dared.

The smug curl of her mouth—like she’d already won something she had no right to take.

She scanned the foyer as if cataloguing the wealth, the power, the territory.

Vanya looked tiny beside her, his curls tousled, eyes wide and searching.

And then he spotted her.

“Mom!” His voice cracked, raw and fierce.

He ripped his hand free and ran before she could react.

She dropped to her knees instinctively, arms wide, catching him as he collided with her. The impact nearly sent her tumbling, but she held tight, cradling him like she could press him back into her body, absorbing every bit of his fear.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice breaking. “No one will ever take you from me again. I promise, baby. I promise.”

He burrowed into her shoulder, muffling a whisper she barely caught. She froze, startled.

She loosened her grip slightly, eyes wide as she glanced toward Seraphina.

Seraphina approached, heels clicking against the marble like gunshots. Each step was deliberate.

“Pen,” she said sweetly, almost saccharine, “since we’ll be living together, I think it’s only fair we become acquainted.”

Pen rose slowly, keeping Vanya between them like a living shield. Her hands rested lightly on his shoulders, a silent warning.

“We’ll be under the same roof for three months,” she said, her voice flat, ice threading through every word. “But I have no interest in being your friend. Stay away from us—especially my son.”

Seraphina’s smile didn’t falter. “Vanya and I got along just fine, didn’t we?” She bent slightly, looking down at him with an insincere warmth that made my skin crawl.

Vanya peeked out, whispering softly. “She gave me ice cream,” he said, his voice timid, uncertain.

My chest tightened.

Pen bent slightly, meeting his gaze. “You’ve known her less than a day, baby. We don’t trust strangers, and we never will. Understand?”

Vanya nodded slightly, leaning into her.

Seraphina lifted her gaze, turning her attention slowly to the staircase. Her eyes found mine.

There was something in them—pity, hidden desperation, as if she thought she could save me from my own grief.

I let her see nothing.

“Giovanni will show you to your room,” I said from the shadows, voice controlled, flat, ice over steel.

For a fraction of a second, her smile faltered.

Then, with effortless composure, she recovered. “Next to yours, as agreed?”

“As agreed,” I replied, voice final.

She didn’t push further. She didn’t need to. The game had begun. And I had no intention of letting her win.

Giovanni appeared first, his gait stiff from the bandages wrapped around his shoulder and temple, evidence of the ambush that had nearly cost him his life.

Giovanni’s eyes flicked to her briefly—a silent warning—before he gestured for Seraphina to follow.

She moved like a doll on strings, delicate, deliberate, but I could see the tension coiling beneath her porcelain exterior.

Giovanni led Seraphina away, each step measured, leaving the foyer heavy with quiet.

Pen knelt again, pulling Vanya close, burying her face in his curls.

His small hands fisted in her sweater, gripping her like a lifeline. “Mommy…” he whispered, voice trembling from tears and fear, still raw from the night’s chaos.

She kissed the top of his head. “I’ve got you, baby. I promise. No one will ever take you again.”

My heart hammered—relief tangled with fury—as I watched Penelope reunite with her son. The bond between them was unmistakable, raw and fierce, and it dredged up everything I had failed to be.

I had failed as a father.

Penelope had borne me a son, only for him to be stolen at birth by her father. And despite all my influence, all my power, five years had passed and I had done nothing—could not save my child, could not even kill the men who took her from me.

What kind of man does that make me?

A failure.

Slowly, I descended the grand staircase, each step deliberate, controlled. My eyes didn’t leave them—Pen kneeling, Vanya clinging to her, fragile yet unbroken. I could see the remnants of her tears streaking her cheeks, but there was fire there too, a defiance that refused to bow.

When I reached the bottom, Pen lifted her gaze, meeting mine. Her eyes were wet, but unyielding. There was a storm in her expression, tempered only by the tenderness she held for her son.

Vanya peeked out from behind her, those wide, trusting eyes searching for safety. I crouched to his level, lowering my voice to a calm, steady tone. “You’re safe now,” I said, every word iron-wrapped. “No one takes you again. Not tonight. Not ever.”

He studied me for a long, heart-stopping moment—small, solemn, assessing. Then he nodded once, a slow, deliberate gesture that felt like a lifetime of trust condensed into one fragile movement.

Pen stood, gathering him into her arms with the precision and care of a mother who had fought for this moment. “Our room?” she asked quietly, voice tight with restrained emotion.

I nodded toward the master suite, words unnecessary. “All three of us,” I said simply, the weight of the night settling over us.

She didn’t argue. She never argued when it came to Vanya.

We moved through the hall together—Pen carrying Vanya, steady and strong despite the exhaustion, me a careful step behind, shadow and shield.

Every step up the staircase echoed like a drumbeat, counting down the fragile peace we had reclaimed.

I stayed close enough to catch them if they faltered, far enough to give the illusion of distance.

The master bedroom doors opened to reveal the space I hadn’t occupied fully in years: a massive bed draped in black silk sheets, the fireplace already crackling with amber light, casting long, flickering shadows across the room.

The windows framed the dark lake beyond, moonlight glinting on the water like shards of broken silver.

Pen paused in the doorway, letting the room wash over her.

Her chest rose and fell in a quiet rhythm, taking in the space, the warmth, the safety it symbolized.

Vanya wriggled from her arms and ran toward the connecting door on the left—his room. Toys were scattered in playful chaos, a night-light shaped like a moon glowing softly.

He pressed his tiny hand to the door frame, looking back at her before slipping inside.

Pen watched Vanya leave, then turned to me, eyes steady but her voice low and haunted. “Three months,” she said, each word heavy with unspoken promises—and threats—before her gaze swept the master bedroom.

She lingered barely ten seconds, then moved through the connecting room to Vanya’s room, leaving me hollow. Of course—her child always came first.

I followed like a shadow, unsurprised to find Penelope already seated on the edge of the sofa in Vanya’s toy-strewn room, spine straight despite the exhaustion etched into her posture.

Vanya perched beside her like a sentry who refused to leave her side. She brushed a curl from his forehead with slow, soothing strokes, the kind born of long nights and unspoken fear.

“Are you hungry?” she asked softly.

Vanya shook his head with exaggerated seriousness. “I ate at the Orlov mansion,” he said, a faint note of pride in his voice, as if surviving that place were an achievement. “They gave me pasta.”

“They wouldn’t dare poison him,” I said as I stepped fully into the room.

The words came out harsher than intended, edged with violence meant for someone else entirely.

Pen’s hand stilled mid-motion.

She turned slowly, dark eyes lifting to mine—guarded, unreadable, carrying years of history compressed into a single look. For a moment, the air thickened, heavy with everything we refused to name.

Vanya’s head snapped up.

His eyes—too perceptive for a child—locked onto me with open accusation. “Why are you letting Miss Seraphina stay here?” His voice wobbled, cracking despite his effort to sound brave. “You promised it would just be us.”

“Vanya,” Penelope said gently, her hand settling on his shoulder in warning—not reproach, just care.

I lowered myself slightly, bringing us closer to eye level. “Your mother asked me to allow it,” I said calmly.

It wasn’t entirely true—but it wasn’t a lie either.

Vanya’s gaze flicked to Penelope, shock flashing across his small face. She didn’t correct me. Didn’t defend herself. She simply held his eyes, silently asking him to trust her.

Satisfied—for now—he pressed his lips together and looked away, wounded but obedient.

I straightened. “I’ll be waiting, Pen.”

I didn’t wait for her response. I stepped out, leaving mother and son to their moment.

I stepped out of the master bedroom, expecting nothing—then stopped short. Seraphina was there.

Seraphina stood just outside it, as if she had calculated the timing down to the second.

She’d shed the coat she wore earlier. The thin black singlet clung to her like a second skin, baring her shoulders, the subtle curve of her collarbone, the smooth plane of her lower stomach. Vulnerable. Intentional. A performance dressed as honesty.

The hallway light caught her just right.

I hated that I noticed.

“I believe you’ve already been shown your room,” I said coldly, not slowing my stride.

“Yes,” she replied, voice quieter than I expected. Not pleading—but not sharp either. “And it seems you still carry a heavy grudge against me. Twice now, you’ve tried to make me disappear.” A faint, wounded smile touched her lips. “You truly hate me that much.”

I stopped.

Exhaled slowly through my nose.

“It’s not about you, Seraphina,” I said. “You were never the center of this.”

She stepped closer, her presence an unwanted pressure. “You act as if I chose this,” she said. “As if I wasn’t promised a future. A name. A place beside you.”

My expression must have startled her, because she went still.

“I have loved one woman my entire life,” I said, voice low and lethal with truth. “Before power. Before blood. Before empires.” I took a step closer, not threatening—final. “And she is not you.”

Her breath caught.

“I’ll never love another,” I added quietly.

For the first time since she arrived, Seraphina had nothing to say.

Her head dipped, platinum hair sliding forward like a shield. For a heartbeat, she looked small. Vulnerable.

When she lifted her face again, her eyes shimmered—too bright, too careful. Whether it was real pain or a performance honed over years of watching men bend, I couldn’t tell.

“I’ve loved you since I was a girl,” she said softly. “Since the night you stripped your foster parents of their power. Since you ended them and took control of the Volkov family.” Her voice steadied as she spoke, conviction hardening it. “I watched you rise. I watched men fear you. And I wanted you. I waited—year after year—for you to look at me. Just once.” A fragile smile touched her lips. “You never did.”

I didn’t soften. Pity was a luxury I’d buried with my wife.

“Then perhaps it’s time you opened your heart to someone else,” I said evenly. “Penelope is dead to the world—but she is not dead to me.” My gaze held hers without mercy. “I cannot love another. You may force a marriage through politics once my current one dissolves, but you will never force my heart. Power doesn’t buy that.”

She stepped closer anyway. Brave. Or foolish.

“I have three months,” she said, voice steady despite the faint tremor beneath it. “You told me to open my heart—why don’t you try opening yours?” Her eyes searched my face, as if hunting for a crack. “Maybe I’m exactly what you need. Maybe you’ll love me in spite of yourself. I intend to use every one of these three months to prove I can be everything you want in a woman.”

Then, quieter—strategic, almost reverent—

“And I’m sorry. Truly. For what my father did. For taking Vanya.”

“You mean kidnapping a five-year-old boy?” I corrected, my voice dropping into something lethal and cold. The air seemed to tighten. “Using a child as leverage so you could worm your way under my roof?”

She swallowed, the delicate line of her throat moving. I didn’t give her time to recover.

I stepped forward until she had to tilt her head back to meet my eyes.

“You’re the Orlov princess,” I said calmly. “You’ve never learned what it means to follow rules. So listen carefully—because in this house, you will.”

I raised a finger.

“First—you do not, under any circumstances, enter my bedroom.”

A second finger.

“Second—you will never raise your voice to Vanya or Penelope. You will never touch them. You will never speak down to them. They are bound to me by marriage, and you will treat them with respect—or you will leave in pieces.”

A third.

“Third—you do not spy on me, or anyone under my roof. If I discover even a whisper of it, I will consider it an act of war.”

Her eyes filled, bright and unshed. “It hurts,” she whispered, voice thin. “That you see me only as a villain.”

“How else should I see a woman who has spent nearly a decade scheming to become my wife—knowing it’s impossible?” I replied. The words were sharp, precise, unforgiving. “Let me be perfectly clear, Seraphina. You will never be my wife. Not in this life.” I leaned closer, lowering my voice. “I would sooner burn this city to ash and declare war on your entire bloodline than ever put my name on your finger.”

That did it.

The first tear slipped free, tracing a silent path down her cheek. She didn’t sob. Didn’t plead. She just stood there, trembling slightly—pride warring with the reality she could no longer deny.

When she didn’t move, I opened my bedroom door, stepped inside, and locked it behind me.

The click of the lock echoed like a gunshot.

I crossed to the heavy oak desk and stood over it, fists clenched until my knuckles went white.

Four families ruled Lake Como.

The Volkovs—mine.

The Orlovs—my oldest enemies.

The Morozovs—Orlov allies, equally despised. I’d once strung their spoiled heir up outside Penelope’s restaurant after he put his hands on her.

And the Ferraros—disciplined, restrained, the only elders I respected.

We weren’t allies yet.

But they could be persuaded.

When—not if—the time came.

I stared at the dark reflection in the window, the lake beyond it swallowing the moon, and felt the familiar, terrible calm settle into my bones.

I wanted the Orlov bloodline erased.

Every last one of them.

Including the woman standing on the other side of my door—still clinging to the delusion that she could thaw a heart that had frozen solid the day I lost Penelope.

Some hearts don’t heal.

They harden.

And when they break, they take empires with them.

Rage surged, hot and directionless.

My hand twitched toward the edge of the desk, ready to flip it, to shatter something—anything—when a knock cut through the room.

“Who is it?” I barked without turning.

“There is news, boss,” Giovanni’s voice came from the hallway—low, controlled, the way it always was when something had gone very wrong.

I frowned. He had taken two bullets shielding Vanya during the retrieval. He should have been sedated, monitored, kept far from stairs and stress.

“Come in.”

The door opened.

Giovanni stepped inside slowly, his movements measured against pain he refused to show.

His face was pale beneath the harsh light, but his eyes were sharp—too sharp for a man who was supposed to be resting. In his uninjured hand, he held an iPad.

“You should be in bed,” I said, forcing my voice into something steadier as I sank into the leather chair and turned to face him. “We’ll plan how to dismantle the Orlovs once you’re healed.”

He shook his head once. Firm. Final.

“This cannot wait.”

That alone set my spine rigid.

Giovanni crossed the room and set the iPad on the desk between us. His jaw tightened as he straightened. “The Orlov ambush was not improvisation. It was timed. Coordinated.”

“I know,” I said flatly. “They wanted leverage.”

“They wanted more than leverage,” he replied. “They wanted confirmation.”

My fingers curled slowly against the armrest. “Confirmation of what?”

Giovanni unlocked the screen and turned it toward me. Surveillance footage filled the display—grainy but clear enough. A roadside camera. The moment of the ambush. The car braking hard. Gunfire. Giovanni pulling Vanya from the backseat, shielding him with his body as bullets shattered glass.

Then the frame froze.

Giovanni zoomed in.

On Vanya’s face.

On the unmistakable line of his jaw. The shape of his mouth. The expression in his eyes—too familiar. A mirror I had avoided looking into.

My breath stalled.

“They’ve known,” Giovanni said quietly. “Or they strongly suspected. This”—he tapped the screen—“was proof.”

The room seemed to tilt.

My hand closed around the edge of the desk—wood groaning softly beneath my grip.