Ruthless Addiction: Chapter 14

The grand ballroom of Villa Balbiano glittered like a jewel box built for sinners.

Crystal chandeliers the size of small cars hung from a ceiling painted with frescoes of gods and conquests, scattering fractured light across marble floors veined in gold.

The room was vast—easily large enough to host three hundred of the world’s most dangerous people without ever feeling crowded.

Armed guards in tailored tuxedos were posted at every archway, their earpieces and the faint outline of holsters the only honest things in a room full of lies.

This was the fiftieth annual Lake Como gathering: a masquerade of civility, a showcase of wealth, and a delicate dance of power that kept four mafia families from tearing each other apart.

Tonight, the air carried the scent of orchids, Cuban cigars, and barely contained menace.

I perched at one of the round tables near the center, the midnight-blue silk gown Dmitri had chosen clinging to my skin, stopping just above my knee.

The slit was daring enough to make me aware of every predator in the room, every assessing glance, and yet I couldn’t let it show that I noticed.

From this vantage, I could see Dmitri across the hall, deep in conversation with a cluster of elders—men whose families had ruled these shores for generations.

His posture was relaxed, casual, almost disarming—but I knew better. Every tilt of his head, every faint smile, was measured, calculated, a weapon wrapped in charm.

And then I saw him.

Antonio. My ex.

The name burned in my chest like acid.

The man who had kidnapped me six years ago—the night I lost my child. The night I woke to find myself in his house in Rome, chains heavy around my body, my freedom already gone.

The same man who now planned to root himself permanently in Lake Como after marrying Elena—my former secretary, the timid girl who once took orders with a quiet smile and flawless discretion.

Seeing him here, champagne flute in hand, laughing at some whispered joke, made bile rise in my throat.

The seat beside me had remained empty for most of the evening, a silent invitation for the Ferraro heir.

When Ricci finally slid into it, as fluid and commanding as a predator entering his territory, my pulse thudded against my ribs.

Every instinct screamed to retreat—but retreat wasn’t an option. Not tonight. Not when Dmitri’s future, the fragile hold we had over these families, depended on me.

I needed an opening.

Deliberately, I let my hand brush the edge of my water glass. It wobbled, tipped, and clinked against the crystal plate beneath. A soft, intentional sound.

Before I could even reach for it, Ricci’s long fingers closed around the stem, lifting it upright with a precision that spoke of both power and grace.

His eyes met mine, sharp, calculating, a spark of recognition—and amusement—flickering there.

He placed the glass back in front of me with deliberate care, his dark eyes lingering far longer than politeness required. Not admiration—assessment.

“Dmitri Volkov’s wife,” he said at last, a statement carved in stone rather than a question.

I offered a faint, practiced smile, the kind I’d perfected in rooms like this—rooms where women were currency and men mistook silence for weakness. ““Yes. You must be the Ferraros’ first son.”

“Second son,” he corrected smoothly, leaning back in his chair as though settling into a familiar throne. “The first died last year.”

“Oh.” I let genuine surprise soften my expression, just enough to be believable. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

His lips curved, but his eyes stayed cold. “I killed him.”

The words landed clean and sharp, like a blade slipped between ribs. My heart stuttered, instinct screaming, but my face remained serene—years of survival compressing panic into stillness.

“You’re very direct,” I said mildly.

“Life is short,” he replied. “Especially in families like mine.”

He lifted two fingers—not snapping, not speaking. A waiter appeared instantly, as if summoned by thought alone. Without a word, he poured two glasses of amber liquid, the scent unmistakable—aged Macallan, expensive enough to signal both power and indifference to cost. Ricci slid one toward me.

“For courage,” he said lightly. “Or clarity. Sometimes they’re the same thing.”

I lifted the glass and drank. The burn spread slow and steady, grounding me. Now or never.

“I’ve heard rumors,” I said, keeping my tone conversational, eyes drifting toward the dance floor as though this were idle chatter between acquaintances. “They say war is coming to Lake Como.”

Ricci glanced down at his Patek Philippe Complications—rose gold, hand-finished, obscene in its perfection—before answering. “Rumors tend to mature into truths around here.”

“And when it does,” I continued evenly, “whose side will the Ferraros stand on? My husband’s… or the Orlovs’?”

He laughed, low and genuinely amused. “Ah. Straight to the point. I like that.” He swirled his drink, watching the liquid catch the light. “We don’t like war, signora. We prefer neutrality.”

He turned fully toward me then, his gaze sharp, stripping, intelligent. “Let the Volkovs, Orlovs, and Morozovs tear each other apart. When they’re exhausted—bleeding, weakened—the Ferraros will step in. We’ll sweep the board clean and rule Lake Como alone.”

He lifted his glass in a mock toast. “War benefits us.”

I tilted my head slightly, letting a small, knowing smirk touch my lips. “Bold of you to assume your family won’t be caught in the crossfire.”

His eyes narrowed just enough to be noticeable. “Is Dmitri Volkov planning to test our neutrality?” he asked. “Because that would be… entertaining.” A soft laugh followed. “The Volkovs against three families? He and his men wouldn’t last three days.”

“I never said he’d attack you,” I replied smoothly. “I’m offering you the winning side.”

His brow arched. “And you’re certain your husband is it?”

I leaned in just enough to lower my voice, the silk of my gown whispering against the chair. “Dmitri Volkov doesn’t fight wars he can’t win. He breaks enemies before the first shot is fired. The Orlovs are already desperate—they resorted to kidnapping a child to force his hand. That’s not strength. That’s rot.”

Ricci studied me closely now, recalculating. “And you think aligning with him protects us?”

“No,” I said softly. “I think aligning against him guarantees your downfall.”

Silence stretched between us, taut as wire.

“You speak with a lot of confidence for a woman who married into power,” Ricci said at last.

I met his gaze without blinking. “I didn’t marry into power,” I replied. “I survived it.”

He studied me for a long moment, swirling the whiskey in his glass as though divining answers from the amber liquid. The silence stretched, deliberate. Uncomfortable.

“Listen,” he began at last. “Involvement doesn’t benefit us.”

Ricci continued calmly. “Why should Ferraro blood be spilled for a fight that isn’t ours? And what is this, really?”

He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering, sharpening. “Don’t tell me Dmitri Volkov sent his pretty new wife to do what he and Giovanni failed to accomplish. Someone advised him very poorly if they believed charm and silk would succeed where leverage and steel did not.”

I held his gaze, refusing to blink, even as irritation and self-reproach tangled in my chest. He was right—and he knew it.

Before I could counter, he glanced at his watch again, dismissive now. “Visitors from Colombia have just arrived. I should greet them.”

Just like that, he rose—fluid, unhurried—and walked away without another glance, leaving behind an empty chair and the unmistakable weight of failure.

I exhaled slowly, the breath trembling despite my efforts.

I had misplayed this. I’d led with warnings when I should’ve led with inevitability. I hadn’t offered him territory, or concessions, or a vision of Ferraro dominance after the smoke cleared. I had spoken like a woman trying to prevent a war, not a strategist selling victory.

Rookie mistake.

A prickle crept up my spine.

I looked up.

Across the ballroom, Dmitri’s eyes were locked on me. An elder stood beside him—round, florid, gesturing enthusiastically with a thick cigar—but Dmitri wasn’t listening. He didn’t need to. He was reading my face, the minute shifts I couldn’t fully mask. I gave the faintest shake of my head.

His jaw tightened. Just a fraction. Enough to promise consequences—though whether for himself or the Ferraros, I couldn’t tell.

I turned away.

And froze.

Someone had taken Ricci’s vacated seat.

Antonio, my ex.

He lounged there with casual ownership, legs crossed, jacket perfectly tailored, posture relaxed in the way only truly dangerous men ever are. His slow clap echoed softly between us—three deliberate strikes of palm against palm.

Up close, he looked exactly as memory had preserved him: devastatingly handsome in a cruel, polished way. Dark hair slicked back, sharp cheekbones, eyes like obsidian—empty, reflective, merciless.

“Penelope,” he said, savoring my name like a delicacy he’d waited years to taste. “You fooled all of Lake Como.” He smiled, lazy and venomous. “Bravo. Really. Rising from the dead to wed Dmitri Volkov again—impressive, even by my standards.”

My pulse hammered, but my face remained serene. Survival demanded it.

“I see you’ve finally lost the weight,” he went on, gaze raking over me with deliberate contempt. “Though that doesn’t mean my favorite nickname no longer fits, does it… whale?”

The word hit like ice water to the spine.

I tilted my head, confusion carefully painted across my features. “I’m sorry,” I said politely. “Do I know you?”

His smile widened, delighted. “Oh, we’re pretending now? Excellent.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice to something intimate and poisonous. “Tell me, whale—how does it feel to sleep beside a man who thinks you’re dead?”

I said nothing.

“Does he fuck you,” Antonio continued softly, each word calculated for maximum damage, “like he’s trying to resurrect a ghost?”

For a heartbeat, the room blurred. Rage surged—hot, blinding, lethal. Not for myself. For Vanya. For the woman I had been. For the blood I’d lost on concrete while men like him negotiated my worth.

I inhaled once. Slowly.

Then I smiled.

A real one this time. Calm. Cold. Controlled.

“You must have me confused with someone else,” I said lightly. “I don’t discuss my sex life with strangers.”

His eyes flickered—surprise, quickly masked.

“And as for ghosts,” I added, lifting my glass, “the dead have a habit of coming back to haunt men who underestimate them.”

Antonio’s smirk widened—slow, deliberate, venomous—as if my denial only entertained him further.

“Pretend all you want, Penelope,” he murmured. “I dated you for three solid years. I know that face. That body. Those eyes.” His gaze dragged over me with invasive familiarity, stripping me bare beneath silk and diamonds. “You don’t forget a woman you broke.”

My fingers tightened around the stem of my glass until the crystal bit into my skin. I didn’t react. I couldn’t afford to.

“I saw you trying to work Ricci,” he went on, amusement curling through his voice. “Cute. But pointless. He’s far too clever to get dragged into Dmitri Volkov’s little crusade. All this”—he gestured vaguely toward the glittering ballroom—“because of his pathetic devotion to a dead woman. A ghost.”

I said nothing. Silence was armor. Engagement was blood.

Antonio leaned closer, invading my space, his cologne sharp and overpowering. “Ricci will sit back and watch the Volkovs, Orlovs, and Morozovs tear each other apart. And while everyone’s busy bleeding?” His lips curved. “I’ll move.”

My stomach twisted.

“I’ll kidnap you again,” he whispered, relish thick in every syllable. “This time for good. No negotiations. No deadlines. Forever.”

Cold crept up my spine, old fear clawing its way out of buried places. But I kept my voice level, bored even. “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

Antonio chuckled, unbothered. “The first time I kidnapped you—on the day you nearly lost the baby—Dmitri and I had an agreement. One that had to be fulfilled within forty-eight hours. I held up my end, letting you go. He? He didn’t.” His eyes glittered with cold amusement. “He thought I was weak. Thought his shiny new ex-military dogs could keep you safe… forever.”

He leaned back, satisfaction blooming. “They can—until war starts. Until his attention is elsewhere. Until every guard is watching the wrong enemy.”

I opened my mouth to repeat the denial—to keep playing the fool—

And Antonio froze.

The change was instant. Like a switch flipped.

The smugness drained from his face as his eyes slid past my shoulder.

I turned.

Dmitri was there.

He hadn’t announced himself. He hadn’t pushed or spoken. He simply arrived—silent, inevitable, lethal. The crowd parted around him without conscious thought, bodies shifting instinctively away from the violence written into his stride. His expression was carved from stone, his gaze locked on Antonio with the singular focus of a predator that had finally found its prey.

“Hey,” Antonio said, the word brittle, forced.

Dmitri didn’t acknowledge it.

He stopped inches from Antonio, towering over him, his presence blotting out the chandeliers, the music, the illusion of safety. His voice, when it came, was low enough that only we could hear it.

“Next time I see you near my wife,” Dmitri said, calm and absolute, “I will kill you. Slowly.”

The words were not a threat.

They were a promise.

Antonio lifted his chin, bravado rushed in to fill the sudden crack of fear in his eyes. “And start a war here?” he scoffed. “At the fiftieth gathering? I’m practically in the Orlov family now—or didn’t you hear? I’m marrying Elena. You touch me, you touch them.”

Dmitri’s fists clenched at his sides. Knuckles cracked—loud, unmistakable. Veins stood out along his forearms and neck, the barely leashed violence in him pressing against skin.

The air between them grew charged, electric, as if the room itself held its breath.

One move.

One word.

Blood would stain the marble. The fragile peace would shatter. And Lake Como would drown in war before dawn.

I didn’t think.

I moved.

I stepped between them and wrapped my fingers around Dmitri’s fist, forcing them open with gentle insistence rather than strength. I leaned into his side, resting my head lightly against his shoulder, my body a deliberate shield—public, intimate, unmistakable.

“Dmitri,” I said softly, urgently, my voice meant only for him. “Please. Let him go.”

His body was rigid beneath my touch, coiled like a drawn blade. I felt the storm raging in him—felt how badly he wanted to end this here and now.

I tightened my grip, anchoring him. Grounding him.

“This isn’t the place,” I whispered. “And he’s not worth it.”

For a long, terrifying heartbeat, I wasn’t sure he’d listen.

Then—slowly—his fist loosened beneath my fingers.

Antonio’s smirk returned, fleeting and infuriating, as if the entire confrontation had been a game he had won.

He slipped sideways through the narrow gap between guests and vanished into the crowd before Dmitri could react.

“I should have killed him years ago,” Dmitri growled, every word tight with barely contained fury. His jaw clenched, eyes dark, fixed on the retreating figure like he could will him back. His hand trembled ever so slightly at his side—an almost imperceptible ripple of menace.

I drew in a shaky breath, placing a tentative hand against his arm. “You two… have history?”

Dmitri’s face hardened further, the shadows in the ballroom amplifying every line of anger etched into his features. “He kidnapped my late wife,” he said, voice rough, ragged with memory and old rage. “She was pregnant. I spared him then because of a deal with his family—a temporary truce. But I warned him: stay away, or there would be no mercy next time.”

The words landed like a physical blow. Pregnant.

My throat tightened. I swallowed, forcing my voice into something even and detached. “I’m… sorry,” I murmured, letting myself collapse back into the chair, legs unsteady beneath me.

Dmitri followed, looming above me. The air seemed heavier where he stood. “What did he say to you?”

I met his gaze, steadying my voice with effort. “That I looked like someone he used to know,” I lied smoothly, letting my tone suggest casual dismissal. “I told him he was mistaken.”

Dmitri’s eyes narrowed, scanning every twitch of my expression, every breath.

He studied me for a long, silent moment before giving the faintest nod. “He won’t come near you again.” His hand extended—solid, grounding, possessive. “Come.”

I took it without hesitation, letting him pull me to my feet. His warmth pressed into me, anchoring the storm of fear and old memories churning inside.

Together, we moved through the glittering throng.

Whispers floated like smoke: curious sidelong glances, knowing smiles, subtle head tilts. The entire room seemed to sense the Volkov ‘s presence—the mysterious bride, the whispered rumors of a three-month contract, the pulse of power circulating through every crystal chandelier and polished floor.

Dmitri guided me toward a side door, his hand firm at the small of my back. I felt the protective weight of him in every step. Just as his fingers closed around the handle, it swung open from the other side.

Ricci Ferraro stepped through, flanked by four men whose presence shifted the air like a cold front. They were unmistakably Colombian cartel—tailored linen suits in white and cream, heavy gold watches catching the light, intricate tattoos just visible at collars and wrists. Their eyes were flat, calculating, the kind that had seen everything and felt nothing.

“Dmitri,” Ricci said warmly, extending his hand with genuine, practiced charm.

Dmitri shook it briefly, his other hand resting protectively at my back, an unspoken warning in the subtle shift of his stance. The crowd gave the pair a wide berth, sensing the gravity of the interaction.

Ricci gestured toward his companions, each standing like statues of quiet menace. “Allow me to introduce my new partners: Señor Castillo, Señor Vega, Señor Montoya, and Señor Ramirez—patriarchs of the most respected cartels in Medellín and Cali. They’ve arrived to discuss expansion. Clean product routes through our ports, joint investments in security, and a percentage of our legitimate shipping ventures. With their backing, Lake Como becomes a gateway to Europe—untouchable, prosperous. No more petty turf wars. Real money. Real power.”

Each man nodded with precise politeness, their accents thick but English flawless, the subtle menace in their stance suggesting lethal efficiency at a moment’s notice.

“That sounds… promising,” Dmitri replied, measured, approving, every syllable deliberate, keeping his cards close.

Ricci’s smile sharpened, keen and knowing. “We should speak further before the night ends. With your wife present, of course.”

Dmitri’s gaze flicked to me, a fleeting acknowledgment of my role in this delicate dance of power. “We should,” he agreed. His hand lingered lightly at my back, grounding and unyielding—the subtle reminder that I was part of his world now, whether I liked it or not.

Ricci inclined his head once, the gesture smooth and deliberate, and moved on. The Colombians followed in silent formation, their presence receding like a closing door.

Dmitri didn’t wait for the hum of the ballroom to reclaim us. He steered me through the side door and up a narrow private staircase tucked behind the villa’s grand façade. Each step pulled us farther from the noise, from the lies and laughter and veiled threats, until only the night remained.

The terrace opened above us like a secret. Cool air kissed my skin, scented with lake water and pine. Below, Lake Como stretched black and endless, stars shattered across its surface like scattered coins.

The villa’s music drifted up in fragments, muffled and distant, as if belonging to another world entirely.

We took seats on high wrought-iron stools beside a small marble table. Dmitri didn’t sit at first. He leaned against the balustrade, one arm braced behind him, gaze fixed on the water as if it might answer questions he hadn’t yet voiced.

I studied him in the quiet. The tension in his shoulders hadn’t eased; it had merely changed shape.

“You respect Ricci,” I said at last.

He didn’t look at me. “Yes.”

The single word carried weight. I pressed gently. “Why?”

Dmitri exhaled, slow and measured. “He’s intelligent. Disciplined. He earned his position through work and strategy—not inheritance and tantrums like the Morozov and Orlov heirs.” His mouth curved into something sharp, humorless. “He’s brutal when necessary, but never wasteful. That kind of control commands respect.”

I nodded, absorbing it. After a beat, I asked casually, “Is he married?”

His head snapped toward me.

The shift was immediate—attention sharpened, posture subtly changing, as if he were back in a war room. “Why are you interested in his marital status?” he asked.

I met his gaze without flinching. “Because information is leverage.” My voice was calm, precise. “We may have one more chance tonight. If diplomacy fails, we look for weakness. A wife. A lover. A child. Something that makes neutrality inconvenient. Shouldn’t we use every tool available?”

Silence stretched between us, taut as wire.

Dmitri studied me, really studied me, as if reassessing a chessboard he thought he already understood. Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, perhaps. Or reluctant admiration.

He pushed away from the railing and began pacing the terrace, boots scraping softly against stone. I rose and followed him.

“Or,” he said quietly, stopping at the far end where the lights from the villa no longer reached us, “you could stay.”

I froze.

“You and Vanya,” he continued, voice low, stripped of command and calculation. “No war. No Ferraro alliance. No politics. Just… us.”

I shook my head before hope could take root, before it could destroy me. “The Orlovs would never allow it,” I said softly. “Everyone here knows this marriage dissolves in three months. Extending it would look like a breach—an insult. They’d retaliate. Against me. Against my son.” I swallowed. “We’d be targets.”

He turned to face me fully now, closing the distance between us.

“And why,” I asked softly, “would we be extending a loveless arrangement?”

“Loveless?” The word hit him like a blade, revealing a crack in the carefully controlled surface he wore.

He stepped closer, the warmth of him chasing away the chill. “We’re strangers now, yes,” he said. “But every partner, every lover, starts that way. It’s only the second day, Pen.” His voice dropped, unguarded. “Who’s to say this can’t become real? A family. A real one.”

The night seemed to hold its breath.