Ruthless Addiction: Chapter 15

“You think you can just… stop loving your late wife?” I asked quietly.

The question slipped out before I could stop it—too honest, too exposed. The skepticism in my voice surprised even me. I searched his face for anger, for offense. I found neither.

Moonlight washed over Dmitri’s features, softening nothing, revealing everything. He didn’t look away.

“I don’t think love works like a switch,” he said at last. His voice was calm, almost weary. “You don’t turn it off. You learn to live around it. Or it eats you alive.”

He paused, gaze drifting to the lake before returning to me. When his eyes found mine again, something raw surfaced there.

“But I have to move on,” he continued. “Eventually. The world doesn’t stop because I want it to. Men who stand still die.” His attention lingered on my face—too long, too intent. “And when I look at you… I see her. In the way you smile when you’re about to say something sharp. In the way you tilt your head when you’re thinking.” His jaw tightened. “The thought of letting you walk away in three months—of watching you disappear again—it’s torture. Pure torture.”

The words landed heavier than any threat he’d made that night.

I swallowed, forcing air into my lungs. “Yet it will happen,” I said softly, more to myself than to him. “It has to.”

He exhaled, a slow, burdened sound, as if years pressed down on his chest all at once. Then his gaze flicked past me, toward a discreet staff member lingering near the terrace doors.

“Bring a chessboard,” Dmitri said.

The man nodded immediately and vanished. Moments later, he returned with an elegant portable set—walnut board, ivory and ebony pieces polished to a gleam. He placed it between us and withdrew without comment, as if this too were part of the night’s expected rituals.

Dmitri sat, rolling his shoulders once before arranging the pieces with precise efficiency. There was no hesitation in his movements.

“To win a war,” he said, pushing his king’s pawn forward two squares, “you don’t rely on emotion. You rely on foresight.”

I mirrored him, advancing my own pawn. “Foresight matters,” I agreed. “But patience wins more battles than brute force.”

The game unfolded beneath the stars.

At first, we played in silence—the soft click of wood against wood, the faint echo of laughter drifting up from below. Dmitri opened aggressively, knights developing fast, bishops slicing diagonals, king castled early behind a wall of pawns. It was a confident opening. Ruthless.

I answered carefully. I controlled the center, fianchettoed my bishop, refused to be baited into early exchanges. When he sacrificed a pawn to open a file, I took it—then another—pressing forward, sensing blood.

His brow barely furrowed.

I infiltrated with my rook, forked his pieces with a knight, then—clean, elegant—captured his queen.

I looked up at him, unable to keep the edge from my voice. “Even men who think they’re ten steps ahead should be careful,” I said. “Arrogance loses wars.”

He only leaned back, studying the board like a man admiring a painting.

Then he moved.

One smooth slide of his remaining rook along an open file I hadn’t protected—revealing a discovered attack from his bishop. Check. My king trapped. My queen pinned. Every escape square controlled.

The realization hit like ice water.

No matter what I did, I would lose both.

My fingers hovered over the board, heart thudding. I searched for a miracle. There was none.

“Sometimes,” Dmitri said quietly, satisfaction threading through his voice, “you let your enemy believe they’re winning. You give them momentum. Confidence.” His eyes lifted to mine. “You draw them in deep—until they’re overextended. And then you strike. Where it hurts most.”

I tipped my king over, the sound small but final. “You win.”

“Because I was already thinking beyond this board,” he replied, resetting the pieces with idle grace. “Before you ever saw the trap.”

He stilled, then met my gaze again—no smile this time. Only resolve.

“If I win this war,” he said evenly, “if the Orlovs fall—I will come find you in Greece.”

My heart stuttered. I forced a laugh that didn’t feel like mine.

“That won’t be necessary,” I said lightly. “I’ll probably be married to someone else by then. Someone safe. Someone new.”

I swallowed.

“I’ll start over. Properly.”

The air changed.

The softness vanished from his expression, replaced by something dark and absolute.

“That,” Dmitri said, voice low and unyielding, “is not going to happen.”

He reached into his jacket, fingers already closing around a cigarette. The metallic click of his lighter echoed softly as the flame bloomed, briefly illuminating the sharp planes of his face—eyes hollowed by too many sleepless nights, jaw set in quiet self-punishment.

“Please,” I said, before the cigarette ever reached his lips. “Don’t smoke.”

“You don’t like the smell?”

I shook my head.

He paused mid-motion, the lighter hovering between us. “Penelope is asthmatic,” he said, his voice turning deliberately casual, “and she hates the smell of me smoking, too.”

The words were meaningless on their own—yet the way he said them, knowing and faintly mysterious, sent my heart pounding anyway.

The truth stayed locked behind my teeth.

The similarities between Penelope and me were becoming impossible to ignore.

Was he already wondering if I could be her—and too afraid to confront the truth?

As if it were easier for him to keep me dead in his mind, because believing I was alive would shatter everything he’d already accepted.

For a heartbeat, he studied me. Then, without comment, he snapped the lighter shut.

Relief loosened my shoulders—until he stood.

Dmitri walked several paces away, stopping at the edge of the terrace where the wrought iron met the open night. With his back to me, he flicked the lighter again. The cigarette flared. He inhaled deeply, shoulders lifting, then sagging, as smoke spiraled into the dark.

Even from a distance, I could read him. The rigid set of his spine. The faint, humorless curve of his mouth. This wasn’t indulgence—it was punishment. A man feeding a vice because pain demanded an outlet. Because guilt needed somewhere to go.

For failing to protect the woman he loved.

For losing a son he didn’t know was still breathing.

The guilt hit me like a blade under the ribs. I turned away, fixing my gaze on the lake below—black glass stretched beneath the stars, endless and indifferent.

Footsteps cut through the quiet.

I turned just as Ricci Ferraro emerged from the shadows, his stride brisk, expression stripped of its earlier polish. Whatever smug detachment he’d worn inside the ballroom was gone now, replaced by something leaner.

Dmitri crushed the cigarette beneath his heel and returned without a word, pulling out a stool and nudging it toward the table. Ricci took it, movements stiff.

Dmitri reclaimed his seat beside me, close enough that his knee brushed mine—a silent assertion.

“So,” Ricci began, folding his hands together, voice tight with restraint. “The happy couple wants me to throw my family into a war you’re clearly eager to ignite.”

His gaze flicked between us, skeptical, almost contemptuous. “So this… all of it… is because you won’t have Seraphina as your wife? Because of love?” A humorless laugh escaped him. “And where does that leave me, hm? What exactly do I gain by spilling Ferraro blood for Volkov romance?”

Dmitri leaned forward, forearms braced on the marble table. His voice was calm. “Your wife was taken by Albanian traffickers on your wedding night,” he said evenly. “I can help you find her.”

The effect was instantaneous.

Ricci shot to his feet as if struck. The color drained from his face, replaced by a raw, feral fury that shattered his composure. “Don’t talk about her,” he snarled.

He grabbed his stool and hurled it across the terrace. The metal slammed into stone with a violent clang that echoed into the night.

Dmitri stood as well, unflinching. In two strides, he closed the distance and planted a firm hand on Ricci’s shoulder—not restraining, but grounding. Anchoring.

“Do you want to find her,” Dmitri said quietly, “or not?”

Ricci wrenched free, stumbling back a step, chest heaving.

His eyes were wild now, unguarded. “She’s everything to me,” he rasped. “I have men everywhere—inside Albanian ports, their clubs, their shipping lines. I pay in blood and money every day just to chase whispers. Of course I want to find her.” His voice cracked. “I would trade my life for hers without hesitation.”

“Then let Dmitri Volkov help you,” I said.

Both men turned to me.

My heart hammered, but I held Ricci’s gaze, steady and unflinching. “He doesn’t make promises lightly. And when he hunts, he doesn’t stop.”

Ricci’s eyes narrowed, flicking to Dmitri with open scorn. “Your husband’s own son was taken five years ago,” he shot back. “By his father-in-law, no less. And he never found the boy.” His lip curled. “Yet I’m supposed to believe he can find my wife? This is an insult. A mockery. You want to drag me into your war and salt your failure into my wounds.”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush bone.

Dmitri didn’t deny it.

He straightened slowly, gaze unwavering. “You’re right,” he said. “I failed once.”

Ricci blinked, clearly not expecting that.

“I trusted the wrong people,” Dmitri continued. “I played by rules that never existed. And I paid for it.” His voice dropped, rougher now. “I will never make that mistake again.”

He stepped closer, invading Ricci’s space. “The Albanians don’t hide well. They move product. They leave trails—money, ships, names. I already have eyes where you don’t.” His tone sharpened. “You want your wife back alive? Then you don’t stay neutral. You don’t wait for others to bleed.”

Ricci’s breathing slowed, fury warring with hope. “And if you’re lying?” he asked hoarsely. “If this is just leverage?”

Dmitri sat back down as if nothing had happened, the night air settling around him like a cloak. Not a trace of agitation lingered in his posture—only cold intent.

“I once had a discreet business arrangement,” he said calmly, “with the Albanian boss’s wife.”

Ricci went rigid. “That’s forbidden,” he snapped. “Dealing with Albanians violates the old codes. Men have been executed for less.”

Dmitri didn’t blink. “And yet the Ferraros still move weapons through Montenegro when it benefits them.” His tone was mild, almost bored. “Let’s not insult each other by pretending we live by rules instead of convenience.”

The accusation struck cleanly. Ricci’s mouth opened, then closed. His outrage faltered, replaced by calculation. After a moment, he gave a stiff nod—acknowledgment without surrender.

Dmitri rose, retrieved the stool Ricci had thrown, and set it neatly back at the table. The scrape of metal against stone sounded deliberate. Commanding.

“Sit, Ricci.”

The order wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

After a long beat, Ricci complied, lowering himself into the chair and leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees. Gone was the swaggering heir. What remained was a husband clawing for hope.

“You truly have contact with her?” Ricci asked, voice stripped to a whisper. “With the woman who controls them?”

“Yes.”

Dmitri pulled out his phone. He didn’t hesitate. No dramatic pause. He dialed, switched to speaker, and set the device on the marble table between us like an offering.

The terrace fell into absolute silence.

The line clicked once. Twice.

A woman answered in rapid Albanian—sharp, guarded, her voice carrying authority honed by survival.

Dmitri replied fluently, his pronunciation flawless, his cadence respectful but unyielding. He listened, nodded once, then shifted seamlessly into English.

“I want you to release Ricci Ferraro’s wife,” he said evenly. “Alive. Unharmed. Name your price.”

The pause that followed felt endless.

Then her English came through the speaker—thickly accented, edged with suspicion.

“Since when does Dmitri Volkov bargain on behalf of Ferraros?”

Dmitri didn’t miss a beat. “Since I need a war,” he said, voice smooth as glass, “that reshapes Lake Como.”

Ricci sucked in a sharp breath.

“One that ends with the Orlovs and Morozovs destroyed,” Dmitri continued. “You Albanians have always wanted a permanent foothold here. Influence. Routes. Ports. Help me—and the Ferraros align with me. Chaos follows. Chaos you know how to exploit.”

Silence crackled again.

“And why this war?” the woman pressed. “Men don’t burn empires without reason.”

Dmitri’s jaw tightened—just slightly.

“That,” he said flatly, “is none of your concern.”

He leaned forward, voice lowering, hardening. “Name your price for the woman.”

The lake wind stirred, brushing cold against my skin. Ricci’s hands trembled where they clasped together, knuckles white, eyes locked on the phone like it held his last breath.

Finally, the woman exhaled audibly.

“You play a dangerous game, Volkov.”

Dmitri’s lips curved—not in a smile, but something sharper. “I always do.”

“My husband’s grandfather was enslaved by the Ferraros,” the Albanian woman continued through the speaker, her voice calm in a way that made it infinitely more dangerous. “Worked to death in their ports generations ago. Chains. Hunger. Beatings. Some debts are inherited.”

Dmitri’s patience snapped. “I don’t care about ancient vendettas,” he cut in, voice hard. “History doesn’t interest me. Your price does. Name it.”

The terrace seemed to hold its breath.

Muted voices filtered through the line—rapid Albanian, hushed and urgent, as if a council were convening just beyond the speaker. Ricci hadn’t moved. He sat rigid, spine locked, hands gripping his knees so tightly his knuckles had gone bone-white. His gaze never left the phone. Not once.

Finally, the woman spoke again.

“The lady you seek—”

Ricci surged to his feet. “Is what?” His voice cracked, raw and uncontained. “Say it!”

“She has been passed from man to man,” the woman said without inflection. “You should understand this before we bargain. She is no longer… untouched.”

The words landed like a gunshot.

Ricci staggered back as if struck, one hand flying to his mouth. His eyes went glassy, unfocused. “My wife?” he whispered. “The woman I waited for—since we were children. Since high school.” His breath hitched violently. “I didn’t touch her before our wedding. I wanted it to be sacred. I wanted—”

His voice collapsed into a hoarse scream.

“And now savages—animals—have had her?” His body shook as rage detonated through him. “I will erase every Albanian breathing on this earth! I will burn your villages, your ports, your children’s futures—”

He swept his arm across the table. Chess pieces scattered like shrapnel, clattering against stone. The phone slid dangerously close to the terrace edge; Dmitri caught it one-handed without looking.

Ricci turned away, slamming his fists into the balustrade, then the wall—again and again—until skin split and blood smeared the ancient stone. At last, he slid down, forehead pressed against the wall, shoulders heaving.

He screamed her name.

Not words. Not threats. Just her name—over and over—torn from him in broken sobs that echoed across the terrace and into the dark lake below.

Dmitri said nothing. He didn’t move. He waited.

The woman on the line waited too.

When Ricci’s cries finally reduced to ragged breaths, when his body stilled in exhausted ruin, Dmitri spoke—calm as ever.

“What’s the price?”

“Blood for blood,” the woman replied simply.

Dmitri’s eyes sharpened. “Define your terms.”

“Bring me the head of any Ferraro family member,” she said. “Deliver it personally to Albania. Then I release the wife.”

Dmitri tilted his head slightly. “You think that’s feasible?”

Ricci pushed himself upright, his face hollow, eyes feral but resolved. “It is,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll bring my brother’s head.”

Even I flinched.

The woman laughed—a short, satisfied sound. “Even better, Ricci Ferraro. I’ll be waiting.”

The line went dead.

Silence crashed down around us.

Dmitri slipped the phone into his pocket with deliberate calm. “You can’t go to Albania alone,” he said. “And your brother’s been dead a year. The Albanians don’t know?”

“They don’t,” Ricci replied dully. “His body was preserved. Frozen. If a head buys her freedom…” His jaw clenched. “I’ll do it.”

“Then I’m coming with you,” Dmitri said without hesitation.

“No.”

The word tore from me before I could stop it—sharp, instinctive, absolute.

Both men turned.

“You will not,” I said, stepping forward, my heart hammering. “This is madness. It’s a trap built on grief and bloodlust. You walk into Albania with a severed head and think you’ll walk out alive?”

Dmitri’s gaze softened—but only for a second. “I won’t let him do this alone.”

“And I won’t let you become a martyr,” I shot back. “Not for revenge. Not for honor.”

Not when he has a son sleeping on his roof who needs him alive.

Dmitri went still.

Albania was a black hole. Even in the twenty-fifth century, parts of it operated like medieval fiefdoms: slavery, blood feuds, no law but vengeance. Men went in; few came out unchanged. I couldn’t lose him. Not the father of my son. Not again.

Ricci met my eyes briefly, something almost grateful flickering there before it hardened into steel. “I don’t need anyone,” he said, voice low and tight. “I’ll save her myself.” He turned, long strides carrying him down the staircase, disappearing into the shadows of the villa without another word.

Dmitri watched him go, jaw tight, one brow raised as if calculating some unseen equation. “If Ricci joins our war,” he said finally, voice clipped, “he’s putting his life on the line willingly. Yet you think it’s too dangerous for me to go to Albania and bring his wife home?”

“What if they refuse to let you leave?” I countered, voice low but sharp. “You heard her—blood for blood. They have a grudge against the Ferraros. They could chain you too, just like they did her. Or worse.”

He stepped closer, the terrace lights cutting shadows across his face, highlighting the hard angles I’d memorized long ago. “You think I’d walk in there blind? Without leverage? I’m not that reckless, Pen. I never have been.”

I exhaled shakily, trying to steady my racing pulse. “Then at least advise Ricci not to go alone. These people—they hate his family enough to kill anyone who steps in. He doesn’t have your resources, your army, your reach.”

Dmitri’s expression darkened, and I caught the flash of old pain in his eyes. “Every fortress has cracks,” he said slowly, voice low, almost haunted. “My late wife… she was kidnapped on this very soil. By her ex. Right under everyone’s noses. The only real safety is fewer enemies. Make too many, and no army in the world can guard you twenty-four hours a day. Sooner or later… they find a way.”

His words settled over me like a cold wave, heavy and unyielding.

The night air had grown cooler; the distant music from the gala faded, leaving only the soft lapping of the lake against the shore and the whisper of wind through the cypress trees.

Dmitri glanced at his watch. “It’s late. Vanya will be missing you.”

He stood, stretching out a hand that I instinctively took, letting him pull me to my feet. His palm slid to the small of my back, warm and possessive, as he guided me down the private staircase, the villa’s shadowed halls swallowing our footsteps. The world felt impossibly still, as if the house itself was holding its breath.

The driver opened the door, and we slid into the plush leather interior. The partition rose, cocooning us in soft darkness, separating us from the outside world.

The car purred to life, gliding silently toward home, tires whispering against the cobblestone driveway.

Dmitri turned slightly toward me, a faint smile playing at his lips—almost tender, almost vulnerable. “You seemed genuinely worried about me back there,” he said, voice quieter.

I looked out the window, focusing on the lake’s black surface sliding past, refusing to meet his gaze. “I’d do the same for anyone,” I said lightly, the words flat but carrying the weight of truth. “Basic human decency.”

His smile vanished instantly. Hurt flashed across his face, raw and unguarded, before he turned back to stare at the road ahead. The silence that followed was oppressive, thick, filled with the unspoken fears and truths we both carried.

I rested my hand lightly against the glass, tracing the dark ripples on the water as the car cut through the night.

When the car finally stopped in front of the estate, I stepped out into the cool night air—and was nearly bowled over by a small, pajama-clad missile.

“Mommy!” Vanya launched himself at me, arms wrapping tightly around my legs.

I laughed, the sound bright and genuine after the tension of the evening, scooping him up effortlessly. He buried his face in my neck, soft breath and hair tickling my cheek. “Hey, my big boy,” I murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Did you miss me?”

“So much,” he mumbled, muffled against my skin. “Giovanni let me stay up late, but I couldn’t sleep without saying goodnight properly.”

I hugged him tighter, swaying gently. “Well, I’m here now. And I missed you too—more than you know.” The warmth radiating from his tiny body erased the weight of politics, threats, and danger, if only for a moment.

He pulled back, eyes wide and glowing in the porch light. “Did you have fun at the fancy party?”

“It was… interesting,” I said carefully, setting him down but keeping hold of his hand. His small fingers curled trustingly around mine.

We started toward the house, but Vanya suddenly wriggled free and darted toward Dmitri, who stood a few steps away, arms crossed, still shadowed by the tension of our earlier confrontation.

“Hi,” Vanya said shyly, stopping in front of him.

Dmitri’s face softened instantly, the rigid edge of his posture melting. “Hey, Vanya,” he said, crouching slightly, his voice low and warm.

“You look sad,” the boy observed, tilting his head. “Is it because you couldn’t bring the golden boat I asked for?”

I blinked—golden boat? When had that conversation happened?

Dmitri’s lips curved faintly. “I’ll get it for you tomorrow,” he promised, kneeling fully to Vanya’s level. “We could pick it out together, if your mom says it’s okay.”

Vanya’s face lit up like sunrise, eyes sparkling with excitement. “Really? I’ve always wanted to go out with my dad. This could be like a real adventure!” He spun toward me, voice bright and hopeful. “Mom, please?”

My heart stuttered at the innocent slip—my dad—but I managed a smile, the ache in my chest softening. “Alright. You can go with him. But be careful, both of you.”

Vanya beamed, turning back to Dmitri. “Don’t worry, Mom,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll bring you your favorite when we come back!”

I laughed softly, the sound catching in my throat as I watched them. Dmitri’s large hand ruffled Vanya’s hair, his eyes finally smiling in a way that made him look… human, not just a ruthless Volkov, not just the man who could destroy entire families with a word.

“Tomorrow’s going to be fun,” Dmitri said, voice soft, almost tender, as he straightened and pulled Vanya close for a quick hug.

Vanya leaned into him with a trust I had never fully felt from any adult but myself. “Promise you’ll show me the golden sails first?” he asked, eyes wide.

“I promise,” Dmitri said simply, his tone firm yet warm, the kind of promise that carried weight beyond mere words.

I stood a few steps away, watching them interact—Dmitri’s patience, Vanya’s joy, the small, unguarded moment that made the world outside the villa feel distant and unreal. A quiet, aching joy settled in my chest. For one fleeting instant, the lies, the threats, the schemes—they didn’t exist.

If only it could stay that way.

Vanya tugged at Dmitri’s hand again. “Mom, you coming too?”

I smiled, letting the sight of them carry me. “Not this time, sweetheart. This is your adventure.”