Twisted Addiction: Chapter 11

The new week dawned not with peace, but with motion.

By sunrise, I was stepping into La Sirena—the restaurant Dmitri had promised me—its glass doors parting to reveal a flurry of activity that was as polished as it was chaotic.

He had kept his word. But this wasn’t the quiet, creative space I had imagined. La Sirena wasn’t a quaint escape—it was an empire in motion. An upscale restaurant and bar tucked into the heart of Lake Como’s elite district, where every polished surface reflected money, and every corner hummed with the whispers of the underworld that financed it.

The place reeked of luxury—the kind built on secrets.

Behind the front bar, an array of crystal decanters caught the early light like jewels. Velvet booths lined the walls, the scent of aged wine and lemon polish mingling in the air.

Dmitri hadn’t given me a restaurant. He’d given me a throne in one of his territories.

The staff, however, were new. All of them. The night before opening, every employee had been replaced—chefs, bartenders, servers—everyone except my secretary, Elena.

That detail unsettled me.

Why her?

Why keep one person and no one else?

Elena had greeted me that morning with her usual quiet smile—poised, efficient, eyes as unreadable as Dmitri’s. She handed me the new schedules and a clipboard of inventory lists, her tone crisp and professional.

I didn’t ask questions—not yet—but the thought lingered like a splinter.

The kitchen was alive with movement when I stepped in.

Chefs in immaculate white jackets moved like clockwork—dicing, searing, plating—every motion sharp and deliberate.

The clang of pots, the hiss of pans, the hum of industrial vents created a kind of organized chaos. Garlic and rosemary perfumed the air, undercut by the metallic tang of steel and the faint burn of espresso.

“Temperature’s off again on the risotto line,” one of the sous-chefs barked, frustration cutting through the din.

“Fix it before service,” I said automatically, my voice firm though my heart hadn’t caught up to the role I was playing.

My heels clicked against the tiled floor as I moved through the kitchen, pretending confidence I didn’t fully feel.

The staff followed me with the kind of cautious politeness that said they knew who signed their paychecks—and feared who really did.

Still, there was a strange satisfaction in it. I had a purpose again. A role that wasn’t just “wife.”

Yet beneath the hum of the restaurant, I could feel him everywhere—Dmitri’s presence woven into every decision, every polished surface. The security cameras in every hallway. The guards stationed discreetly outside. The staff who seemed too disciplined.

Freedom, but on a leash.

I caught sight of myself in the steel refrigerator door—a woman in a black silk blouse and pencil skirt, hair swept up, lips painted in quiet defiance. I almost believed the illusion of control.

Almost.

“Madam,” Elena’s voice cut through the kitchen noise, soft but certain. “There’s someone waiting in your office. Says you requested a meeting.”

“I didn’t schedule anyone,” I said, frowning.

Her lips pressed together, eyes darting briefly toward the security camera above the door. “Then perhaps he did.”

A chill crept down my spine.

I adjusted my blouse, squared my shoulders, and started toward the office—each step echoing through the gleaming hallway like a countdown.

Whoever waited for me there wasn’t here for a reservation.

When I reached the doorway, I stopped cold.

A man stood there, tall and golden-haired, his tailored navy suit hugging a body built for sin and scandal.

His presence filled the room before he even spoke—entitled, effortless, magnetic in that arrogant way men born into power often were. A lazy smirk tugged at his lips, the kind that had probably gotten him out of more trouble than he deserved.

My pulse quickened—not from attraction, but from the instinctive recognition of trouble.

His cufflinks gleamed under the soft office light—each engraved with the Morozov family crest.

So this was him.

Damian Morozov.

The only son of the Morozov family, one of the four families that ruled Lake Como’s underworld.

The spoiled heir everyone whispered about.

His gaze swept over me slowly, a predator cataloguing prey. “So you’re the new manager Dmitri put in charge,” he said, voice smooth as aged whiskey. “Penelope, right?”

The way he said my name—too familiar—made my skin crawl.

“So the rumors are true. Dmitri replaced me with a pretty face.”

He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him as though he owned the place.

“I’m busy,” I said tightly, moving toward my desk. “If you have a complaint, you can file it through the main office.”

He chuckled—a soft, mocking sound. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m not here to complain.”

He took a few unhurried steps closer, his cologne wrapping around the room in a haze of cedar and danger. “I’m here to welcome you to my restaurant.”

I turned sharply. “Your restaurant? Dmitri appointed me as manager. Whatever you were before—”

He cut me off, his smile sharpening. “Before he kicked me out, you mean?” He leaned one hand on the desk, lowering his voice. “This place was mine long before Dmitri decided to hand it to his pretty little wife.”

“You don’t belong here,” he said, circling the edge of my desk. “Running a place like La Sirena takes more than charm and a smile. You’ll burn out in a week.”

I rose from my chair, keeping my voice cool. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not here to charm anyone. I’m here to work.”

His eyes flashed—lazy charm giving way to something darker, meaner, almost feral. “You really think you can handle this place?” he drawled, voice dripping with mockery. “Give it a month, and you’ll be begging to quit.” His gaze dipped, lingering where it shouldn’t, a slow, lewd smirk curving his lips. “Unless Dmitri’s keeping you… occupied in other ways.”

Heat rose to my cheeks—not from shame, but fury. I balled my fists, nails biting into my palms. “You don’t walk into my office and talk to me like that,” I said, each word clipped and shaking with restrained rage. “Leave. Now. Before I forget this place still has cameras.”

Something predatory flickered behind his grin, like he’d just found a new game to play. “Feisty,” he murmured, stepping closer until his breath grazed my cheek. “I like that.” He tilted his head, eyes glinting with amusement. “Tell me, sweetheart—do you talk back to your husband like that too, or do you save the attitude for other men?”

I met his gaze without flinching. “Only when men mistake me for decoration.”

He laughed — a mocking sound that grated on my nerves. “You’ve got claws. But claws won’t save you here. Dmitri may think he can make you queen of this little empire, but everyone in this city knows who really pulls the strings.”

“Funny,” I said. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re the one out of a job.”

That wiped the smile from his face for a heartbeat.

Then, just as quickly, it returned — meaner this time. “You’ll regret talking to me like that.” He paused, eyes glinting. “Or maybe you won’t — if you let me make it worth your while. One night, that’s all I want. Dmitri never has to know.”

Disgust twisted my stomach. “Get out of my office, Mr. Morozov. Don’t make me remind you that Dmitri isn’t the only one people are afraid of.”

He tilted his head, as if considering whether to obey. “You think you’re untouchable because of that ring? You’re not. I could ruin this place with one call. Dmitri’s empire would fold in a month if my father decided to stop pretending he’s an ally.”

I walked to the door and opened it wide. “Then maybe you should call him. And while you’re at it, tell him his golden boy has learned one thing today—no means no.”

For a long, tense moment, neither of us moved.

His gaze dragged down my body, a silent violation that made my skin crawl.

He smirked. “You’ll come around. They always do.”

“Not this one,” I said, my tone like glass.

For a heartbeat his amusement flickered, then darkened.

He turned to leave, mouth twisting into that self-satisfied little smile—then, with the casual cruelty of a man used to taking what he wants, he slapped my backside.

The sound cut through the office like a gunshot.

I didn’t think. My hand flew up and connected with his cheek so hard his head snapped to the side. “How dare you?” I hissed.

He pressed a palm to his face, eyes wide. The smirk had vanished, replaced by stunned, furious disbelief. “You— slapped me?” he managed.

“If you dare touch me again,” I said, my voice low and cold, “I will make sure you regret it for the rest of your life.”

His expression went ugly. “You’ve made a mistake,” he spat, venom coiling his words. “You’ll pay for that. I swear on my mother’s grave.” Then he stormed out.

When the door clicked shut behind him, the room felt smaller, the air thinner.

I stood there, shaking—anger and adrenaline thrumming under my skin. How dare he? The outrage burned bright and hot; so did something else, a fierce, ugly satisfaction that I hadn’t flinched.

My first day was supposed to be a beginning. Instead it was a warning.

But I straightened my shoulders, smoothed my blouse, and stepped back into the restaurant. Men like him tested others for a reason. I’d just shown I wasn’t the sort to be tested twice.

Waitstaff darted past, balancing trays of crystal wine glasses and artisanal cocktails, their movements a choreographed dance of discipline and dread.

The restaurant doubled as a bar, sleek and elegant, its mahogany counter polished to a mirror’s sheen.

It was my first day, and already the weight of it pressed heavy on my shoulders.

If Dmitri thought handing me this place would break me, or that men like Damian could intimidate me into submission, they were wrong.

Elena, my secretary, had briefed me earlier with her usual clipped professionalism — explaining inventory protocols, reservation hierarchies, and the unwritten rules of serving Lake Como’s most dangerous clientele.

She was efficient, detached, neither warm nor cold. I couldn’t tell if she liked me.

Not that it mattered. Respect would come later.

For now, I needed to survive the day without another scandal.

I was heading toward the front-of-house counter — the main hub where staff processed orders — when a young server hurried toward me, apron slightly askew, eyes wide.

“Ma’am,” he said breathlessly, “a customer’s causing a scene. Says the food’s subpar. We tried calming them down, but they’re not having it.”

I drew a slow breath, centering myself.

My palms still itched from where I’d struck Damian.

Good. I could use that fire.

“Lead the way,” I said, my pulse quickening — not with fear this time, but focus.

As I crossed the dining area, I forced my steps into measured calm.

The dining area was a vibrant tableau of Lake Como’s elite.

I spotted the commotion immediately — a small ripple of discomfort in an otherwise well-oiled room.

The young server who’d fetched me was whispering apologies to a patron whose posture alone screamed authority.

Even before I reached him, I could feel it — the kind of energy that made people lower their voices and measure their movements.

As we approached the table, my stomach clenched.

There, in a sharp charcoal suit, sat Alexei.

Dmitri’s brother.

His tattooed hands rested loosely on the table beside a half-eaten plate of grilled octopus, and his gaze, lazy but sharp, cut through the din like glass.

The female server beside him looked flustered, her cheeks pink, her eyes flicking to me as if begging to be saved.

I dismissed her with a calm nod. “It’s fine. I’ll handle this.”

She scurried away.

“Mr. Alexei,” I said evenly, schooling my tone into something neutral. “We’re deeply sorry if the dish didn’t meet your expectations.”

His hazel eyes flicked to the retreating staff, then back to me — assessing, cool, and unmistakably amused.

“Sit,” he said. Not asked — ordered.

I blinked. “Sit?” My voice hardened. “You realize I’m the manager here, not your waitress, right? Why would I sit with you?”

A ghost of a smirk touched his lips. “Because I wouldn’t say what I’m about to say twice.”

Something in his tone made my chest tighten. I stayed standing, jaw set.

He exhaled slowly, his eyes steady on mine. “Your uncles, Rocco and Carlo,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “have been murdered.”

The world stilled.

The chatter. The jazz. Even the low hum of the kitchen beyond the double doors. Everything went silent, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.

My fingers twitched at my side, “Oh my God,” I whispered, sinking into the chair across from him to keep from collapsing.

Tears burned my eyes, glittering under the soft amber lights as grief crashed over me like a tidal wave.

Uncle Rocco — always smelling of espresso and cigar smoke, with a grin that could light up the darkest room. He’d lift me onto his shoulders during the summer parades, waving at strangers like we owned the whole block, shouting that family was the only crown worth wearing.

Uncle Carlo—always the softer one, who’d sneak me extra scoops of pistachio gelato and wink conspiratorially when my father wasn’t looking.

Those memories—those fragments of something good—bled into the nightmare that had haunted me.

Uncle Rocco’s grin twisting into a leer.

Uncle Carlo’s warmth curdling into something vile.

And that faceless third figure—towering, familiar, monstrous.

I pressed a shaking hand to my mouth. The contrast was unbearable, the dissonance sharp enough to split me in two.

“Why?” I rasped finally, lifting my gaze to Alexei. “Why were they killed? Was there a war… a hit?”

He leaned forward, forearms resting on the table, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that slid over me like silk and ice.

“Dmitri’s fingerprints were found on both bodies.”

The air left my lungs in a violent rush.

Alexei didn’t stop. “They were tortured—methodically. Whoever did it wanted them to suffer. Tell me, Penelope, who else would have the access, the power, the precision to make that happen if not Dmitri?”

My pulse thundered in my ears. “You’re saying he killed them? My uncles?”

He leaned back slightly, studying me. “I’m saying he wanted you to bleed without touching you. Killing your family… that sounds like Dmitri’s kind of message.”

My throat constricted.

Dmitri.

The man whose obsession burned darker than love—and whose hatred had nearly destroyed me.

“He wouldn’t,” I whispered, but the denial wavered, fragile as glass.

Alexei tilted his head, his gaze unwavering. “Wouldn’t he?” he said softly. “He’s never been a man of mercy, Penelope. You should know that better than anyone.”

My chest caved, a silent implosion that left me trembling.

Sorrow and fury carved themselves into my face as I met his eyes. “No,” I snapped, shaking my head. “He wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t!”

“They were my uncles—my blood. Whatever their sins, they didn’t deserve to die like animals.” My throat tightened as I forced the words out. “He had no right… no right to take them from me.”

If it were true—if this monster, Dmitri, had taken my uncles from me, no matter what sins they’d committed—then what was left of me he hadn’t already broken? And what chance did I, or the child growing inside me, have against him?

A new fear coiled in my gut, darker and colder than before.

“What will you do now, Penelope?” Alexei asked, his tone careful, like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear me say it.

I looked up, tears streaking down my face. “What do you mean?”

He leaned in, close enough that I could smell the faint trace of smoke and iron on his skin.

“You’re not safe here,” he murmured. “Not with him. Not after this. Dmitri doesn’t forgive, he doesn’t forget—he removes. And you…” His lips curved faintly, not a smile but something sharper. “You’re the last loose thread he needs to cut.”

I shivered, but before I could speak, he continued, his tone dipping low, coaxing. “Let me help you. You don’t have to fight him alone. You’ve already lost too much to his madness.”

I should have pulled away. Probably should’ve dismissed him. But my mind was spinning, and the ground beneath me felt like it was fracturing.

“What are you suggesting?” I whispered.

His lips curved—not a smile, but something sharper. “Escape. I can help you disappear. You still have my number, don’t you?”

My pulse stuttered.

“I can get you out,” he said, lowering his voice until it was barely audible. “Out of Italy, out of Dmitri’s reach. But you know how this works, printsessa… trust is the currency that buys freedom.”