Twisted Addiction: Chapter 12

Ilet out a strained laugh, shaking my head. “Then I guess I’m broke. It’s foolish to trust someone you barely know. So, thank you for the concern—whatever your motives are—but I won’t lie to you by pretending I trust you.” I pushed back my chair, steadying my voice. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I actually have a business to run.”

Alexei studied me for a long moment, the corners of his mouth twitching with something that wasn’t quite pity. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he reached into his sleek leather briefcase—a lawyer’s hallmark—and drew out a thick folder.

The soft thud as it hit the table made my stomach twist.

“Maybe this will answer the questions you’re too afraid to ask,” he murmured, sliding it toward me.

I flipped it open—and froze. The words Dissolution of Marriage Agreement stared back at me in bold type, cold and final.

“I…” My voice faltered. “I didn’t ask you to draft these.”

“No,” he said smoothly, leaning back in his chair. “But you’ve thought about it.”

I snapped the folder shut, clutching it as if I could crush it out of existence. “That’s not the point.”

“The point,” Alexei said, his voice sharpening, “is that we’re running out of time. Dmitri’s trial for coercion is underway. The Lake Como Tribunal doesn’t operate like a normal court—they’re faster, meaner. You’ll be called to testify soon. And when that happens, you’ll either protect him or free yourself.”

His words hit me like cold water. “Protect him?” I scoffed. “You really think I’d defend the man who turned my life into a cage?”

Alexei tilted his head, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “I think you still love him enough to hesitate.”

I went still. The air between us thickened, heavy with everything I refused to admit.

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, voice softening into something that almost sounded like care.

“Listen to me, Penelope,” Alexei said, his tone sharpening to something persuasive. “If you sign the documents—and get Dmitri to do the same—you’ll be allowed to leave Lake Como under the Tribunal’s protection. Dmitri won’t be able to touch you—legally, politically, not even through his men. You’ll have your freedom back.”

“My freedom?” A dry laugh slipped out, brittle as glass.

“Alexei, men like you don’t hand out mercy for free. I asked you before what you wanted for it, but you wouldn’t give me a straight answer.” I leaned back, studying him. “Don’t tell me this sudden heroism is just goodwill. And even if I did sign them, you think Dmitri would just… let me go? He’d burn this entire city to ash before he let that happen.”

A faint smile tugged at his lips. “Good,” he murmured. “Then you understand exactly who you’re dealing with. But I know the laws of this territory better than anyone alive. You just have to trust me.”

His calm confidence scraped against something raw in me. For a moment, I almost wanted to believe him—then shame followed, sharp and quick, for even considering it.

I exhaled shakily. “You still haven’t answered my question,” I said, voice low. “Why are you really helping me, Alexei? What do you stand to gain? And don’t say it’s just about overthrowing Dmitri.”

He smiled slowly, the kind that sent a chill down my spine. “Maybe I like saving beautiful, broken things.”

Broken things?

The words sank in like a blade wrapped in velvet. My jaw tightened. “I’m not something to be fixed,” I said quietly, though even I could hear the tremor beneath it.

I turned my head slightly, eyes flicking toward the cameras glinting in the corner of the restaurant. “And Dmitri is probably watching this conversation right now.”

Alexei’s lips curved—half amusement, half warning. “Dmitri’s under surveillance,” he said, adjusting his cufflinks with unhurried precision. “I don’t walk into rooms without knowing who’s watching. And trust me—he’s not coming through that door today.”

Then, almost casually, he reached into his coat and placed a sleek new phone on the table. Its screen was dark and reflective. “You’ll need this. Tell Dmitri you bought it. It’s encrypted. Call me if anything happens.”

I stared at the device as if it might bite. “Why would I ever call you?”

He leaned forward, elbows resting lightly on the table, voice dipping low. “Because when the walls start closing in, and they will, you’ll realize I’m the only one still standing on your side.”

I forced a hollow laugh. “We’re still strangers, Alexei. And I haven’t agreed to let you represent me. If I ever need help, believe me—you’re not the first person I’d call.”

Alexei’s smirk didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened—cool, confident, knowing.

“Two weeks,” he said, straightening to his full height. “That’s how long you have before the Tribunal summons you. That’s your window, Penelope—your only chance to choose the version of hell you can live with.”

He turned and walked away with unhurried grace, his shoes silent against the polished marble.

I watched him go, the scent of his cologne lingering like smoke, the weight of the file heavy in my trembling hands.

For a long moment, I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Then, somehow, I pushed myself to my feet.

Questions slammed through my skull, sharp and relentless, but I forced a professional smile onto my face and stepped back into the warm hum of the restaurant. The laughter, the clinking glasses, the golden wash of candlelight—all of it blurred together, distant and unreal, as I floated through the motions of normalcy.

My hands worked on instinct, but my mind was a storm.

How did Alexei know about my uncles’ murders?

Why is he pushing so hard for this divorce?

He’s too invested in my freedom for it to be charity. What’s his endgame?

And—God help me—why did a small, treacherous part of me want to believe him?

By the time I slipped into my office, the mask of composure had begun to crack.

Elena’s desk sat just beyond a sheer curtain, a fragile divide between my false authority and her quiet diligence.

I sank into my chair, the leather sighing beneath me as I opened the divorce file again. The neat paragraphs blurred into rivers of ink.

Each clause was a blade—freedom offered in exchange for the ruin of my marriage.

What did I even feel for Dmitri anymore?

Affection? No. That had burned away long ago.

But something still tethered me to him—something darker, harder to name. Maybe it was the familiarity of his cruelty, the way he broke me and then pieced me back together, just enough to keep me breathing.

Or maybe it was nothing more than habit—this dangerous longing for the man he pretended not to be.

The truth pressed against my ribs like glass. I didn’t know if I wanted him gone… or wanted him to suffer.

My heart was a battlefield—duty warring with fury, grief colliding with something far more treacherous: the quiet, sick ache of wanting what I should despise.

A voice broke through the storm. “Ma’am?”

I blinked, the sound dragging me back to the present. “Yes?”

Elena’s tone was careful, almost amused. “My sister stopped by to say hi. She wants to meet you before she leaves.”

A pause. Then, with a hint of disbelief—“You’ll want to see her. She looks… almost exactly like you.”

I froze, her words cutting clean through the fog in my head.

Almost exactly like me.

Something about it sent a shiver through me—an old superstition whispered in my grandmother’s voice: If you ever meet your double, one of you won’t survive the year.

I blinked hard, pushing the thought away. “Your sister?”

I leaned forward, my voice sharper than intended. The polished mahogany desk suddenly felt like a barrier between me and something I couldn’t name. “And why would she just show up here—without informing me? This is a workplace, Elena, not a café for family visits.”

Through the sheer curtain that separated our desks, Elena’s silhouette stiffened. When she spoke, her tone had cooled, the deference thinning beneath quiet irritation. “My previous boss allowed it, ma’am. I’ll tell her to leave.”

Then, louder—just enough for the walls to catch her words—she called, “Seraphina, my boss doesn’t want to see you. We’ll meet at home.”

The name hung in the air like smoke.

Seraphina.

I froze, my pen hovering above the inventory spreadsheet glowing on my laptop. The sound of that name cut through me like glass.

My pulse stuttered; a cold sweat gathered along my spine. Seraphina didn’t exist. Giovanni had sworn to that—said she was a fabrication, a weapon Dmitri used to twist my mind.

Hadn’t he?

The memory of his certainty now clashed against the echo of Elena’s voice, and for a moment I couldn’t breathe. Logic and fear tangled in my chest, choking each other out. Was this just coincidence—or had one of Dmitri’s ghosts stepped, impossibly, into daylight?

I forced a breath, sharp and deliberate, pressing my palms against the desk until my trembling stilled. I couldn’t afford to unravel. Not today. Not when I was finally standing on my own, even if the ground still belonged to him.

La Sirena was supposed to be my lifeline—my first real taste of control in years. I wouldn’t let Elena’s cryptic tone, or the echo of a name from Dmitri’s lies, pull me back under.

I turned to my laptop, drowning myself in the rhythm of work. Reservation logs. Menu edits. Staff schedules. Each click, each entry became a lifeline—a small rebellion against the chaos clawing at the edges of my mind.

Blood-orange martinis. Smoked bourbon old-fashioneds. Roasted quail with truffle risotto. My fingers moved on instinct, approving shipments, confirming deliveries, recalibrating the evening’s balance between decadence and restraint.

The work steadied me.

But no matter how fast I typed, the name lingered—soft, poisonous—circling the back of my mind like a whisper that refused to die.

Seraphina.

The day passed in a blur of motion and noise.

The kitchen throbbed with energy—a symphony of organized chaos.

At the bar, Lake Como’s elite lounged under amber lights. Beneath the glamour, the undertone was unmistakable.

The subtle exchange of envelopes. The quiet nods between men who didn’t need to speak. The way the staff instinctively looked away at certain moments.

The world I’d married into bled into everything, even here.

By closing time, my muscles screamed from the constant tension.

When the last table cleared and the music faded, I slipped away to the staff bathroom.

The shower was hot, almost scalding, steam curling around me like a cocoon. For a few precious minutes, the day’s noise dissolved—the voices, the chaos, the constant awareness of who might be watching.

It had been grueling. And yet… exhilarating. The kind of exhaustion that came with purpose, not punishment. For the first time in months, I’d felt in control of something—if only a restaurant floor instead of my life.

But as I dried off and dressed, Elena’s voice replayed in my head, uninvited.

She looks almost exactly like you.

Seraphina.

The name refused to die down. It pulsed at the back of my mind, steady and cold, like a second heartbeat.

Elena’s strange composure, her sister’s sudden visit—it all felt too deliberate.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror, droplets sliding down my neck, my face half-veiled by steam. For a fleeting moment, I could almost see another outline behind my own—fainter, softer. Then my gaze drifted lower.

There it was.

Barely noticeable beneath the towel’s edge, but undeniable—the faint swell of a life I’d been pretending not to see.

I pressed a trembling hand against the curve.

Dmitri hasn’t spoken about getting rid of the baby again. I don’t know what stopped him—he never forgets. But whatever it is, it’s protecting me for now. I just hope it continues to.

I tore my gaze away from the mirror and grabbed my clothes, forcing my hands to move, to do something before my thoughts swallowed me whole.

The name still echoed through my mind—Seraphina.

Stepping out into the cool evening air, I was ready to leave the day behind when a horrific sight stopped me cold.

A man, bloodied and lifeless, was lashed to a rusted lamppost just outside La Sirena’s entrance, his right hand severed at the wrist, the stump a gruesome mess of torn flesh and bone.

His head hung low, his tattered shirt soaked crimson, the pavement below stained dark.

A placard dangled from his chest, the words scrawled in stark black ink: “Whoever touches what’s mine, with or without consent, dies first.”

My stomach churned, bile rising as fear gripped me, my heart pounding so loudly I could barely hear the distant hum of the city.

Who would stage such a brutal display? And why here, at my doorstep?

Then I saw him.

Giovanni stood beside a sleek black SUV, leaning casually against the door as if this carnage were just another night in Lake Como. The bandages were gone from his leg, though he still favored one side.

His scarred face was unreadable, eyes flat and cold.

Relief at seeing him twisted with dread.

He pushed off the car and limped toward me, his voice low, almost conversational.

“Dmitri did it,” he said, nodding toward the corpse. “Cut off his hand and left him here while you were inside. The guy groped you earlier.”

For a heartbeat, I couldn’t move. Couldn’t think.

The words blurred before my eyes, the world narrowing to the mangled thing hanging from the post.

The man who claimed to despise me, who said he married me only to avenge what he thought my family had done to him—had torn another man apart in the street as if human life meant nothing.

For touching me.

My stomach twisted violently; I turned and braced myself against the stone wall, forcing back a wave of nausea.

This wasn’t love. This was ownership—blood-soaked and absolute.

Giovanni gestured at the placard, a grim smile tugging at his mouth.

“Didn’t you read the warning he scrawled on the placard? The one hanging off that dead boy?”

I had—but it hadn’t crossed my mind that Dmitri himself had written it.

The message hit harder the second time:

Whoever touches what’s mine, with or without consent, dies first.

Every letter dripped with his brand of control—his madness written in ink instead of blood.

Damian Morozov had been a sleaze earlier, leering at me from across my desk, his words slick with arrogance, his eyes crawling over me like hands. And just when I thought he was finally leaving, he proved what he was—smacking my backside like I existed for his amusement.

Apparently, Dmitri had seen it all.

My stomach twisted. How many hours did he spend watching me? How long had I been performing under his invisible gaze—every smile, every step, every breath recorded for his satisfaction? Did he even sleep, or did he just sit somewhere in the dark, studying me like I was the only thing left in his world?

But this?

Dismemberment and death?

My mind reeled, torn between horror at the savagery and a sick, shameful flicker of satisfaction that Dmitri had acted so ruthlessly to “protect” me.

The duality made me nauseous. My hands shook as I fought to look anywhere but at the mutilated body.

When I finally found my voice, it came out hoarse.

“He… killed him for that?”

Giovanni’s shrug was almost careless. “You know how he gets. Especially when it’s you.”

The words slid under my skin like ice.

Especially when it’s you.

I looked at the corpse again—its lifeless weight not just a warning, but a claim.

Dmitri hadn’t punished a stranger. He’d made a statement.

He’d marked territory. Mine.

The need to run—truly run—hit me with blinding clarity.

“He didn’t have to go this far,” I whispered, my gaze fixed on the pavement, refusing to meet the corpse’s vacant stare.

Giovanni gave another indifferent shrug. “No one tells Dmitri what to do—or how to react.”

“He’s declared war on the Morozovs,” I said, my voice hollow. “He killed their only heir—publicly humiliated him. They’ll come for blood.”

“Yeah,” Giovanni replied, almost casual, as if war were just another Tuesday.

Then, with a faint smirk: “So… how was your first day?”