Twisted Addiction: Chapter 13

They had literally torn a man apart and left him for me to see, and he had the nerve to ask about my day.

I said nothing at first, letting my legs carry me to the car on autopilot, the dead man’s image burned into my vision.

“Just… perfect,” I said, voice low, heavy with disbelief. “Really sets the tone for a first day at work. Nothing says ‘welcome’ like public dismemberment, right?”

I pressed my hands to my thighs, trying to ground myself, to keep the panic from rising, but the bile in my stomach refused to settle.

“Who got you out?” I asked, voice tight, brittle, as if even speaking might make me vomit.

“Dmitri,” Giovanni said, limping toward the driver’s side. “He decided mercy was in order.”

I laughed bitterly, sharp and humorless. “Mercy? You mean after a week of hell with no one coming for you? That’s… typical.”

“He’s not pleased I took his wife to that illegal underground race,” Giovanni muttered, sliding behind the wheel. “It’s his way of punishing me. And trust me, I’m lucky he even decided to bail me after a week. Get in. Let’s go.”

I moved to open the door, still half in shock, when a voice cut through the night.

“Hey!”

Elena stood under the streetlights, dark hair pulled into a severe bun, expression unreadable

“Ma’am… my sister is insistent. She wants to meet you—not here, somewhere private. She says… there are things you should know. Important things.”

I froze, irritation flaring like wildfire and claws digging into my chest.

“I don’t care what she has to say. I’m not meeting her. And I don’t want another word about your sister.” My voice was sharp, edged with disbelief and a thread of unease I couldn’t ignore.

Elena’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Understood,” she said, voice clipped, and she turned on her heel.

I exhaled, a flicker of curiosity gnawing at me despite myself.

Who was this Seraphina? A real person—or that cruel invention of Dmitri’s, the one meant to make me doubt him and think he was cheating?

My stomach tightened at the thought, and I shoved it down. Not now. Not while I had to focus on survival.

Sliding into the car, the temporary relief of seeing Giovanni gave way to a fresh wave of unease. The engine hummed to life, a low, insistent sound.

“Something on your mind?” Giovanni asked, glancing at me, his tone calm but probing as we merged onto the quiet road.

“I want Dmitri to replace Elena as my secretary,” I said, staring out at the glittering Lake Como lights, trying to steady my racing thoughts. “She’s the only one he didn’t fire, and… something about her feels off. Not warm, not cold—just… wrong. I don’t trust her.”

Giovanni’s lips twitched into a half-smile. “She can’t be replaced. Elena’s the second daughter of the Orlovs, one of the four families running this territory. They own stakes in everything—land, buildings, businesses… La Sirena included. When Dmitri cleared out the staff, the Orlovs refused to budge, no matter the price. Other families took his money and pulled their kids. Not them.”

“Oh,” I muttered, the weight of it settling in my chest. “That explains her attitude.”

“Yeah,” he said, taking a curve with ease. “She knows she’s untouchable. That’s why she’s so aloof. Probably jealous you’re Dmitri’s wife. Most women here dream of that title, and no one expected him to marry… an outsider.”

“Then I’ll have to deal with her,” I said, resigned, my mind still tangled in the name Seraphina and the scene outside.

“Yup,” he agreed, adding casually, “Dmitri’s not home. He’s at the Basilica di Sant’Abbondio, handling some… business.”

The name conjured a cathedral’s solemnity—grand, ancient, imposing. I frowned. “Why are you telling me?”

He shrugged, a playful glint in his eye. “So you know where he isn’t. In case curiosity—or defiance—gets the better of you.”

“Dmitri and I don’t have that kind of relationship. You know that.” I snapped, my chest tightening at the thought of Dmitri’s cold indifference.

“Okay,” he said, eyes back on the road, but the quiet challenge in his tone lingered, stirring a spark I wasn’t ready to admit.

“You know what… take me to him,” I said, voice steady but my gut twisting. I didn’t know what I expected—clarity, confrontation, maybe a glimpse of the man who had made my life a cage.

Giovanni’s suggestion wasn’t casual; it was a push, and I knew I had to take it.

Giovanni’s scarred lips tugged into a faint smirk. “Yes, ma’am.”

The SUV slipped into the narrow street, swallowed by darkness.

The buildings loomed close, their cracked facades and shuttered windows casting long, uneasy shadows.

Every streetlight flickered weakly, as if hesitant to illuminate what might come. Silence pressed down, heavy, broken only by the soft hum of the engine.

I kept my hands clasped tightly in my lap, trying to slow my racing thoughts. Dmitri’s world was one I had glimpsed only in fragments, through whispers and reports, but stepping toward him directly made it all real, all immediate.

The SUV halted a short distance from the Basilica di Sant’Abbondio. Even at a distance, the building radiated authority—gothic arches clawing at the sky, stained glass glowing faintly in the moonlight. The quiet felt sacred, almost suffocating.

“He’s in there,” Giovanni said, nodding toward the basilica with a casual air that made my stomach tighten.

I frowned. “Why not drive closer?” The question sounded braver than I felt.

Giovanni leaned back, hands resting lightly on the wheel, exuding calm I didn’t feel. “Vehicles aren’t allowed inside. This place… it belongs to the families. You walk it on foot, show the respect it demands. Or someone notices, and trust me—you don’t want the wrong people noticing tonight.”

I swallowed, my fingers tightening around the door frame. “And what exactly is he doing here?”

Giovanni’s smirk curved lazily “You think he tells me everything? But if I had to guess—confession, or punishment. With Dmitri, it’s usually the same thing.”

His words sent a chill down my spine. “Punishment?”

He shrugged, the movement careless. “He sins. He prays. He bleeds. Then he sins again. Circle of life, right?”

I stared at him, the sarcasm doing nothing to mask the weight of what he wasn’t saying. The air around us felt charged, thick with the kind of tension that came before a storm.

“Guess you’ll find out,” he added, leaning back in his seat as if watching me walk into a lion’s den was a casual pastime.

I stepped out into the cold night, the air sharp against my skin. The street was deathly silent, as if the city itself were holding its breath.

Every step toward the cathedral echoed like a warning.

The massive oak doors loomed before me, carved with symbols of vengeance and poison.

One showed a hooded figure driving a dagger through a heart engulfed in flames. Another—a serpent coiled around a chalice, fangs bared. Each detail whispered menace, and my stomach twisted.

The hinges groaned when I pushed the door open.

Inside, the hall swallowed sound: polished marble floors, flickering candlelight, and shadows pooling in the corners. The scent of wax and old stone filled the space.

And there he was—Dmitri. Broad shoulders rigid, still as a statue, his gaze fixed on a scarred stone woman at the far end. Her face was serene, but the marks across her chest and abdomen made her feel alive in her suffering.

I stopped beside him, letting my shoulder brush his. He didn’t flinch.

We stood in silence, the weight of the moment stretching taut between us. Finally, he broke it, his voice a low grunt.

“You came,” he said, voice controlled, yet carrying an edge that made the hair on my neck stand.

“I did,” I replied, forcing steadiness into my voice despite the coil of fear tightening in my chest. “What… are we looking at?”

His gaze didn’t leave the statue. “Someone who survived pain they didn’t choose,” he said softly, almost a whisper.

“Why are you here?”

I shrugged, keeping my eyes on the statue. “To keep you company.”

He turned slowly, his piercing blue eyes locking onto mine, his face a mask of restrained intensity. “I don’t need your company, Penelope.”

“I know,” I said softly, meeting his gaze, unflinching despite the storm brewing in my chest. “But I’m here anyway.”

“Go home,” he said, his tone clipped, a command that brooked no argument.

“No,” I countered, glancing back at the statue, its scars stark under the candlelight. “We leave together. Besides… whose statue is this?”

He folded his hands behind his back, his posture rigid as he turned to the figure. “My mother,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent.

My heart sank, memories of my father’s stories flooding back—Dmitri’s childhood with abusive foster parents, the biological mother and father who’d searched for him, only to be lost to tragedy.

“I found her too late,” he continued, his eyes fixed on the statue, his voice heavy with unspoken grief. “Raped, beaten, murdered on a hill.”

The words hit like a physical blow, my chest tightening as I recalled the last time I’d heard him speak of her, his voice breaking with an anguished, “I’m sorry, mama.”

Was he carrying the weight of her death, blaming himself for failing to save her?

A silence followed, so thick it hurt to breathe.

I turned to him, my voice barely audible. “And you built this for her?”

His jaw flexed. “No,” he said. “I built it for what’s left of me.”

Slowly, almost against my will, my gaze drifted back to the statue.

The scars etched across her marble chest seemed almost deliberate—marks of suffering preserved for eternity. My hand lifted before I could think, fingers brushing over the cool stone, tracing the faint ridges.

“She looks… peaceful,” I whispered. “Even after everything.”

He let out a quiet, humorless breath. “Peace is just what the dead look like when they stop screaming.”

The words hit me harder than they should have.

I drew my hand back, my skin tingling from the contact—as if her pain had seeped through the marble, through me.

“Dmitri…” I said softly, his name barely leaving my lips. “You can’t keep carrying this.”

He turned his head, the corner of his mouth curling, but there was no smile there. “What else is there to carry, Penelope? Guilt? Power? Both come with weight.”

I met his eyes, and for the briefest second, the mask cracked. Beneath it, I saw a boy—lost, grieving, still searching for a mother he could never save.

And maybe that was what terrified me most. Because for the first time since I met him, I didn’t see the monster.

I saw the wound that made him one.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, the words inadequate but all I had.

“I don’t need your pity,” Dmitri snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut through the candlelit silence.

But almost as soon as the words left him, his shoulders sagged, and when he spoke again, it was quieter—broken around the edges.

“Go home, Penelope,” he murmured, not looking at me. “Before I forget who I’m trying not to be.”

His voice—God, it wasn’t just rough. It was ruined, like a man scraping his soul against the edges of his past.

Something in me cracked. I took a step closer, my throat tight, words trembling before they even formed.

“Dmitri—”

He turned then, sudden and sharp, and whatever softness had flickered in his eyes was gone. In its place was devastation held together by rage.

“Your fingerprints,” he said quietly, every syllable, precise, lethal. “They were on her body.”

For a second, I couldn’t breathe. The words didn’t make sense—they hung in the air like smoke that refused to clear.

“What?” My voice fractured, disbelieving. “What are you saying?”

He didn’t move, didn’t blink. “You were there.”

The echo of those three words tore through me.

I staggered back, shaking my head. “No… no, that’s not possible—”

“You suffer from dissociative amnesia,” he said, cutting me off, his tone stripped of emotion, as if detachment were the only way to survive what he was saying. “Parts of your past are gone. You don’t even know they’re missing.”

The world tilted. I gripped the nearest pew for balance, my pulse hammering in my throat. “And you’re sure?” I asked, my voice trembling. “You’re so certain that I—”

“I don’t deal in certainty,” he said coldly, his eyes flicking toward the statue of his mother. “I deal in evidence.”

I stared at him, disbelief curdling into something uglier—hurt, betrayal, fear. “So that’s it?” I choked out. “That’s why you’ve punished me? Controlled me? You think I had something to do with her death?”

His gaze snapped back to me, hard and unyielding. “No.”

The word was quiet—but final.

I laughed bitterly, the sound raw in the hollow cathedral. “No? You’ve destroyed me, Dmitri. You’ve treated me like a weapon that turned on you, like something you couldn’t stand to touch. Don’t stand there and tell me you never hated me.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Then, softly—so softly I almost missed it—

“I never hated you.”

The words hit harder than any blow. They rang with truth, but it wasn’t comforting. It was terrifying.

“Then why?” I whispered. “Why keep me close just to break me?”

He exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable. “Because even if you were there that night, you didn’t choose it. You were used. Like her.” His gaze lifted to the statue, to the scarred stone face of the woman who had birthed him. “You and she—both victims of someone else’s cruelty.”

My voice cracked. “Then tell me what I did. Tell me why you look at me like I’m a ghost you can’t bury.”

His eyes hardened again, closing the door on the brief glimpse of vulnerability. “Go home, Penelope,” he said, turning away. “I have work to do.”

“No,” I said, my voice breaking but defiant. “You don’t get to say something like that and walk away. I know you don’t want me here, but I’m not leaving you like this.”

He went still—too still.

“I won’t repeat myself,” he said at last, voice dangerous, the sound of a man holding back everything he wants to unleash. “Leave.”

The candles flickered. Wax bled down the altar steps like tears.

And for the first time, I wasn’t sure if the man before me was asking me to go… or silently begging me to save him.

His words stung, but I didn’t move. I was done running from his silence.

“If my presence disgusts you that much,” I said, forcing the words past the ache in my throat, “and you’ll never stop hating me—or even tell me why—then I can’t do this anymore.”

I reached into my bag, my hands trembling despite my resolve. The papers brushed my fingers—cold, thin, and heavy with finality.

When I pulled them out, the cathedral’s candlelight caught the embossed seal: Dissolution of Marriage Agreement.

“I’ll be called to testify soon,” I said, my tone deliberate. “They’ll ask whether you coerced me into this marriage.” My fingers tightened around the papers. “You know my answer. But you also know this ends the same way—so sign them now, and I’ll disappear from Lake Como before the court even speaks your name.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then his jaw flexed—once.

And before I could react, he turned, his hand shooting out to seize my wrist.

The papers slipped from my fingers, scattering like wounded doves across the marble floor.

In one swift motion, he pulled me against him, my body colliding with the solid wall of his chest.

The air between us disappeared—his heat, his fury, his scent of smoke and iron enveloping me.

“Divorce?” he growled, the word dragged from his throat like it cost him blood. His hand slid to my waist, holding me there, unyielding. “You think I’d let you go that easily?”

“Dmitri—”

He leaned closer, his mouth at my ear, every word searing the air between us.

“No,” he whispered, and the sound was worse than a shout. “You’re mine, Milaya. I’d burn Lake Como, the courts, the world itself—until there’s nothing left but you and me. No one takes you from me. Not even God.”

His voice shook—not with anger, but something far more dangerous: fear.

I swallowed hard, my pulse thrumming in the hollow of my throat. “You can’t keep me here if all you do is hate me,” I whispered, though the words came out fractured.

He laughed softly—bitter, broken. “You think this is hate?”

His hand slid to the back of my neck, fingers trembling as if fighting between destruction and mercy.

His forehead dipped until it brushed mine, his voice a rasp. “Hate doesn’t look like this. Hate doesn’t hurt like this.”

The silence of the cathedral pressed in around us, vast and suffocating.

The statue of his mother loomed above—scarred, solemn, eternal—bearing witness as his thumb traced the line of my jaw like a man tracing the edge of a weapon he didn’t know how to use.

“Then what is it?” I breathed, my voice breaking.

His answer was a whisper that burned. “Punishment,” he said. “For both of us.”