Twisted Addiction: Chapter 4

Alexei slipped his hand into the pocket of his tailored jacket, pulling out a sleek, embossed business card.

He extended it to me with a disarming smile, his hazel eyes glinting with a mix of mischief and sincerity.

I hesitated for a split second before accepting it, my fingers brushing against his calloused ones.

The card felt heavier than it should, as if it carried the weight of possibilities I wasn’t ready to face.

“Call me,” Alexei said smoothly, his voice steady but edged with defiance. “Lake Como isn’t Dmitri’s empire. Wives here have rights—even you. I’ll make sure you understand them.”

His gaze flicked to Dmitri, a provocative glint in his eyes, before he turned and sauntered away, his tattooed arms flexing beneath his rolled-up sleeves.

I glanced at the card—black, matte, with elegant gold lettering. Alexei Volkov. The name gleamed like temptation itself.

Tucking it into the back pocket of my jeans, I braced myself for Dmitri’s reaction, expecting him to snatch it from me or at least snap some possessive retort.

But he remained silent, his face an unreadable mask.

Instead, he gestured toward his car with a curt nod, his tall frame already moving toward the parking lot.

I followed, my mind churning with the encounter, the weight of Alexei’s card burning a hole in my pocket.

When we reached the sleek black SUV, I was about to slide into the passenger seat when Dmitri’s phone buzzed.

“I’ll be there,” he said into the receiver, voice clipped steel. Then he hung up, slipping the phone away like the conversation was already dead to him.

I froze, halfway into the seat, and peered at him through the driver’s side window.

“Are you leaving again? Weeks? Months? Or should I just stop expecting you at all?”

He leveled that unblinking gaze on me. “You’ll drive.”

My pulse spiked. “Where?”

“Home.” His tone cut like glass. “I have business.”

I shoved the door open and met him at the hood. “Business. That’s all I ever hear. And I’m just supposed to sit there, waiting like some pet chained to your doorstep?”

His jaw flexed, but his voice stayed low. “Careful.”

He dropped the car keys onto the hood with a soft clink and turned to leave, but then he paused.

Slowly, he turned back to me, closing the distance between us in two long strides.

“I’ll return tonight,” he said, voice cutting, threaded with something that made my stomach twist. “Not because you asked. Not because you need me. But because I decide when I leave you—and when I return.”

Before I could recoil, he caught my hand, bringing it up with a grip that was both gentle and unyielding.

His lips brushed the back of my palm, but there was no tenderness in the gesture. It was a claim, a warning dressed as intimacy.

“Don’t forget what you are, Penelope,” he murmured against my skin. “Mine. Divorce. Freedom. Rights…” His mouth curled into a dark smirk. “Pretty illusions. They don’t apply to you.”

“You belong here. With me. Always.”

Then he released me abruptly, as if discarding a token, and turned on his heel.

He walked away without looking back—because he didn’t need to. In his mind, I wasn’t going anywhere.

My heart plummeted, caught between his words and that strange, disarming gesture. “Divorce. Freedom. Rights. Pretty illusions. They don’t apply to you.”

The sentence gnawed at me, echoing like a curse.

I hated the warmth of his kiss on my skin—hated the way it disarmed me, made me soft when I wanted to stay furious.

And yet… some wretched part of me, heavy and aching, dreaded the thought of him not coming back.

Shaking it off, I snatched the keys from the hood, slid into the driver’s seat, and started the SUV.

The engine roared to life, loud in the silence he left behind.

I pulled out of the hospital garage, the winding road to the mansion stretching ahead, Lake Como glittering in the afternoon light.

The serenity outside mocked the storm inside my chest.

I hadn’t been driving five minutes when headlights slid into my peripheral vision.

A sleek silver car crept up beside me, matching my pace with surgical precision. My pulse quickened. Instinct told me not to lower my window—but I did, just enough to see.

Alexei leaned lazily against his door, one arm draped out the window, tattoos shifting as his fingers tapped the metal. The wind tousled strands of his dark hair, but his eyes—those sharp hazel eyes—were fixed on me with predatory amusement.

His smile unfurled dangerously.

“Penelope,” he drawled, my name rolling off his tongue like he was savoring something stolen.

His gaze flicked over me, invasive. “So Dmitri let you out on the road alone? Brave of him… considering how often you dream of running from him.”

I struggled to keep my eyes on the road, my head flicking between the curve ahead and the silver car pacing me like a shadow I couldn’t shake.

The road stretched out like a vein along the lake, quiet and gleaming in the late light.

Lake Como wasn’t like anywhere else—it was its own island, walled in by mountains and water. Only four families lived here. Four clans. Which meant the roads were almost always empty, reserved for men like Dmitri, Alexei… and, by extension, me.

I should’ve felt safe in that exclusivity, but instead it made the silence oppressive. No traffic, no strangers, no chance of being interrupted.

Just me. And him.

I tightened my grip on the wheel, pulse skittering.

“What do you want, Alexei?” My voice came out tighter than I meant, strung taut with suspicion.

He leaned a little closer to his window, his smile deliberate. “I think we should talk,” he said, as if suggesting a harmless detour.

“Now?” I asked, keeping my grip firm on the wheel.

My knuckles whitened as I matched his pace.

“Now.” His tone was light, playful even, but his eyes told another story—sharp and insistent.

“There’s a restaurant up the road. Quiet. No Dmitri. No eyes. Just us.”

I hadn’t even known there was a restaurant tucked into this part of Lake Como. Maybe that meant there was still more to uncover here—hidden corners, secrets waiting to be pried open.

At least I’d explore them before I planned my escape.

And how much did Alexei know about this place, about me, about everything Dmitri controlled?

Every instinct screamed at me to keep driving, to stay the course back to the mansion. But then came that other voice—the one that whispered of rebellion, of curiosity, of the unbearable weight of always obeying.

“Okay.” The word slipped out before I could stop it, tasting like betrayal on my tongue.

His grin deepened, before he pressed on the accelerator. The silver car surged ahead, and I found myself trailing him, my chest tight, my stomach knotted.

Minutes later, he guided me into the underground garage of a low-slung building half-cloaked in ivy.

Elegant, discreet, designed to swallow secrets whole. The dim lights buzzed overhead as I parked the SUV beside his car.

I stepped out, the air cool and damp against my skin.

He was already leaning against his car, casual, like time bent for him alone.

The moment I stepped out, his eyes locked on mine—unblinking, unreadable—and a cold awareness slid through me.

Too late, I realized I might’ve walked straight into the wolf’s den.

The garage wasn’t empty; a few sleek cars were scattered around, silent proof of wealth.

But that did nothing to ease the knot in my stomach. Alexei knew this territory better than I did, every corner, every shadow. And if he wanted to twist this moment, turn it against me—who here would care enough to intervene?

Alexei pushed off the car with a slow, deliberate grace, his smile curling like smoke.

His stride was confident, predatory, the kind that drew the eye even when you wanted to look away.

“I’m sure you didn’t drag me here for dinner talk, Alexei. What is it you really want to discuss?” I asked, falling into step beside him as we approached the restaurant’s entrance.

He didn’t answer, just flashed that sly smile and held the glass door open with a mocking tilt of his head, like I was stepping into a trap he’d set hours ago.

Inside, the world changed. The air smelled of garlic and herbs, the lighting soft and golden, wood polished to a gleam. Warm. Inviting. Deceptive.

We were led to a corner table, tucked far from prying eyes.

Only after the waiter drifted away did Alexei lean in, elbows resting on the table, his voice dropping low.

“I’ve heard things,” he said, each word deliberate.

“That you never wanted this marriage. That Dmitri forced you into it. Which—” his mouth curved in a thin, ironic smile “—isn’t just immoral. It’s illegal here. By law, you should’ve been sent back to New York. But you weren’t, were you?” He paused, eyes narrowing as if studying my pulse. “No… Dmitri made sure you stayed. He bent rules, bought people, twisted the system. Some of it clean. Most of it not.”

My stomach tightened.

I leaned back, arms folded, a shield I hoped would feel sturdier than it did.

“So what?” My voice came out flat, wary. “You think I didn’t know he’d pull strings to keep me here? Dmitri doesn’t bend—he breaks. That’s who he is.”

Alexei’s smile thinned, folding into something almost businesslike. The predatory edge was still there, but beneath a lawyer’s calm. “Exactly,” he said. “He breaks people, Penelope. But law and reputation—those are things even Dmitri can’t crush without consequence. I’m offering you the hammer.”

He watched me as the words settled, measuring which part of me would crack first. Then he steepled his fingers, voice precise. “I can file for divorce and represent you. If Dmitri refuses to sign, I’ll serve him papers. He’ll have to answer in court—publicly. I’ll build the case so his influence can’t shield him. If the court dissolves the marriage, you’ll be free. Free to leave. Or free to stay.”

The words hit me like a blow, both terrifying and electric. Divorce. The very thing Dmitri had said was impossible.

Here was his brother, offering it like a lifeline—only it didn’t feel like rescue. It felt like bait.

Heat licked at the base of my throat—hope, sudden and dangerous.

He leaned closer, voice low enough that the words felt private, not theatrical.

“You think you’re the first? You’re not. I’ve freed women tied to worse men than Dmitri. One belonged to the Orlovs—their heir nearly killed her when she asked for a divorce. She’s alive now because I built her case piece by piece until even his father couldn’t save him. Another was married into the Morozov family. Everyone swore she’d disappear if she tried to fight. Instead, she walked out of court with her freedom signed, sealed, protected.”

His mouth curved, but his eyes stayed sharp. “The question is—do you trust me enough to let me?”

The offer dangled between us like a live wire. Part of me wanted to snatch it and run. Part of me wanted to burn it where it sat.

A server appeared, summoned by a subtle gesture from Alexei, setting down plates of simple yet exquisite dishes: bruschetta topped with ripe tomatoes and basil, a small bowl of creamy risotto with parmesan shavings, and a side of grilled vegetables drizzled with balsamic glaze.

The food was a distraction, but my mind was racing. I picked at the bruschetta, the flavors bursting on my tongue as I mulled over his offer.

It was too generous.

Alexei was a mafia man, just like Dmitri, and trust wasn’t a currency I could afford to spend lightly in this world.

Yes, I longed to return to New York, to reunite with my family, who’d been torn from me when I was dragged into this life.

But divorce? The word sat heavy in my chest, a stone I wasn’t sure I wanted to lift.

Despite everything—Dmitri’s cruelty, his body-shaming, those gut-wrenching texts, his months of abandonment while I carried his child—the thought of severing ties with him didn’t feel right. Why? I hated him, didn’t I?

“What’s the catch?” I asked, setting down my fork and pinning him with a hard stare.

He chuckled, leaning back, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. “You may find it hard to believe, but I want nothing in return. I just want to help an unsatisfied woman trapped in a life she didn’t choose.”

I scoffed, shaking my head. “No, I’m smarter than that. No one helps anyone for free. Kindness isn’t exactly a trait that thrives in this world.”

His gaze locked onto mine, intense and unwavering, as if he could see straight through to my soul. “Penelope,” he said softly, almost tenderly, “I’m not like him.”

I held his gaze, refusing to look away, searching for the lie in his eyes but finding none. “I should leave.” I said abruptly, pushing my chair back.

“We’re not done,” he replied, his tone unyielding, but not raised.

“Oh, we are,” I shot back, pulse roaring in my ears. “If there’s one thing life’s taught me, it’s never to take help from strangers. You may share his blood, but you’re nothing to me. And if you think I’ll let another stranger play hero, you’ve misjudged me completely.”

I turned to go, but his voice followed, calm and cutting.

“Under our law, only a wife or a recognized mistress can bear Dmitri’s heir. And you…” his eyes flicked over me, sharp as a blade, “…you haven’t given him one. He won’t take a mistress either—not with how the underworld whispers about his obsession with you. That means his bloodline ends with you. No heir, no throne. When that happens, Dmitri forfeits his claim—and I take his place. So don’t mistake my proposal for kindness. Your divorce is just… mutually beneficial.”

Still, I didn’t sit. I wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction. I took two deliberate steps away, spine straight.

Behind me, his parting words trailed like smoke. “Call when you decide. Freedom has a way of making women braver than they think.”

I reached the door and pulled it open, the cool evening air slapping my face like a wake-up call.

Without looking back, I crossed the lot, climbed into the SUV, and started the engine.

The drive back to the mansion blurred, my chest heavy with unspoken dread. Only when I stepped inside, the oak door shutting with a final thud behind me, did Alexei’s voice fade—and the crushing weight of my reality crashed down harder.

I sank onto the couch, my mind replaying Dr. Rossi’s diagnosis: a bicornuate uterus, a malformed womb that couldn’t sustain a pregnancy, not this one, not any.

The dream of holding my own child—of feeling a small hand curl around my finger, of being more than just someone’s wife, someone’s pawn—had always been a secret, stubborn light inside me. Tonight, it guttered low, threatened by biology.

But no. I wouldn’t let it die.

I’ll never abort my child. I know the risks, know the consequences might strip the life right out of me—but I don’t care. I want this baby. I need this baby.

My eyes fell to the small curve of my belly, still barely a swell, but to me it was everything. My hand drifted over it, trembling, and tears stung my eyes. “You’re mine,” I whispered, as if the baby could hear me. “You’re all mine.”

A memory I would never have rushed in, unbidden and cruel: the faint cry of a newborn in my arms, the softness of downy hair against my cheek, the impossible warmth of a tiny body pressing into me, safe and alive.

I imagined kissing that little brow. For a moment, the dream was so vivid it hurt, a perfect life threaded out before me—gone in the blink of an eye.

The tears spilled freely now, hot trails down my cheeks.

I pressed both palms against my stomach as if I could hold the future inside me by sheer will. As if love alone could keep this fragile heartbeat alive.

And Dmitri—this monster who refused to let me go—needed an heir to secure his empire. If I couldn’t give him one, would he force me to watch another woman carry the child I couldn’t give him, raise the heir meant to secure his empire? The thought alone was enough to make bile rise in my throat.

Exhaustion overtook me, and I didn’t realize I’d drifted off until the darkness of sleep pulled me under, my dreams haunted by Dmitri’s cold eyes, Alexei’s sly smile, and the fragile heartbeat of a child I might never hold.