Page 115 of Twisted Addiction
The SUV’s engine thrummed low and steady. Lake Como’s glittering edge glided by on my right.
I didn’t speak. Giovanni didn’t either.
Silence stretched between us, punctuated only by the soft whir of the air conditioner.
My eyes stayed fixed on the passing landscape, but my anger simmered quietly beneath the surface, coiling through my chest like smoke.
Giovanni might have been helpful, but he’d also helped lock me in that dark room.
He’d obeyed Dmitri’s every order, stood guard while I screamed behind soundproof walls, told himself it was duty. His loyalty wasn’t protection—it was a chain. One that bound all of us to Dmitri’s will.
When the SUV suddenly veered off the main road, my stomach lurched.
The lake disappeared behind a curtain of trees as Giovanni steered into a narrow gravel path, the tires crunching beneath us.
Wait—what are you doing?” I asked sharply, my voice slicing through the still air. “This route... it’s not taking us to the airport.”
He said nothing at first, his expression unreadable as the car rolled to a stop before a nondescript concrete building.
No sign, no windows on the lower floor—just steel doors and faded paint. It looked more like a safehouse than a clinic.
He turned to me finally, his scarred face set, eyes steady. “Remember those Russian doctors I mentioned?”
I blinked. “What about them?”
“I got them here,” he said, lowering his voice as if the trees could eavesdrop. “It cost me favors I can’t replace—and Dmitri can’t know. But you need to be checked. You’ve been through hell, Penelope. I had to make sure you’re strong enough to carry the baby.”
The words hit harder than I expected.
I looked at him for a long moment, torn between gratitude and fury.
Then I nodded once, my throat tight. “I still hate you, Giovanni,” I said quietly.
The admission came out softer than I intended, but the ache behind it was real. “You helped him break me. Don’t think this fixes it.”
He didn’t flinch. Just gave a small nod, resigned. “I don’t need forgiveness,” he said simply, stepping out of the car. “Just make it out of this alive.”
Cold morning air bit at my skin as I followed him inside.
The interior was sterile and minimalist—high white ceilings, steel fixtures, and a faint antiseptic tang in the air.
A low hum filled the room from unseen machines. It felt less like a clinic and more like a secret laboratory.
Two figures waited by a table.
A woman in her late thirties with sharp blue eyes and blonde hair pulled into a strict bun, and an older man with graying temples and the calm posture of someone used to bad news.
“Good morning, Mrs. Volkov,” the woman greeted warmly, her accent thick, Russian vowels softening her English. The title made my stomach twist. Mrs. Volkov. Soon it would be a name I no longer had to wear.
“Good morning,” I said, my tone polite but distant.
The older man inclined his head slightly. “I am Dr. Mikhail. This is Dr. Irina. Please, sit. We’ll start quickly—your time is limited, yes?”
I nodded and sank into a wide armchair, its plush fabric too soft for the setting.
Giovanni stayed near the door, arms folded, his broad shoulders filling the space like a silent sentry.
Dr. Irina began setting up a portable ultrasound on a metal tray, its faint beeping echoing through the room. “We’ll do a transabdominal scan to assess fetal viability,” she said, her tone efficient but gentle.
