Page 22 of Twisted Addiction
If the Orlovs scented my hand in any blood, they’d howl—withdraw their backing, burn the streets with vendettas, and every uneasy alliance I’d paid for would snap like a cheap cord.
The Orlov patriarch would posture for war; his boys would parade outrage; the courts and guards would be clogged with accusations and grief.
I didn’t fear their noise.I feared the chaos it would rain on Penelope.
I wasn’t afraid for myself; I’d danced with death too many times to flinch.
But Penelope? The thought of her caught in the crossfire ignited a feral protectiveness in me.
Let them rage. I’d raze Lake Como to its foundations before I’d let a single hair on her head be harmed. I would burn the whole territory down to keep her safe—my life for hers, without hesitation.
Pushing the door open, I stepped into the master bedroom, the room’s opulent silence wrapping around me like a shroud.
There she lay, Penelope, curled on the bed in a peaceful slumber that belied the storms we’d weathered.
My eyes traced her form obsessively, drinking in every detail as if she might vanish: the gentle rise and fall of her chest, each breath a rhythm I could sync my heartbeat to; the way her dark hair spilled across the pillow like spilled ink, strands I longed to wrap around my fingers and never release; and the subtle curve of her hips, a vulnerability that stirred a dark hunger in me, a possessiveness that whispered she’d always be mine, body and soul, no matter the cost.
But the contract Giovanni had mentioned—the ten-million-dollar trade deal with the Mexicans, a pact that could reshape our territory’s fortunes—was nowhere in sight.
I scanned the desk, rifling through papers with growing irritation, then paused. “Giovanni,” I called, my voice a low command that carried through the door.
“Boss,” he replied promptly, easing the door open with careful slowness before stepping in, his limp more pronounced in the quiet. “I was just about leaving.”
“I can’t find the contract.”
His eyes darted to the bed.
He approached gingerly, peering closer. “She’s...” He leaned in to confirm, then straightened. “She’s sleeping on it, boss.”
The paper peeked from beneath her, crumpled slightly under her weight.
It was urgent—the three other ruling families waited for my signature; today’s submission would seal the alliance.
“Boss—shall I wake her?” Giovanni asked, his tone hesitant.
My gaze fixed on her serene face, a storm brewing in my chest. “Wake her, and you’ll be buried with that pen.”
“The other families—boss—they’re waiting on the submission. If we don’t sign in—” He glanced at his wristwatch, anxiety creasing his scarred brow. “—in less than two hours, the agreement falls apart.”
“Let them wait.” I replied, my voice a dark rumble. “She rests. The world can wait.”
I dragged a chair close to the bed and sank into it with deliberate calm, eyes never leaving her sleeping face. “Lower your voice,” I warned. “If you wake her with that rasp, you’ll be taking a bullet in the other leg.”
Giovanni let out a humorless snort, then forced a chuckle that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll go—before I cough myself into a shallow grave, boss.” He moved faster than his wounds ought to allow, the limp forgotten in the hurry.
“Good,” I muttered, watching him go.
The door clicked shut behind him like a final seal.
Alone now, I sat vigil, my eyes locked on her.
I could sit like that forever—cataloguing the tremor of her lashes, the soft hitch of breath, the exact curve of her jaw. I’d done it even when I was miles away: during those four months I spent hunting her uncles across shadowed borders, I never stopped watching her through feeds and CCTV.
I made those two men pay in ways that stripped them of dignity and breath.
I took them to places without law — cold rooms, concrete and wire — and made sure their names were erased. They were left empty, broken in ways the world couldn’t measure; their screams haunted abandoned warehouses until the end took them.
No regrets.
