Page 4 of Twisted Addiction
Mom had been a mafia princess too, but she’d chosen her marriage—chosen my father—and their love had been real and unbreakable.
That freedom had made her strong, her life her own.
I’d believed I would share her fate, that I would be the exception. Instead, I was living the cautionary tale she’d warned me about, tossed like a pawn across a board of men’s power games.
Another memory surfaced—the day after my first period, when I’d panicked, thinking something was wrong.
My mother had held me close, her lavender perfume soothing as she explained everything with gentle words, wrapping me in a blanket and making hot chocolate.
“You’re becoming a woman, Penelope,” she’d said, her eyes shining with pride. “Strong, like me. Never let anyone make you feel less.”
The chopper’s steady hum dragged me out of memory, the dull ache in my stomach a brutal reminder of how far I’d fallen from the strength I once believed I carried.
I was still caught in that haze, a fragile smile ghosting my lips, when the pitch of the engine changed.
The descent jolted me back to the present. I pressed my hand to the window, bracing as the ground rushed up to meet us. The chopper landed with a shudder, blades thrashing the night air.
I stepped out, the cold wind whipping at my hair, and my eyes froze on the bold neon letters blazing at the heart of the territory—WELCOME TO LAKE COMO.
I didn’t remember a sign the last time I was brought here. Then it hit me—I’d been unconscious in Dmitri Volkov’s arms, robbed of the chance to see the entrance to this place that now held me captive.
And God... what an entrance.
It didn’t feel like arriving at a villa on a lake. It felt like crossing into another world.
The shoreline spread wide and black, the water glinting like liquid obsidian beneath the moonlight.
Beyond it, rows of towering cypress and oak trees rose like sentinels, their silhouettes swallowing the horizon.
Between them, I caught glimpses of stone facades—massive, timeworn buildings whose arched windows and jagged towers looked less like homes and more like fortresses.
But what made my blood run cold were the defenses.
Five separate garrisons flanked the main causeway, each stacked with armed men standing watch on raised decks. Their silhouettes cut sharp against the floodlights, rifles gleaming, movements precise and rigid.
They didn’t look like guards—they looked like soldiers waiting for a war.
Then, from the left corner of the courtyard, movement caught my eye. A figure emerged from the shadows, limping toward me.
My breath caught when I recognized him—Giovanni.
His left leg was fully swathed in thick bandages, and he leaned heavily on a cane, dragging his body forward with effort. Each step looked painful, his gait uneven, the stick clacking against the stone like a second, makeshift limb. The proud, unshakable man I once remembered now looked broken, carved down by injury but still refusing to bow.
Chapter 2
PENELOPE
Memories of Dmitri’s brutal message crashed over me like a black tide. The cramps twisting my stomach now felt like echoes of his cruelty.
I had been calling him that night—desperate, terrified—my fingers trembling over the screen.
He wouldn’t pick up. Not once. And then his text had come through, each line a dagger:
Yes, I need an heir to secure my throne. But you—carrying my child—was never something I wanted.
And then the next, harsher than the first:
Do you think I’d allow you to bring my heir into this world? The night we shared... it wasn’t love, it wasn’t mercy. It was to claim you, nothing more. Four months of silence? That was just the beginning. I haven’t even started to make your life a proper misery. You’ll scream, you’ll beg, and death... death won’t come, milaya. Not for you.
