Page 98 of Twisted Addiction
He went on, his throat working as he swallowed. “If you don’t, they’ll pull their support. Their spokesman said you haven’t made any effort to see her since she returned.”
I straightened, the exhaustion bleeding into fury. “Didn’t I tell you to get rid of her?” The words snapped like a whip, the sound harsh in the sterile quiet.
“We tried,” Giovanni said, steady despite the tremor under his voice. “Her security’s tight — trained teams, political backers. If we push and she vanishes, they’ll trace it. That’s a war you don’t want on top of a tribunal. If Seraphina disappears, they’ll use it to end you.” He spat the last word like it tasted of ash.
I let the air out slowly, like cooling steel.
Fury had turned into calculation. “I am not meeting that woman,” I said, each word a blade laid down on the table.
Giovanni kept looking at me, careful as a surgeon. “You don’t have to meet her. Not personally. I can draft something — a contract that acknowledges her publicly, gives the Orlovs what they want: face, status, concessions. Call her a mistress in name only. Terms, safe distances, a clause for no public appearances for a year. They sign it, we keep the peace, and Seraphina stays—harmless and out of the way.”
He hesitated.
His fingers flexed against the doorframe as if bracing for a blow. “Boss, I know you’re loyal to Penelope. Obsessively so. But Seraphina isn’t just a woman; she’s Orlov’s first daughter. If we mishandle this, they’ll bleed us dry. The wrong move, and even the Council won’t protect you.”
I stared at him, the silence between us thick with unspoken violence and exhaustion.
Giovanni didn’t look up. “Let me handle it,” he murmured. “You have bigger battles to fight—starting with keeping her alive.”
He was gone before I could form an answer, the click of the door like a verdict.
Rage rose, hot and animal.
If the Orlovs pulled out, everything I’d built—my men, my alliances, the delicate web of fear and fortune—would collapse like wet paper.
My brothers would circle, scenting weakness, ready to carve out my empire piece by piece. And Penelope... she’d be exposed, soft and bleeding, a prize for men who knew no mercy.
I almost laughed at the irony—destroying her, only to lose my mind over the thought of losing her for good. Obsession never lied. It was brutal, raw, honest in its cruelty.
I stood.
Enough. I needed to see her.
The corridor to her ward was sterile, too bright, too calm. The kind of calm that mocked what was rotting inside me.
Two nurses stood by the entrance, clipboard and IV bags in hand. They were competent—too competent—and I didn’t trust competence. Not when it came to Penelope.
“Step aside,” I said, my voice a warning rather than a request.
“Sir—” one began, but the look I gave her cut through the rest.
“Do you understand me?” I said, quieter now, more dangerous. “Step aside. Or I swear you’ll regret it.”
They froze, eyes wide, then shifted aside, the air between us heavy with fear.
I didn’t need their permission. I needed control.
I pushed through the door.
And there she was.
Penelope.
Pale. Fragile. Her wrists swathed in gauze, her skin clammy with fever, her breath a thin thread barely holding her to this world.
Blood still stained the edge of her hospital gown, evidence of her struggle—her despair. Her hair, once soft and full, clung to her damp forehead; her lips were cracked, trembling with each weak inhale.
My throat tightened. Every bruise, every cut, every mark on her was mine. My doing. My sin.
