Page 117 of Twisted Addiction
The order leaves my throat easier than I expect.
Giovanni’s grip tightens for a heartbeat then loosens. He glances at Irina, then at me, torn open between guilt and terror.
Irina’s voice is the steady keel that keeps the room from tipping. “Mr. Giovanni, I understand your concern, but we’ve had success with women facing similar complications. Simplyresting, avoiding stress, isn’t always enough for her to carry this pregnancy to term. She needs these—what you call ‘untested’—medications. Everything is being monitored carefully. Nothing should go wrong, Mr. Giovanni.”
Giovanni’s jaw works.
His hands tremble, not entirely with anger now. “If anything goes wrong,” he mutters, low enough that only I hear the menace, “I’ll find you both and I will not forgive you.”
“Giovanni!” I snapped.
The older doctor’s expression never changes; he’s done this dance with frightened men before. “We can begin now,” Mikhail says. “It’s better not to delay.”
I press my hand flat to the warm skin of my belly, feeling the impossible smallness of the life there and the full weight of what I’m about to risk. “Do it,” I say, and the word is steadier than I feel. “If this fails, at least I’ll fail for something real.”
Irina swabs my arm with antiseptic; the liquid is cold and bracing.
The needle slips in — a dull pressure, the squeeze of a hand on the other end.
Giovanni watches as the solution vanishes into my vein, rage and fear warbling across his face.
When it’s done, Dr. Mikhail prints a list — progesterone dosing, inhaler schedule, emergency signs to watch for — and hands it to me with clinical kindness. “No heavy lifting. No travel until we’ve done a follow-up ultrasound in five days. If bleeding increases, contact us immediately.”
She handed me a small packet of pills, her tone brisk and professional. “One progesterone tablet each morning. Bronchodilator as needed for asthma. Anti-inflammatory, twice daily. We’ll monitor you remotely.”
Irina gives me one last professional smile. “We’ll arrange a follow-up. Rest, and do not stress.”
I nodded, clutching the packet as if it were salvation and curse all at once. My heart thrummed with something fragile—hope wrapped in fear.
This child—Dmitri’s child—was all I had left of the life I’d built and the man who had destroyed it.
Giovanni led me out, neither of us speaking.
In the car, silence swallowed us whole. Lake Como shimmered behind us, its beauty fading into mist as the road curved toward the airport. I watched it vanish through the glass, one chapter dissolving into another.
I wasn’t escaping as a broken prisoner anymore. I was walking away as a woman who had chosen her own survival—her child’s future—over his empire, his betrayal, his cage.
Whatever Dmitri planned—Seraphina, divorce, the ruin of my name—it didn’t matter. He’d taken my freedom once. He wouldn’t take my will again.
Chapter 26
PENELOPE
Giovanni parked at the private airstrip.
The morning sun glinted off the blades of a sleek black chopper, waiting like a promise. “It’ll take you to New York,” he said, his voice gruff but steady. Then, softer, “Penelope, please—listen to the doctor’s advice. Don’t do anything that could put the child at risk. Avoid stress, take your medications faithfully.”
He paused, the weight of unsaid words hanging between us. “And when you finally have your baby...” His voice faltered for the first time. “Write me a letter. Let me know the baby made it.”
I smirked, leaning back, pretending the weight in my chest didn’t exist. “I could just call you when I finally give birth, you know.”
Without a word, he took my burner phone, his thick fingers surprisingly deft as he entered his number, then handed it back. “Keep it safe,” he said, a trace of softness threading through his gruff tone.
I hesitated, then stepped closer, hugging him tightly.
He stiffened at first, shoulders rigid as stone, but slowly relaxed, wrapping his arms around me.
He was a jerk. A complicit enforcer in Dmitri’s cruelty. Yet... he cared. That acknowledgment made my chest ache, a jagged pang I hadn’t expected.
