Page 44 of Twisted Addiction
The sound cut through the office like a gunshot.
I didn’t think. My hand flew up and connected with his cheek so hard his head snapped to the side. “How dare you?” I hissed.
He pressed a palm to his face, eyes wide. The smirk had vanished, replaced by stunned, furious disbelief. “You— slapped me?” he managed.
“If you dare touch me again,” I said, my voice low and cold, “I will make sure you regret it for the rest of your life.”
His expression went ugly. “You’ve made a mistake,” he spat, venom coiling his words. “You’ll pay for that. I swear on my mother’s grave.” Then he stormed out.
When the door clicked shut behind him, the room felt smaller, the air thinner.
I stood there, shaking—anger and adrenaline thrumming under my skin. How dare he? The outrage burned bright and hot; so did something else, a fierce, ugly satisfaction that I hadn’t flinched.
My first day was supposed to be a beginning. Instead it was a warning.
But I straightened my shoulders, smoothed my blouse, and stepped back into the restaurant. Men like him tested others for a reason. I’d just shown I wasn’t the sort to be tested twice.
Waitstaff darted past, balancing trays of crystal wine glasses and artisanal cocktails, their movements a choreographed dance of discipline and dread.
The restaurant doubled as a bar, sleek and elegant, its mahogany counter polished to a mirror’s sheen.
It was my first day, and already the weight of it pressed heavy on my shoulders.
If Dmitri thought handing me this place would break me, or that men like Damian could intimidate me into submission, they were wrong.
Elena, my secretary, had briefed me earlier with her usual clipped professionalism — explaining inventory protocols, reservation hierarchies, and the unwritten rules of serving Lake Como’s most dangerous clientele.
She was efficient, detached, neither warm nor cold. I couldn’t tell if she liked me.
Not that it mattered. Respect would come later.
For now, I needed to survive the day without another scandal.
I was heading toward the front-of-house counter — the main hub where staff processed orders — when a young server hurried toward me, apron slightly askew, eyes wide.
“Ma’am,” he said breathlessly, “a customer’s causing a scene. Says the food’s subpar. We tried calming them down, but they’re not having it.”
I drew a slow breath, centering myself.
My palms still itched from where I’d struck Damian.
Good. I could use that fire.
“Lead the way,” I said, my pulse quickening — not with fear this time, but focus.
As I crossed the dining area, I forced my steps into measured calm.
The dining area was a vibrant tableau of Lake Como’s elite.
I spotted the commotion immediately — a small ripple of discomfort in an otherwise well-oiled room.
The young server who’d fetched me was whispering apologies to a patron whose posture alone screamed authority.
Even before I reached him, I could feel it — the kind of energy that made people lower their voices and measure their movements.
As we approached the table, my stomach clenched.
There, in a sharp charcoal suit, sat Alexei.
