Page 49 of Twisted Addiction
La Sirena was supposed to be my lifeline—my first real taste of control in years. I wouldn’t let Elena’s cryptic tone, or the echo of a name from Dmitri’s lies, pull me back under.
I turned to my laptop, drowning myself in the rhythm of work. Reservation logs. Menu edits. Staff schedules. Each click, each entry became a lifeline—a small rebellion against the chaos clawing at the edges of my mind.
Blood-orange martinis. Smoked bourbon old-fashioneds. Roasted quail with truffle risotto. My fingers moved on instinct, approving shipments, confirming deliveries, recalibrating the evening’s balance between decadence and restraint.
The work steadied me.
But no matter how fast I typed, the name lingered—soft, poisonous—circling the back of my mind like a whisper that refused to die.
Seraphina.
The day passed in a blur of motion and noise.
The kitchen throbbed with energy—a symphony of organized chaos.
At the bar, Lake Como’s elite lounged under amber lights. Beneath the glamour, the undertone was unmistakable.
The subtle exchange of envelopes. The quiet nods between men who didn’t need to speak. The way the staff instinctively looked away at certain moments.
The world I’d married into bled into everything, even here.
By closing time, my muscles screamed from the constant tension.
When the last table cleared and the music faded, I slipped away to the staff bathroom.
The shower was hot, almost scalding, steam curling around me like a cocoon. For a few precious minutes, the day’s noise dissolved—the voices, the chaos, the constant awareness of who might be watching.
It had been grueling. And yet... exhilarating. The kind of exhaustion that came with purpose, not punishment. For the first time in months, I’d felt in control of something—if only a restaurant floor instead of my life.
But as I dried off and dressed, Elena’s voice replayed in my head, uninvited.
She looks almost exactly like you.
Seraphina.
The name refused to die down. It pulsed at the back of my mind, steady and cold, like a second heartbeat.
Elena’s strange composure, her sister’s sudden visit—it all felt too deliberate.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror, droplets sliding down my neck, my face half-veiled by steam. For a fleeting moment, I could almost see another outline behind my own—fainter, softer. Then my gaze drifted lower.
There it was.
Barely noticeable beneath the towel’s edge, but undeniable—the faint swell of a life I’d been pretending not to see.
I pressed a trembling hand against the curve.
Dmitri hasn’t spoken about getting rid of the baby again. I don’t know what stopped him—he never forgets. But whatever it is, it’s protecting me for now. I just hope it continues to.
I tore my gaze away from the mirror and grabbed my clothes, forcing my hands to move, to do something before my thoughts swallowed me whole.
The name still echoed through my mind—Seraphina.
Stepping out into the cool evening air, I was ready to leave the day behind when a horrific sight stopped me cold.
A man, bloodied and lifeless, was lashed to a rusted lamppost just outsideLa Sirena’s entrance, his right hand severed at the wrist, the stump a gruesome mess of torn flesh and bone.
His head hung low, his tattered shirt soaked crimson, the pavement below stained dark.
