Page 58 of Twisted Addiction
The doctor set his case down on a pew. The metallic click of its latches echoed like gunfire in the cathedral’s hollow air.
“Don’t do this,” I whispered, shaking my head, backing away. “Dmitri, don’t—”
My voice snapped, rising in raw panic. “You can’t decide this for me!”
He met my eyes then—steady, pitiless, the kind of calm that made monsters holy. “You were willing to destroy yourself,” he said softly. “I’m just preventing the inevitable.”
My stomach twisted, bile rising in my throat. I looked at Giovanni—my last hope—and saw it. The guilt in his eyes.
“You traitor!” I choked out, lunging toward him, my voice cracking with disbelief.
Giovanni’s jaw tightened, his gaze dropping to the marble floor as if it could swallow him.
“I’m sorry, Penelope,” he said quietly, his voice laced with reluctant duty. “The boss only wants what’s best for you. Carrying this pregnancy any longer could cause severe complications—internal damage that might become irreversible. You... you wouldn’t survive to full term.”
He swallowed, forcing a steadier tone, professional but heavy. “The procedure is medically necessary, even if you’re not ready to accept it.”
I moved before I could think—anger, fear, and betrayal twisting into a single, reckless impulse.
“Penelope—” Giovanni started, but it was too late.
I stormed toward Dmitri, the echo of my heels slicing through the cathedral’s silence.
He turned at the last second, his expression unreadable—and I stepped into him, close enough to feel the chill of his composure. For a heartbeat, it looked like I was reaching for him.
Then I slipped the gun from his waistband.
He barely flinched as I stepped back, arm raised, the barrel trained on his chest. My hands shook, but my voice didn’t.
“Don’t pretend this is about love,” I hissed, my breath ragged. “You want control, not me. You’d rather play God than be a husband.”
The doctor froze near the altar; Giovanni tensed by the door, torn between loyalty and conscience.
“I’m carrying this child,” I said, my voice breaking. “To term. No matter what your doctor says.”
Dmitri’s eyes flicked down—then back up. Calm. Dissecting.
It infuriated me.
“You’re bleeding again,” he said quietly.
The words sliced through me.
My stomach lurched as I instinctively glanced down, stepping back to hide the faint red seeping through the fabric. The subchorionic hematoma—the doctor’s warnings—it all rushed back like static in my ears.
I straightened, forcing defiance into my voice. “If it kills me, so be it.”
His gaze softened—not with pity, but with that dark, terrifying tenderness that was uniquely Dmitri’s. “You think I’ll let you die?” he asked, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I’dset the world on fire before I buried you, Penelope. You’ll live. Even if it means killing what’s inside you.”
“You don’t get to decide that,” I snapped, my finger trembling on the trigger.
He took a step closer, slow, deliberate, like approaching a wounded animal.
“The fetus is dying,” he murmured, voice dangerously calm. “Your organs are tearing themselves apart. You think that’s strength? That’s suicide. I won’t allow it.”
“Fuck you,” I choked, my heart hammering. “No one touches me. No injections. No surgery. Not one fucking needle.”
The doctor shifted, eyes darting between us. Giovanni’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
