Page 92 of Twisted Addiction
I surged forward, every step a wire pulled taut.
Anger was a living thing inside my ribs, coiling and ready to strike.
I closed the distance until Giovanni’s shadow fell over the papers on my desk.
“What changed, Giovanni?” I snapped, voice raw with fury. “You think because I took a bullet, I’ve gone soft? That’s why you defy me now?”
My hand slammed the desk, the sound ricocheting through the study. “You lied to her, took her to a damn street race in the gutters of my city, risked her life—and mine. And now—” I jabbed a finger toward his chest, “—you play doctor behind my back, handing her pills as if you’re her savior?”
Giovanni’s face didn’t blanch—he never did—but there was a tremor in his jaw.
I leaned in close enough for him to feel my breath.
“Tell me, Giovanni,” I hissed, “is it loyalty you’ve lost—or do you think you can take what’s mine?”
Giovanni’s throat bobbed as he forced himself to hold my gaze.
“I don’t want what’s yours,” he said, steady but low. “I just don’t want her blood on my hands when this is over.”
He kept his voice even because he’d learned how to survive me.
“Your wife is fragile,” he went on, quieter but resolute. “She knew the abortion was inevitable—either by your order or by force. She only begged me for one thing—that it wouldn’t be painful. So I told one of the men to get Misoprostol, and I gave it to her.”
He paused, gauging my reaction, but I said nothing.
“I would’ve told you, boss,” Giovanni continued, his jaw tight, “but she begged me not to. Said she’d explain it herself. It’s not the abortion she feared—it’s the injection. She said she’d rather swallow a thousand pills than let a needle near her again.” He looked away briefly, his voice dipping lower. “She wants to live, boss. I know she does. That abortion wasn’t defiance—it was survival.”
The words hit like glass shards.
My voice came out quieter than I expected—deadly, controlled.
“You made the call,” I said slowly. “To one of our men.”
Giovanni froze.
“You made a decision that might have killed her — and you did it without asking me.”
I stepped forward, each word harder than the last.
“What if the drug had harmed her, Giovanni? What if she’d died choking on your good intentions? What is betrayal—if not this?”
He took one step closer—not in challenge, but in conviction.
“You think I want to betray you?” he asked, his tone steady, his breath tight. “You think I like lying just to keep the pieces of your damn board from falling apart? Every lie I tell her is to protect you, boss. To keep you from doing something you can’t come back from.”
He exhaled, voice low, controlled.
“The drug is safe. I checked the dosage twice. I wouldn’t do anything that’d hurt your wife—no matter how much you try to convince yourself she’s the enemy.”
I stared at him, the air thick with silence.
The nerve in his jaw twitched; his defiance lingered like smoke. For a man who feared nothing, he was dangerously close to forgetting who he worked for.
I reached for the dagger on the desk with a motion so quick it hardly registered; the blade left the cradle like a blink and sailed past him.
He stepped aside, practice born of too many close calls, and the metal stuck in the wall with an ugly thud. “You test me.”
“Misoprostol—at four months—can be used. I—” He stopped, and I could see the calculation there: medical risk versus survival. “But it causes heavy bleeding. She’s probably still bleeding, boss. That’s how it works—it empties everything.”
