Page 133 of Twisted Addiction
My mind flickered to the memories I’d spent years burying—the ones that clawed their way back months ago like ghosts breaking through the walls.
Faces blurred, laughter that wasn’t kind, hands that weren’t safe.
Two of them, I’d come to recognize—my uncles. The third... I had prayed was only a nightmare. But the way his voice echoed, the faint scent of his cologne, the commanding tone—it had been my father.
The thought turned my stomach.
Could he have done it? Could he have stolen my childhood, then wiped it from my memory like a stain he refused to see?
The realization cracked through me, suffocating. Some truths were too monstrous to name, but denial was no longer a refuge.
The air left my lungs.
“You sent those messages,” I whispered, the realization slicing through me like glass. “After the miscarriage I thought I had at Lake Como... it was you. You texted me—pretending to be Dmitri. Why?”
Marco’s smile spread slowly, cruel and unrepentant.
“I’m not here to answer your little questions, figlia mia,” he said, his tone dripping with mock affection. “But it might interest you to know—I practically lived with you at Lake Como.”
My pulse stumbled. “What do you mean?”
He stepped closer, his cologne sharp and suffocating. “My spy was right under your nose,” he murmured. “Watched you sleep, watched you grieve, watched you beg Dmitri to love you.”
My throat tightened, the room spinning. “Who?” I choked out. “Who was your spy?”
Marco’s smirk deepened, his eyes gleaming with something dark and satisfied.
“You’ll figure it out soon enough,” he said softly. “You always were a clever girl—when you weren’t too busy falling in love with monsters.”
Giovanni’s face flashed in my mind—his calm eyes, the quiet strength in his voice, the way he’d steadied me when my world was collapsing.
No. It couldn’t be him. It can’t be Giovann
My throat tightened, but I refused to let my father see it.
“You’ll never lay a hand on my son,” I said, forcing the words out, each one a blade drawn from my ribs. “He’s not your heir. He’s mine.”
His eyes darkened, amusement flickering to disdain.
“You say that like you have a choice,” he replied, stepping closer. “You can’t even protect yourself, Penelope. What makes you think you can protect him?”
He moved to the door with the calm of a man closing a business deal. “You were never cut out to rule, child—no matter how much we shaped you. You’ve given us a grandson instead, and we will do what we must to raise him right. I am taking him to New York. There’s a house for you here; I’ll forward funds for your maintenance.”
Rage ignited in my chest, burning through the pain in my abdomen.
I swung my legs over the bed, ignoring the tearing sensation as my fresh stitches pulled open.
The hospital gown clung to my sweat-drenched skin, my breath ragged.
“You’ll have to kill me first.”
He looked back once, a thin, almost fond smile on his face. “Then let us pray it doesn’t come to murder.”
He turned toward the door, hand brushing the knob.
Something in me snapped.
I lunged, stumbling forward, fingers outstretched, my voice breaking into a raw scream.
