Page 5 of Twisted Addiction
I could still see his words glowing on the screen, searing into me like brands.
You got too comfortable with my kindness, Penelope. Did you really think I was capable of tenderness? No. You forgot who I am. I’m not here to love you, not here to save you. I’m here to break you—slowly, painfully—until suffering is all you know. That’s the only gift you’ll ever get from me.
The memory ripped through me.
My vision blurred, hot tears spilling unbidden.
My hands shook violently as I pressed them against my stomach, trying to hold myself together, but it was useless.
Nausea surged up my throat; bile stung the back of my tongue. The landing pad swam in my vision, the world tilting—I swayed, knees buckling.
I caught myself against the chopper’s cold metal frame, breath tearing in ragged gasps.
My whole body trembled, wracked by the venom of his words, the kind of pain that left no wound visible but hollowed you out from the inside.
The cramps knifed through me again, and a broken sob clawed free from my chest.
Remembering those words now wasn’t just torment—it was annihilation.
He hadn’t been there for me during my pregnancy—the nights of pain, the suffocating loneliness, the constant fear that gnawed me alive.
Yet here I was again, dragged back into this godforsaken territory. But this time would be different. I would escape. Somehow. Lake Como might be a gilded fortress, but even fortresses had cracks. There had to be illegal ways out. And I would find them.
“Penelope.”
Giovanni’s voice snapped me from my rage.
He was closer now, his limp more pronounced, his cane clicking against the stone. His face was pale, tight with pain. “I’m so sorry I failed you.”
I frowned, suspicion tugging at me. “Failed me?”
“Yeah.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, his words strained. “I was supposed to protect you. That’s my duty. But I failed.” His limp carried him another step closer, each movement jagged. “I hope you can forgive me.”
My gaze dropped to my own battered, bloodstained self. Forgiveness was far from my lips. My voice came out flat, almost lifeless. “Just take me to the house. Please.”
He nodded, wordless, and led me toward a sleek black car.
Sliding into the back seat, I watched him struggle.
His bandaged leg bent stiffly, his jaw clenching as he forced himself behind the wheel. The cane clattered against the doorframe before he yanked it inside.
I couldn’t hold back. “You can’t even stand straight! How are you supposed to drive?”
His lips curved into a grim shadow of a smile. “Relax, Penelope. I only need one leg to drive.”
He gripped the wheel with white-knuckled determination, started the ignition, and pressed down.
The car lurched forward. Every shift of his injured leg drew a wince, his breath catching, sweat beading along his brow. Yet he pushed through the pain, guiding us away from the landing pad and deeper into Lake Como’s labyrinth of stone and shadows.
The car rolled to a stop at the base of the mansion.
Before Giovanni could limp out to help me, I shoved the door open and stepped into the night air.
The house loomed above me, perched on its rise like a predator surveying its prey.
A wide flight of stone steps stretched upward, flanked by cold balustrades of carved marble, their pale surfaces gleaming under the floodlights.
The ascent wasn’t steep like a hill, but deliberate—built to make anyone climbing it feel small, forced to look up at the fortress that awaited.
