Page 50 of Twisted Addiction
A placard dangled from his chest, the words scrawled in stark black ink:“Whoever touches what’s mine, with or without consent, dies first.”
My stomach churned, bile rising as fear gripped me, my heart pounding so loudly I could barely hear the distant hum of the city.
Who would stage such a brutal display? And why here, at my doorstep?
Then I saw him.
Giovanni stood beside a sleek black SUV, leaning casually against the door as if this carnage were just another night inLake Como. The bandages were gone from his leg, though he still favored one side.
His scarred face was unreadable, eyes flat and cold.
Relief at seeing him twisted with dread.
He pushed off the car and limped toward me, his voice low, almost conversational.
“Dmitri did it,” he said, nodding toward the corpse. “Cut off his hand and left him here while you were inside. The guy groped you earlier.”
For a heartbeat, I couldn’t move. Couldn’t think.
The words blurred before my eyes, the world narrowing to the mangled thing hanging from the post.
The man who claimed to despise me, who said he married me only to avenge what he thought my family had done to him—had torn another man apart in the street as if human life meant nothing.
For touching me.
My stomach twisted violently; I turned and braced myself against the stone wall, forcing back a wave of nausea.
This wasn’t love. This was ownership—blood-soaked and absolute.
Giovanni gestured at the placard, a grim smile tugging at his mouth.
“Didn’t you read the warning he scrawled on the placard? The one hanging off that dead boy?”
I had—but it hadn’t crossed my mind that Dmitri himself had written it.
The message hit harder the second time:
Whoever touches what’s mine, with or without consent, dies first.
Every letter dripped with his brand of control—his madness written in ink instead of blood.
Damian Morozov had been a sleaze earlier, leering at me from across my desk, his words slick with arrogance, his eyes crawling over me like hands. And just when I thought he was finally leaving, he proved what he was—smacking my backside like I existed for his amusement.
Apparently, Dmitri had seen it all.
My stomach twisted. How many hours did he spend watching me? How long had I been performing under his invisible gaze—every smile, every step, every breath recorded for his satisfaction? Did he even sleep, or did he just sit somewhere in the dark, studying me like I was the only thing left in his world?
But this?
Dismemberment and death?
My mind reeled, torn between horror at the savagery and a sick, shameful flicker of satisfaction that Dmitri had acted so ruthlessly to “protect” me.
The duality made me nauseous. My hands shook as I fought to look anywhere but at the mutilated body.
When I finally found my voice, it came out hoarse.
“He... killed him for that?”
