Page 96 of Twisted Addiction
At the SUV, I laid her in the backseat, her body curling in on itself, her murmurs fading into nothing.
The guilt clawed up my throat until I needed to hurt something. My fist came down on the hood, metal caving beneath the blow. The sting didn’t matter. The blood on my knuckles didn’t matter. Nothing did but her.
“I went too fucking far,” I breathed, half a confession, half a curse.
I slid into the driver’s seat, slammed the engine alive, and tore down the road.
The phone shook in my hand as I hit the doctor’s number.
“My wife is dying,” I rasped. “Get your nurses ready. Now.”
I didn’t wait for the doctor’s response.
The line went dead as I tore through Lake Como’s streets, ignoring every red light, the tires screaming against wet pavement.
Penelope’s faint murmurs filled the car—“Master... please... forgive me...”—each one cutting deeper, a lash against the conscience I’d buried long ago.
I’d done this.
I’d destroyed the only person who had ever looked at me without fear.
Regret burned so fiercely I could’ve put a bullet through my skull just to silence it. She was my everything—my ruin, my obsession—and I’d broken her beyond recognition.
The hospital’s emergency bay came into view, harsh white light slicing through the night. Nurses were already waiting—faces tight, movements swift.
“Move!” one barked.
“Female, mid-twenties, unresponsive, fever, possible hemorrhage,” another called, hands already checking for a pulse.
They lifted her onto the stretcher, oxygen mask secured, portable monitor beeping in frantic rhythm.
“Get her to trauma bay two—now!” the lead nurse ordered.
And just like that, she was gone—swallowed by white walls and urgency.
I leaned against the car, legs unsteady, breath clawing its way out of me. The same fear—the one that had gutted me the night my mother died—hit like a knife under the ribs.
“No...” I rasped. “Nothing must happen to her. Penelope, you can’t leave me...”
My hands shook.
I’d quit smoking for her—because she couldn’t stand the smell, because her lungs were fragile, because she’d smiled when I said I’d stopped.
Now all I wanted was a cigarette, anything to burn away the ache sitting in my chest. But I didn’t light one. I just stood there, choking on air, feeling every second stretch into punishment.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Giovanni.
I stared at the screen for a heartbeat, then slid it back without answering. Whatever he had to say could wait. The only thing that mattered now was her.
I shoved the phone into my pocket and strode through the hospital with the kind of authority that made doors open before I even touched them.
Nurses moved out of my path, their eyes wide, their bodies instinctively recognizing a threat even if they couldn’t name it.
The corridor glowed under fluorescent lights; everything smelled like antiseptic and time running out. A doctor stepped into my path, face flat with the practice of bad news.
“How is my wife?” I demanded.
The words were papered over panic.
