Page 97 of Twisted Addiction
The doctor hesitated, then said the one thing that cleaved the floor from my feet. “She’s... in a coma, Mr. Volkov. Critical condition. We’re stabilizing her now.”
The world narrowed until it was just that syllable—coma—echoing in a loop.
I shoved past him, hands clenching into fists so tight my knuckles showed white. “You will do everything,” I snapped. “Wake her. If she doesn’t—” My voice broke off on a threat I didn’t mean to waste on the air.
The doctor flinched but did not argue.
He motioned nurses into motion, their efficiency a small mercy.
I punched the wall on the way out.
The plaster cracked under the force; my injured hand flared with pain, but it was a distant, useful agony.
“Do everything to wake her,” I said through my teeth to the staff huddled near the nurses’ station. “If she dies here, this hospital burns.”
Their murmured reassurances followed me, but I didn’t stay to hear them.
Giovanni appeared in the corridor like a ghost I’d summoned.
His face was pale, streaked with exhaustion.
“I hadn’t meant to go that far,” I said before he could speak. The confession slipped out raw. “I meant to punish. To bend her. To prove ownership.” My throat tightened. “Not this. Not near death.”
“Is she...?” he asked quietly, fear flickering across his face.
“In a coma,” I said, the words tasting like ash.
He said nothing, only guided me down the hall like a handler leading a wounded animal.
We stopped at the VIP lounge—sterile, quiet, too bright for grief.
I dropped into the chair, my hands trembling.
The craving for a cigarette tore through me, sharp and desperate. One drag, a voice whispered. But if I started now, there’d be no stopping. Penelope’s fragile lungs had been my reason to quit. My restraint was her legacy—one of the few things left of her that wasn’t drenched in blood.
With a muttered curse, I shoved the pack back into the drawer and slammed it shut.
My jaw locked until my teeth ached.
Alcohol wasn’t an option either.
My body rejected it like poison—one sip and my throat could close, my lungs seize. Giovanni was the only one who knew, the only one who’d seen me convulsing on the floor after I’d tried to drown the past.
So I was trapped. No smoke. No drink. No escape.
Just the guilt, steady and consuming.
I crossed to the narrow cot in the corner and collapsed onto it. The springs groaned under my weight.
The room was too quiet to contain the noise in my head—her voice, her cries, the sound of her forehead striking the floor. I’d caused that.
Every thud replayed behind my ribs, matching the rhythm of my pulse, relentless and accusing.
Sleep hovered close but refused to take me. It only stood at the edge of the dark, watching me unravel.
“Boss...” Giovanni’s voice cut through the chaos in my head, careful, hesitant, like he was stepping into a minefield. “News just came in. The Orlovs are demanding you meet with Seraphina within twenty-four hours... to discuss your relationship.”
My eyes lifted, cold, unfocused.
