INSATIABLE CRAVINGS
Insatiable Cravings - Episode 101
Subtitle; {Loving You Is A Loosing Game}
TAGS: Age-gap, Mafia, Forbidden Love, Drama, Tragedy and Betrayal.
Settings: United Kingdom, Russia and others.
★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★
~ Dominic ~
"You have got to be kidding."
That was the very first thing Genevieve said after I told her that Rory was my sister.
Her voice, laced with disbelief and simmering frustration, echoed in the room, bouncing off the sleek marble walls of my office. Outside, the rain battered against the floor-to-ceiling windows, a relentless downpour that mirrored the tension thickening the air.
I knew I probably shouldn’t have blurted it out like that. I could have eased her into it, given her time to process. But I could see it—the way her pretty little head was spinning, jumping to conclusions, crafting stories that didn’t exist.
And I couldn’t have that.
I was trying to win her over, to be someone she could trust. Not a villain in her narrative, not the monstrous figure she already knew I was capable of being. I needed her to see something in me—something good, even if I wasn’t sure it existed anymore.
Even though I knew it was foolish, maybe even wicked, to ask for that.
"You have a sister," she repeated, each word sharp as a blade, "and you didn’t think, Oh, maybe Genevieve should know about this? Hmm? Or Maybe I should tell the girl I’m dating and claim to love this one thing about myself? Or—oh! This one’s my favourite—I really think I should let the girl I fucking love know this, because it looks like she doesn’t have a blòody clue!”
With every word, she advanced, and instinctively, I took a step back.
Which was insàne.
I was the most feared mafià Don in the world. I led the most ruthless, most powerful clan the mafia had ever known. And yet, standing before Genevieve in this moment, watching the fíre in her eyes as she tore into me, I felt genuinely threaténed.
It might sound funny, but honestly? It wasn’t.
"Thank God I got this on video."
My head snapped towards Rory’s voice. She was standing off to the side, grinning far too widely, phone raised as she recorded the entire blóody exchange.
The little meńace.
She was enjoying this.
"Go on," she urged, waving a hand between us.
Genevieve barely spared her a glance before turning her full attention back to me, her expression a storm of expectation and barely contained rage. "Well?"
I exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down my face. It felt like it might be my last breath. "In my defence," I started, cautiously, "it's on Google. So it’s not exactly lying to you."
A slow blink. A dańgerous pause.
Then—“That’s insane.” Her voice had dropped a note, calm in a way that promised nothing good. “You never brought her up.”
“Because I didn’t feel the need to.”
That was a lie. A blatant one.
But right now, I’d say anything to pacify her.
"Hey!" Rory chimed in, utterly unhelpful. “There is always a need to bring me up.” She raised both hands in mock surrender, her grin entirely too smug. “Just saying.”
Genevieve shook her head, eyes burńing into me with betrayal.
"I cannot believe this."
✷✷✷✷
She hadn’t said another word to me that night. Not a single one. No matter how much I had tried, no matter how f+cking hard I had tried.
And she had been right. She had been so blóody right to be furious. I had no defence, no excuse, nothing but the rotting weight of my own mistakes pressing down on me as she had locked herself away in another office for the rest of the storm.
And the moment the rain had stopped—she had gone.
I had let her go. I had just stood there like some helpless f+ck, watching her walk out of the building, feeling an ice-cold hand wrap around my throat, squeezing tight.
Because it had felt like déjà vu.
Like I had been watching history repeat itself in real time.
Genevieve had proved me right.
She hadn’t come to work the next day. Or the day after that.
For forty-eight f+cking hours, I had lived in pure, unfiltered héll.
I had called. And called. And called. And she had never picked up. But she had picked up for Dexter—by the third ring.
I had known what that had meant. I had known what she had been doing. She had been proving a point, and she had been making dàmn sure I had felt every inch of it.
She had hatéd me. More than before. More than ever.
And I couldn’t even blame her.
But that hadn’t meant it hadn’t hurt.
And f+ck, it had húrt.
I had thought I had known pàin. Thought I had felt it enough times to be immune to it. After everything I had been through, I should have known how to deal with it by then. I should have known how to carry it, wear it like an old, familiar coat.
But I hadn’t.
I couldn’t.
Genevieve hadn’t been in my life for four years, and I had thought I had understood pàin. Thought I had known it like the back of my own hand. But this?
This had been agóny.
This had been a dull, rusted kńife being dragged through my ribs, over and over, never deep enough to kill—just enough to make me wish it would.
She hadn’t come in the first day. Or the second. And each time I had called, each time I had begged the universe to just let her pick up—nothing.
I had just sat there, staring at my phone like some despérate, pàthetic f+ck, listening to the dial tone until it had cut off.
And then—
On the third day, she had walked into the office.
Calm. Unbothered.
And she still hadn’t looked at me. Hadn’t acknowledged me unless it had been strictly necessary.
And she sure as héll hadn’t let me speak to her unless it had been work-related.
She had avoided me like I had been the worst kind of diseàse.
And Jesus Christ, it had killéd me.
Having her so close, yet completely untouchable. Watching her walk past me like I had been nothing. Like I had meant nothing.
It had f+cking húrt.
It had settled in my bones, crawled beneath my skin, made a home in my chest, where it had sat like a déad weight.
She had been killìng me.
And she had known it.
She, Genevieve King, had been going to drag this out for as long as she had dàmn well pleased.
Because she could.
Because she had been furious. Because she had wanted me to suffer.
Because she had known, better than anyone, that I could withstand bullets, knivés, and broken bones—but not this.
Not her silence.
Not her f+cking indifference.
And if I had said it hadn’t been destroyíng me, I would have been the biggest liar alive.
It had been like something had hollowed me out from the inside, scooped out my insides and left behind a black, yawning void.
Two days had stretched into a week. A week had bléd into two. And still—nothing.
The world had kept spinning. Life had gone on. And Genevieve still couldn’t stand the sight of me.
If she had just let me explain, I would have told her the truth.
The truth that I had been scared.
The truth that I had been selfish.
The truth that I had thought if they had never gotten close, it would have made things easier when they had to part ways.
And that had been why I had been there that night.
Because I had tried everything else. I had done everything I could to apologise, to make it up to her, to earn her forgiveness.
None of it had worked.
So yes, I had gone to her flat.
I had lifted my fist and knocked. Twice.
One second. No answer.
I had waited.
My eyes had scanned the corridor. It had been empty. Quiet.
Waiting.
The only problem with that place?
The @rseh0le who had lived there.
Waiting.
A f+cking waste of oxygen.
Waiting.
A misérable, pàthetic excuse of a man.
Waiting.
And then—
Genevieve’s smile had been the first thing I had seen when she had opened the door.
Bright. Unfiltered. Real.
For half a second, it had punched the air from my lungs.
And then—
She had seen me.
The smile had vanished.
Wiped from existence.
Her expression had hardened like steel, and she had exhaled through her nose.
"What are you doing here?" she had asked, voice deadly calm. But her eyes—they had burńed.
That had been what I had been enduring for the past three weeks. And yes, I had known I had deserved it.
But knowing that hadn’t eased the ache in my chest.
"How did you—" She had stopped herself, jaw locking. "Why am I even asking that? I know you. You probably ‘mafia-ed’ your way into getting my address."
She hadn’t been wrong.
Because what was I supposed to do? Just wait? Do nothing while the only woman I have ever loved walked away from me—again—this time filled with nothing but rage?
I had feared that would have been my final undoing.
And no, I had not been being dramatic.
"Can we please talk?" I had asked. No—I had pleaded.
"You already know the answer to that."
Her lips had pressed into a thin line, and I had known she had been about to slam the door in my face.
I had reacted on instinct. Before she could have shut me out, I had wedged my foot in the doorframe.
A bolt of pàin had shot through my leg, sharp and electric. But I had barely felt it.
"Dominic, don’t."
She could have been stabbińg me in the chest right then, and I still wouldn’t have moved.
"I just want to talk."
"And I don’t."
"Please."
"No, Dominic." Her voice had been flat. Hollow. "You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to show up here and pull that face to make me feel sorry for you."
"Face?"
I had frowned. "What face?"
She had let out a breath, slow and measured, and waved her hand at me.
"This face."
She had sounded exhausted. Done.
"The broken, wounded face you have on right now. I’m not falling for it. So leave."
I had stared at her. At the fire in her eyes. The sheer resolve.
"Have you even considered," I had whispered, "just maybe, that I am broken? That I am hurtíng? That you not talking to me is killìng me?"
She had held my gaze, steady and unwavering.
"Good," she had said coldly.
"It serves you right."
And then—
She had shut the door in my face.
Hard.
I hadn’t moved.
I had just stood there, staring at the closed door, the sound of my own breathing deafening in the silence.
And then, quietly, I had laughed.
Because of course she had shut the door in my face.
I didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Didn’t blink.
The weight of the door shutting in my face crashed over me like a f+cking tidal wave.
I knew she was angry. Knew she had every right to be. But Christ, it didn’t make it easier. Didn’t stop the ache from gnawing its way through my ribs, hollowing me out from the inside.
I exhaled, forehead pressing against the wood. It was still warm from where her hand had been moments ago. That tiny trace of heat, that last lingering presence of her, sent something dark and unhinged unraveling in my chest.
I clenched my jaw.
F+cking héll.
The air felt too sharp, too cold, like needles sinking into my skin. My hands curled into fists, nails biting into my palms as I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to breathe through the wreckàge inside me.
Nothing helped.
Nothing f+cking helped.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to punch something, break something, break myself, just to feel anything other than this gut-wrenching, soul-crushing, mind-numbing pàin.
She wouldn’t even look at me.
Wouldn’t hear me.
Wouldn’t let me fight for her.
And she knew what she was doing.
She knew I would rather take a bullet than this. That I would rather have her hàte me with fíre in her veins than be met with silence.
My fingers twitched at my sides. I swallowed, my throat tight, raw, like something had clawed its way up from my stomach and lodged itself there, refusing to move.
I couldn’t go.
I wouldn’t go.
I had spent the last three weeks watching her slip further and further away from me, and I had let her because I had thought maybe she needed space.
Maybe she needed time.
Maybe if I just waited, she’d cool off, come back to me.
But she hadn’t.
And she wouldn’t.
So I stayed.
I stayed because leaving would mean accepting it. Accepting that she truly wanted nothing to do with me. And I couldn’t.
I wouldn’t.
Not after losing her once.
Not again.
The corridor was empty, silent except for the distant hum of the city beyond. The only light came from the dim, flickering bulb overhead, casting uneven shadows on the floor, stretching and distorting every time I moved.
I slid down against the door, legs folding beneath me as I leaned my head back, staring blankly at the ceiling.
Pàthetic.
I was f+cking pàthetic.
I laughed under my breath, but it was hoarse, broken, shattered.
The sound made something inside me crack wide open.
And then, before I could stop it, before I could fight it back—
A choked, wreckéd sob clawed its way out of my throat.
F+ck.
I shoved the heels of my hands against my eyes, breathing ragged, shaking apart at the seams. I had sworn I wouldn’t do this. Had sworn I wouldn’t f+cking cry over her, not when I had done this to myself.
But I couldn’t stop it.
The tears came, spilling over, burning hot trails down my cheeks, s0aking into my sleeves as I pressed my fists to my face, swallowing down every gasping breath, every broken sound.
I had lost her.
I had well and truly lost her.
And I didn’t know how to survive it.
Didn’t want to survive it.
Because life without Genevieve King wasn’t f+cking living.
And I had no one to blame but myself.
I wasn’t sure how long I sat there.
Minutes. Hours. Maybe a lifetime.
Time blurred into nothing, stretched into something vast and empty, swallowing me whole. The only thing tethering me to reality was the dull ache in my chest, the burńing sting in my eyes, the weight pressing down on me like the f+cking sky had collapsed.
I wiped a hand over my face, but it was useless. The tears had dried, leaving behind an uncomfortable tightness on my skin, but the pàin—Christ, the pain hadn’t budged. It sat heavy in my stomach, a lead weight I couldn’t shift.
The hallway remained quiet. Still.
No one came out.
Genevieve didn’t open the door.
I had been waiting—praying, f+cking begging—that she would. That she’d hear me breaking apart just inches away and at least check if I was still breathing.
But she didn’t.
She wouldn’t.
Because I wasn’t her problem anymore.
I sucked in a breath, dragging my knees up and resting my arms on them, fingers tangling into my hair. The strands felt damp at the ends, clinging to my forehead, a cruel reminder of the wréck I had become.
And for what?
For her?
For the one person I had spent the last four years trying—and f+cking failing—to get over?
Yes.
For her. Always for her.
I let out a slow exhale, tilting my head back against the door again. It didn’t feel warm anymore. The heat had faded, leaving only cold, lifeless wood beneath me. A crúel metaphor, really.
I was alone.
Utterly, excruciatingly alone.
My phone vibrated in my pocket, shattering the silence. For a brief, fleeting moment, hope flared in my chest, sharp and electric. My fingers trembled as I fished it out, swiping at the screen without looking—
Dexter.
F+cking Dexter.
A bitter laugh tumbled out of me, hollow and twisted. Of course. Of f+cking course.
I clenched my jaw and declined the call, shoving the phone back into my pocket before I did something drastic—like hurl it down the goddàmn hallway.
It wasn’t him I wanted to hear from.
It wasn’t him I was waiting for.
I let my head drop forward, staring blankly at the floor, my thoughts spiraling into a black hole of regret.
How much longer could I sit here?
How much longer would I sit here?
Until she acknowledged me? Until she threw me a single, goddàmn scrap of attention?
Or until I disintegrated into nothing, rotting right outside her fúcking door?
I wasn’t sure.
All I knew was that I couldn’t move.
Wouldn’t move.
Not until I had to.
Not until I was forced.
Because this—sitting here, drowning in it, feeling it suffocate every part of me—was the closest I had been to her in weeks.
And f+ck if I was going to let it go just yet.
TBC
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