INSATIABLE CRAVINGS
Insatiable Cravings - Episode 112
Subtitle; {Loving You Is A Loosing Game}
TAGS: Age-gap, Mafia, Forbidden Love, Drama, Tragedy and Betrayal.
Settings: United Kingdom, Russia and others.
★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★
~ Dominic ~
I hadn’t meant to be gone that long.
Every minute away had felt like my insides were being ground down, worry scraping at me, unrelenting. And yet, when I stepped into the studio where I knew the girls were, I was met with warmth—laughter echoing faintly, the smell of Chinese food curling through the air, and paint. The sharp tang of acrylic, that distinct chemical bite, hung over everything.
For a brief second, I wanted to pretend nothing had happened. That the world outside hadn’t just gone to hell. That I hadn’t just lost an entire shipment, a ship, and possibly men—no, people—under my care.
“Hey!” Rory’s voice rang out, sweet and familiar. I looked up to find her beaming—until she wasn’t.
Her smile slipped, the light behind it dimming as her gaze locked on mine.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, walking over with that same softness she’s always had for me, even when I didn’t deserve it. Her hand curled around my forearm, grounding me—though barely.
I couldn’t answer right away. My tongue felt like lead in my mouth. My thoughts were splintered. I could see her, and I could see her—sitting just behind Rory, watching me with quiet concern, her features pinched, brows drawn together. Her eyes met mine, and something in my chest twisted painfully.
I was knackered. Physically, yes—but worse, mentally. My mind had been dragged through glass for hours. Echo had been running herself into the ground trying to find even a sliver of information about the bastards responsible, and there was nothing. Not a trace. It was almost surgical—how cleanly they'd struck.
Well, except from the one suspect—Blade.
“One of our ships was blown up,” I forced out, each word tasting like ash.
I didn’t miss the way both women stilled. Time didn’t stop, not really, but it bloody well felt like it had.
“When you say ‘blown up’,” Rory said slowly, carefully, “do you mean… exploded?”
I nodded once. Sharp. Clipped. I didn’t trust myself to speak.
“Who?” she whispered.
“This is it—I don’t know.” My voice cracked at the edges, thin with frustration. “Echo’s been combing through everything she can find for the past five hours—” I dragged a hand over my face and tilted my head back. I could feel the tension coiling in my spine, stiff and unyielding. “She hasn't found a damn thing. Whoever did this knew about the latest shipment and made bloody sure to stop it.”
There was a pause. Then her voice—hers—cut through. “Do you think there’s an insider?” she asked, her tone quieter than usual. Measured. Careful.
My eyes snapped to her. And of course, she’d think of that first. She was sharp. Sharper than I ever gave her credit for.
“Someone feeding information to whoever is behind this? Only someone on the inside would've known the transport details," she added, gaze flicking from me to Rory. “Right?”
“You’re right,” I said, almost too quickly.
I saw Rory’s expression change as she processed it. That thoughtful furrow in her brow. The way she absentmindedly tucked her hair behind her ear. She was always thinking, always working through the angles.
“But who?” she murmured, and I swéar the question echoed in my own bloódy skull. It wasn’t just a question. It was a cúrse. “Who is the trà itor?”
Who is the traitór?
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The words were there—lodged somewhere between fury and disbelief—but they wouldn’t come out. I just stood there, fists clenched at my sides, feeling like the walls were closing in.
How the héll am I supposed to open my mouth and tell her it's Blade? The same Blade she laughs with, trusts, f+cking adores? It would break her. Shatter her beyond repair.
And Rory—she's barely stitched herself together after Ivan’s deà th, and now this. Genevieve—God, Genevieve actually likes him.
Blade.
He really made sure to wedge himself deep into all our lives, didn’t he? Sly bastà rd.
Rory’s hand was still steady on my arm, grounding me. "Dom," she said, soft as a memory, her voice that same balm it’s been since we were kids. "We’ll figure this out."
I nodded once, the motion stiff. But the sick, leaden weight in my gut didn’t ease. If anything, it anchored me deeper.
I glanced past her, to Genevieve. She hadn’t said another word. Just... watched me. Like she could see straight through all my anger, all my posturing, to the rotted panic gnawing inside my chest. It unnerved me more than I dared admit.
“I need to go back,” I muttered, dragging my gaze away, turning my back to both of them.
“No.” Rory’s grip tightened. Iron disguised as care. "Dominic, you’re exhausted. You look like you've been dragged backwards through a blóody warzóne. Echo will call if anything changes."
"I can’t just sit here—" I started, the words catching sharp in my throat.
"You can sit for five minutes," she cut me off, voice brooking no argument. "You’re no good to anyone like this."
I opened my mouth, ready to snap back—but then caught a glimpse of myself in the glass cabinet.
Christ Almighty.
Wrinkled shirt, collar damp with sweat and seawater. Face hollowed out. Eyes blóodshot. A man already halfway déad.
And who knows? Maybe I was.
I scrubbed a rough hand over my jaw, dragging it through my hair. "Fine," I muttered, voice barely audible. "Five minutes."
Rory exhaled, the tension easing from her frame. She guided me to the sofa without another word, and I let her. The moment I collapsed into the cushions, my body betrayed me—
Muscles sagging, heavy, as though I'd been fighting a war no one else could see.
The studio settled into a hushed stillness. Aurora turned back to her painting, though I could feel her eyes flicking to me. Felt her worry gnawing at the edges of the room.
Then, Genevieve’s voice broke the quiet—soft, tentative, but it still cut through me. “Do you think they’ll strike again?”
I didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. The answer was already a stone lodged in my throat.
"Yes."
The air seemed to thicken, pressing in from all sides.
Because I knew. This wasn’t random. This wasn’t some botched attempt. This was precise. Intentional. Personal.
And whoever started this?
They weren’t done.
I needed them safe. I had to keep them safe. Because next time—next time, it wouldn’t be a ship. It would be them.
Aurora’s obnoxiously loud ringtone ripped through the silence like a scalpel. The sound burrowed into my skull, sharp and grating. I clenched my fists, white-knuckled, until the noise mercifully ceased as she hurried out with a muttered excuse.
Silence settled again.
"Are you okay?" Genevieve’s voice came closer now, threaded with quiet concern.
The strength to lift my head was gone.
Burnt out. But somehow, I forced the words out. "Do you want the truth?"
"Yes."
I swallowed hard, the confession clawing its way out of me. "I’m not fine."
A single tear slipped down, hot against my cold skin. Pathetic. Unforgivable.
"I feel like my world’s been flipped inside out," I rasped. "And I don't know how to undo it. I don't know how to fix it."
Genevieve said nothing at first. Just let the unbearable silence stretch, thick and heavy between us. Then, in a tone so soft it somehow hit harder than any blow, she said, "Look at me."
I kept my head bowed. What was the point? So she could lie? Tell me it would all be alright?
Because I didn’t want lies. Not from her.
But she didn’t back off. I felt her hands—warm, steady—cradle my face, lifting it. Her touch gentled something inside me that I hadn't even realised was splintering.
"Everything’s going to be fine because you’re going to make it fine," she murmured. "I’m here for you. Rory’s here for you. We’re with you, Dominic."
A brittle laugh cracked from my lips. Barely a sound. "Yeah? Like my own personal squad?"
Her answering smile was fragile, watery, but it was there. "Exactly."
I blinked and the tears kept falling, unstoppable now.
Tears for the fact that I didn’t see it coming. Tears for the betrayal coiling in the shadows. Tears for the sinking certainty that when the real attack came... I might not be enough.
Might lose them.
Genevieve said nothing. Just wrapped herself around me, holding me as I shook apart in her arms. And somewhere deep inside, the thought screamed—
This is all her fault. If she hadn't crashed into my life, I wouldn’t be sat here falling apart like some blóody child. I don’t cry. I don’t break.
But loving her—loving them—made me human. Made me vulnerable. And now? Now I was scared shitléss. Not for myself. For them.
"I’m scared, baby," I confessed, the words muffled against the crook of her neck. I breathed her in—her scent, warm and soft, grounding me when everything else was slipping away. "Terrifiéd. I can’t—" I broke off, throat closing. My breaths shuddering. “I can't—”
"It’s alright to be scared," she whispered, threading her fingers through my hair, soothing every frayed nerve. "If you weren’t scared, it'd be concerning. Your ship was blówn up, Dom. It’s a direct threà t. To you. To Rory.
You’re allowed to be terrifÃed."
I sniffled pathetically, forcing myself to pull away, shame burning under my skin. "You playing therapist now?" I croaked, attempting a joke. A lifeline.
She smiled faintly, brushing dust off her clothes. "Maybe." And then, just like that—
she dropped a bómb. "Are you hiding something?"
I stiffened. Forced my head up, staring at her. "What?"
"You’re not saying something," she said, calm but relentless. "Something important."
I stared at her, trying to hold the truth back with sheer willpower.
"Dominic," she continued gently. "It’s alright if you can’t tell me. But Rory deserves to know."
"She won’t want to know this," I said hoarsely.
"It can’t be that bad."
I tilted my head, staring.
Genevieve sighed. "Alright. Maybe it’s bad. But Rory’s tough. She can handle it."
"Can you?"
She blinked. "Can I what?"
"If I tell you Blade’s the traÃtor—what will you do?"
The words hung between us, too heavy, too real.
"I’ll tell you you’re insañe," she said at once, but my silence screamed louder than words. Her face crumpled, confusion giving way to panic. "It's Blade," she whispered. "Why would he—why would he?"
Why would he indeed. A question that had been rotting through my mind for hours.
Genevieve shook her head, unwilling—or unable—to believe it. “He loves the Base—” I raised a brow. She huffed, running a hand through her hair. “Alright, maybe not love. But he cares. The men, the women—they’re his family. You’re his family. He wouldn’t betray family.”
I stood so abruptly she flinched back. Guilt gnawed at my insides. Slowly, I reached for her hands, cradling them between mine. My thumb traced the back of her knuckles, seeking comfort. Offering it too, maybe.
“Baby,” I said softly. “How can you be so sure it’s not him?”
“Because… it’s Blade.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“What’s not an answer?” Aurora’s voice cut across the room like a whip. We both turned sharply towards the door where she stood, arms folded, eyes blazing. “And why’s Blade’s name being thrown about?” she asked, suspicion dripping from every word.
We both turned. She stood by the door, arms crossed, glare locked on me.
Genevieve answered before I could. "Because your brother thinks Blade’s the traitor. That he did it."
"Did what?" Aurora challenged, daring me to say it aloud.
I dropped Genevieve’s hands, digging mine deep into my pockets instead.
"It’s Blade, Rory," I said, voice hollow.
"Says who?" she spat.
"Mike."
Her face twisted, first in disbelief, then in rage. "Mike? Mike as in the bloódy newcomer? What does he know?"
"That Blade was the last one on the ship."
"Bullshit," she hissed under her breath. "You can’t just believe him," Rory snarled. "Blade would never betray you. Or the Brà tva."
I wanted to believe that too. God, I did.
"Well—"
"Don’t you dare," Aurora roared, her voice a whipcrack that made me flinch.
I tried to step towards her, but she threw up a hand. "No."
One word.
Final. Sharp.
Without another glance, she spun on her heel and stormed out, slamming the door so hard the walls shook.
I sank back onto the sofa, staring blankly ahead.
Well, that went well.
TBC📖✍️
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