INSATIABLE CRAVINGS
Insatiable Cravings – Episode 122
Subtitle; {Loving You Is A Loosing Game}
TAGS: Age-gap, Mafia, Forbidden Love, Drama, Tragedy and Betrayal.
Settings: United Kingdom, Russia and others.
★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★
~ Genevieve ~
The gazebo.
We stood around it like it was some sort of ancient relic, as if staring hard enough might coax out the truth we were desperate to find. The wooden frame had long since aged, its varnish peeling in tired curls at the edges, and yet the faint, stubbórn scent of cedar clung to the beams like a ghost of the past. Beneath us, the boards groaned softly in protest, strained beneath the weight of too many feet—and far too many buried emotions.
My fingertips brushed along the railing, rough beneath my touch, splintered and worn. It reminded me too much of life lately—recognisable, but no longer safe. Fractured in ways that made me question everything.
“Where exactly would he hide something in here?” I asked, crouching to peer beneath the bench, then lifting one of the dust-laden cushions that had long since faded to a miserable grey. “There’s nowhere discreet.”
“There is,” Dexter murmured, already near the far corner, crouched low. His brow furrowed in thought as he swept his fingers across the floorboards. Then he stilled. “Here.”
We clustered around him. He was tapping against a loose plank with careful precision, his ear seemingly tuned to something only he could hear. It made me wonder—again—just how many secrets he was still keeping.
“It’s hollow underneath. It’s definitely here,” he said at last, voice edged with a quiet sort of triumph. The kind you don’t actually want, because being right means something terrible is coming.
He wedged his fingers beneath the plank and gave it a sharp pull. Dust erupted into the air, and we all recoiled slightly, coughing and waving the haze away. I squinted through the dusty light and saw it—tucked beneath the floorboards, barely visible. A box.
Rory reached for it first, hands trembling ever so slightly. It was small—black, metal, battered—but sturdy. It looked like it was designed to protect things. Dangerous things.
I hovered just behind her, chewing the inside of my cheek raw. “Open it,” I breathed, the words barely more than a whisper, as if anything louder might set off an explosion.
The latch gave with a soft click. My heart paused. The silence that followed was deafening.
Inside, nestled within a crumpled old handkerchief, lay photographs. Dozens. Some yellowed and frayed with age, others worryingly recent. Each bore a name scrawled on the back in Blade’s unmistakable handwriting—obsessive, careful. There were receipts, newspaper cuttings, even a flash drive tucked into one corner.
“Oh my God…” Rory whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of it all.
I reached in and picked up a photograph—and froze.
Dominic.
Not as he is now. Younger. Bruised. Blood smeared at the corner of his mouth. He stood beside someone unrecognisable, their face caught mid-motion, blurred. But it wasn’t just the image—it was the story it hinted at. This wasn’t mere gossip. This was history. Carefully hidden.
A chill crept down my spine, settling deep into my bones. The fabric of my dress did little to shield me from the sudden bite of cold. But it wasn’t the weather. It was dread. Pure and paralyzing.
“Why would Blade keep these?” I asked, barely able to get the words past the thundering in my ears. “Why… what was he planning to do with them?”
“I don’t know,” Dexter replied, his voice taut, brittle. He didn’t meet my gaze. “We weren’t supposed to know.”
Aurora was silent. Too silent. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself like she was trying to hold in the pieces. “This isn’t just betràyal,” she said quietly. “It’s a blóody well thought-out plan. Going back years.”
My chest tightened.
It felt like something was pressing down on it, slowly, deliberately. Like the universe was forcing me to feel every ounce of unease I’d tried to ignore earlier. I stared at the box—at what it held—and my stomach twisted violéntly.
I cast a glance over my shoulder.
Dominic stood still. Silent.
His expression was carved from stone, but I knew that look—confusion, heartbreak, and a ràge so potent it barely needed words.
He hadn’t spoken. Not once. And all of us—Rory, Dex, and me—we were waiting. Hoping he’d say something. Anything that might give us the faintest clue about what was going on inside that mind of his.
But it was like he couldn’t. Either stunned into silence or trapped beneath the weight of thoughts too loud to allow speech.
Above us, the sky hung low, thick with the promise of rain. The wind whipped around the gazebo, rustling trees and rattling beams like the place was barely holding together.
Was it as old as the secrets buried beneath it?
Or were the secrets older still?
Was this truly the long game Aurora claimed it to be?
I didn’t want to believe it.
The photographs burned in my hands, each one heavier than the last. But I couldn’t let go. Couldn’t tear my eyes away. Every image was a thread, and Blade had stitched them together into something far more sinister than idle curiosity.
He’d known. He’d watched. Documented. Calculated every move.
And the worst part—the part that made bile rise in my throat—was how meticulous it all was.
I turned over another photograph. The name scribbled on the back stole the breath from my lungs.
Daniel Morozov
Before I could react, Aurora snatched it from my grip.
“Is this Dad?” she demanded, voice sharp and trembling. She stared down at it like it might burst into flàmes. “Blade had this the whole time and didn’t say a word?”
Dexter looked between us, jaw clenched. “He wasn’t just gathering dirt. He was building something. A case? Blackmail? Insurance? Leverage? Call it what you like.”
“But against who?” Rory asked, voice thin. “Dominic? The Bràtva? All of us?”
I shook my head slowly. “It wasn’t revenge. Not with Blade. It was too clean. Too strategic.”
Silence fell again. But now it was thick. Suffocàting. Heavy with unspoken truths.
And I couldn’t shake the feeling that Blade hadn’t just been trying to protect us.
He’d been preparing for wàr.
But against whom?
As if in answer, Dexter plucked another photo from the box and flipped it over. The name written on the back, in bold red ink: VIKTOR VALDISLAV.
“I know him,” Dominic said quietly, finally breaking his silence.
“He’s a Serbian gang leader,” he went on, voice low and flat. “And an ex-MMA fíghter. Ring any bells?”
His eyes flicked from the photo in Dexter’s hand to his face—something passed between them, silent and sharp, like a conversation the rest of us weren’t privy to. “We had a fíght once.”
A fíght? Like in a proper ring? One of those underground bouts you only see in films?
Dex looked blank for a heartbeat, then his brow furrowed as the memory clicked into place. “Wait—was that the bloke who got so worked up he nearly stabbéd you? That was ages ago. What’s he got to do with anything now? It’s been—what? Twelve, thirteen years?” As if something else had just dawned on him, he added, “And Blade wasn’t even with us then.”
“It’s been fifteen years,” Dominic corrected quietly. “Blade joined us exactly six months after that.”
Bit too coincidental, isn’t it? I didn’t say it aloud, but the thought clanged in my head like a warning bell. Still, I stayed silent, letting the conversation wind on while trying to piece together the jagged puzzle forming in my mind.
“Didn’t Ivan set that fight up?” Dexter asked suddenly. “He’s the one who matched you two, didn’t he?”
“What are you getting at, Dexter?” Aurora snapped, and for the first time, she used his full name. Her voice had a crack of something raw—anger, maybe betrayal. “Are you trying to say that Uncle—” She stopped abruptly, catching herself like the word physically húrt her, before pushing on. “That Ivan knew this would happen? That some Serbian psychó would come back after fifteen bloódy years to kíll us all?”
Dexter turned to face her, his jaw clenched, frustration simmering just beneath his skin. “Yes, Aurora. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t. Who the héll knows anymore?”
“Well, you should,” she shot back, eyes blazing, “since you’re suddenly the blóody expert!”
“You’re being childish.” He ground the words out through his teeth. “The man you’re—” The next words teetered on the edge of cruelty. I could see them coming, could feel the impact they were going to have—but by the time he caught himself, it was too late. “—the man you’re supporting is responsible for your parents’ deàths. And you’re still backing him.”
The world froze.
Dominic moved before anyone else could. His voice cut through the tension like a blade. “Dexter.” The single word was laced with restrained fúry.
He wasn’t just Dominic anymore—he was Dominic Morozov, head of the most feared màfia clan in the world . His entire demeanour shifted. Power rolled off him in waves, cold and thunderous.
Dexter’s expression changed instantly. The rage drained from his face, replaced by something quieter—fear, regret, deference. He lowered his head, exhaling shakily, like the breath itself might undo him.
Even deàd, Ivan was causing chaós. Typical.
The tension in the room crackled, thick and stifling. It sat on our skin like humidity before a storm. I could barely breathe through it. So I did the only thing I could think of to cut through it.
“The flash drive,” I said, voice steady but quiet. “What do you reckon’s on it?”
I wasn’t speaking to anyone in particular, but Dominic’s gaze shifted to mine. And just like that—softened. The rage didn’t vanish, but it dulled. For me.
“Do you think the tapping code unlocks something on it? Or is it something else entirely?”
Above us, the clouds finally gave way. Rain pattered softly against the windows and pavement—gentle, but insistent.
Dominic swore under his breath and snatched the flash drive from Dexter’s hand.
“Drive alone. I’ll take them home.”
Dexter gave a small, respectful nod, bowing his head once more. “Yes, Boss.”
TBC📖✍️
