Page 13 of Darkest Oblivion
Were they discussing me? The Volkov debt? Or something far, far worse?
Chapter 4
PENELOPE
At twenty-five, I was no pawn. At least, I had believed I wasn’t. But their words sliced through me, unraveling the promise my father had whispered so many times—that I would choose my own path, my own man, my own husband.
“Nikolai is twenty-six, Viktor twenty-seven, Alexei twenty-eight, and Dmitri, the eldest, twenty-nine,” Uncle Rocco said, his voice low but commanding, the tip of his cigar glowing in the dim light. “Penelope turns twenty-five in two weeks. Alexei or Dmitri might be the best fit for her—older, more established.”
My chest tightened, nausea twisting in my stomach.
Established? Like I was a business deal, a bargaining chip to be slotted neatly into the Volkov dynasty.
Papa’s voice followed, tight with strain. “Dmitri is a monster, and we’re indebted to him. That devil won’t take money as payment. I would rather consider Alexei.”
The name hit me like a slap. Alexei. My pulse spiked.
Was Papa really weighing which Volkov brother I should belong to, as if there was no choice left to me?
Uncle Carlo’s reply came smooth, careful, his words laced with warning. “From my research, Alexei’s no better. He gunned down an entire rival crew in Naples last year—left their bodies hanging from a pier for fishermen to find at dawn. And two months ago, he torched a traitor’s warehouse with the man stillinside. Screams carried through the whole quarter. If that’s who you want for Penelope...”
My hand flew to my mouth, bile rising.
They spoke of it so clinically.
Carlo exhaled slowly before continuing. “Nikolai, the youngest, is our best bet. Only a year older than Penelope. The baby of the Volkov family. No rumors of kills, no confirmed missions, no trail of bodies to his name. Clean, at least on the surface.”
My stomach churned, their debate a knife twisting deeper with every word.
They were deciding my life—trading me like currency—without even daring to ask me.
My father had promised I’d marry for love, not be shoved into some cold-blooded alliance like the other daughters of other mafia families. Whatever debt or threat had shackled them didn’t erase the betrayal. It didn’t erase the fact that they were ready to sell me.
But I wasn’t a child anymore. In two weeks, I’d turn twenty-five. A woman. My own woman. And I’d burn before letting them hand me over to a Volkov—or anyone—without the truth.
The air shifted. Thickened.
My skin prickled, instinct screaming before I even saw him.
Dmitri Volkov.
He entered as though the room already belonged to him, his presence a storm of menace and power
His black suit fit like armor, his broad shoulders blotting out the doorway, his strides smooth yet predatory.
His hair, dark and slicked back, gleamed under the chandelier, but it was his eyes—icy blue, unyielding, merciless—that froze the blood in my veins.
The room seemed to contract around him, the chandelier’s golden glow paling under the weight of his shadow.
And in that instant, I knew: Dmitri hadn’t just come for a deal. He had come for me.
The three men froze, shifting in their seats, the color draining from their faces.
“I’ll marry her,” Dmitri said, his voice a commanding growl that seemed to rattle the very walls.
“Dmitri...” my father began, his voice faltering under the weight of the moment, but Dmitri silenced him with a step forward. His boots whispered over the Persian rug, each stride a threat in itself.
“Or I’ll collect my payment another way.” He loomed above them, tall, his icy gaze glinting with cruel amusement. “Choose.”
