Page 14 of Darkest Oblivion
Rocco’s cigar burned down to ash between his fingers. Carlo’s jaw twitched, his hand twitching near his cuff where a gun usually hid.
My father’s knuckles whitened against the armrest of his chair, the silence stretching until it suffocated.
“You can’t owe me and consider war, Marco,” Dmitri went on, his voice smooth as velvet but edged like a blade. “Penelope has been mine for years—you’ve always known it. So I’ll marry her. Make the arrangements. Call me when it’s done.”
I stiffened, heat rising to my face.
Mine? I was standing right here, and he spoke of me like a possession—like cattle to be traded.
He turned to leave, his presence a vacuum that dragged all the air from the room. How the fuck had he even breached the estate? Romano soldiers guarded every gate—yet here he was, unbothered, untouchable.
“Wait.” My father’s voice broke the silence, desperate but steady. “If she marries you... the debt is gone? Cleared, once and for all?”
Dmitri’s lips curved into a slow, merciless smirk. He glanced back over his shoulder, eyes gleaming with malice. “She’s notpayment, Marco. She’s leverage. Until I find a better way to make you pay for your sins.”
My chest clenched. Leverage?
I wasn’t a daughter. I wasn’t even a bride. I was a weapon in his hands.
His boots struck the floor like gunfire as he strode out, the doors closing in his wake. Only then did the three men breathe again, shoulders sagging as though the room itself had survived a hurricane.
“We don’t have a choice, Marco,” Rocco muttered, his voice rough with dread. “You remember what he did to the Morettis—slaughtered the patriarch, strung his sons up in their own casino, and burned their empire to ash. Do you want that to be us?”
My father’s head bowed, his silver hair catching the chandelier’s glow, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “I promised her...” he whispered, his voice breaking under the weight of his own words.
“We all love Penelope,” Carlo said darkly, “but it’s her or everything. Dmitri’s a demon—we can’t risk it.”
Their words struck like blades, cutting deeper than Dmitri’s hands ever could.
A tide of sadness, anger, and betrayal surged inside me, so strong it threatened to drag me under.
My father, my uncles—the men who’d sworn to protect me—were ready to hand me over like tribute to the devil.
I hated him. I hated Dmitri Volkov with every ragged breath in my lungs.
He’d stormed into New York, crushing every clan beneath his boot, forcing even the Romanos to tremble.
Did he think himself untouchable? Did he think his cruelty bound me?
Never.
I’d never marry him—not the monster who’d nearly strangled me at the dock, who’d whispered about chains in Italy like they were a promise.
I would run.
I would vanish.
Better to disappear into the shadows of another city, nameless and forgotten, than bind myself to a man I no longer recognized.
Death itself would be kinder than belonging to Dmitri Volkov.
Two weeks later, I woke to the sound of my mother and Nonna singing “Happy birthday to you,” their voices warm and melodic, drifting through my bedroom door like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
The scent of sugar and vanilla carried with it a weight of normalcy I hadn’t felt in weeks, coaxing a small, reluctant smile from me.
Nonna swept in first, her silver hair pinned into its usual bun, a cluster of pink balloons bobbing above her as if she carried a piece of joy no one—not even the Volkovs—could steal. “Buon compleanno, tesoro!” she sang, her eyes twinkling with pride. “Twenty-five—such a beautiful age.”
Behind her came my mother, Isabella, balancing a tray of cannoli dusted with powdered sugar, their creamy filling glistening.
