Page 17 of Darkest Oblivion
Ten years should have buried the memory of the boy who once handed me lemonade on my porch, who’d smuggled me a cupcake at fifteen, who’d teased me about marrying him at twenty-five.
That boy was dead. In his place stood a man who’d nearly crushed the life from me at the docks.
I couldn’t still love him. Could I?
Antonio should have been the one in my thoughts—the bastard who’d tricked me with promises and vows, only to leave me gutted at the altar.
His family’s contract with the Romanos still bound us on paper, but he’d run to Italy after his betrayal, hiding behind the Bellantis’ influence.
My father and uncles wouldn’t risk open war—not when retaliation would spill innocent blood. But a shadow execution? A quiet end in a foreign street? That was the Romanos’ way.
Antonio’s deception had scarred me. Yet it wasn’t his ghost trailing me now.
It was Dmitri Volkov—his voice, his threat, his storm of hatred—that consumed me.
The devil who’d shattered my life sent an invitation to his wedding—addressed to me alone, my family deliberately erased.
Why?
The question gnawed like teeth in my chest as I drove, my emerald dress clinging to my curves, my inhaler in my clutch like a talisman against fate.
The hall rose before me, less a venue than a fortress of power.
Marble walls gleamed under harsh floodlights, gold-trimmed arches curving like crowns over the courtyard where black SUVs sat in rigid formation, their tinted windows hiding Italian mafia soldiers.
The air itself felt staged—thick with roses and gunpowder, perfume and death—a reminder of the mafia’s creed.
At the entrance, two guards in tailored suits shifted to block me, earpieces flashing under the lights. One held out a sleek biometric scanner. His voice was mechanical.
“Name. Fingerprint.”
My pulse spiked, but I pressed my thumb against the cold glass.
The machine beeped, green light flaring.
Approved. Expected.
Dmitri had planned this. Dmitri had wanted me here.
The guards stepped aside in silent unison.
My heels struck marble, the sound echoing in the cavernous foyer like a countdown. I was inside his world now.
Inside the hall was a cathedral of decadence.
Men in bespoke suits stood like sentinels, their faces hard, eyes scanning the room like Secret Service agents guarding a president.
Women in designer gowns sipped champagne, their diamonds glinting, but the air was taut, every glance calculated, every whisper a potential threat.
I felt exposed in my casual emerald dress, chosen for defiance, not ceremony, my hair loose around my shoulders.
And then—I saw him.
Dmitri stood at the altar, alone.
No bride in sight, only the empty arch of roses framing him like a cruel joke.
His tailored black suit molded to his broad frame, the fabric catching the light with a subtle sheen.
