Page 6 of Darkest Oblivion
“Safe?” My laugh was sharp.
I stepped closer, my pulse hammering in my ears. “Your hands are trembling, Papa. What agreement could possibly make a man like you—a Romano—shake like this?”
My chest tightened, words spilling out like fire. “I can’t blindly marry into the Volkovs without knowing why.”
He crossed to his leather chair and sank into it, his movements heavy, as if the weight of his secrets was crushing him.
I knew my father better than anyone—his stoic mask couldn’t hide the fear in his eyes, a rare crack in his armor I’d only seen once before, a decade ago during a turf war.
“Fine,” I snapped, spinning away from him.
My pulse hammered in my throat, “Unless you give me reasons, I’m not marrying into their family—or any family.”
The words cracked the air like a whip.
Marco said nothing.
He only sat there, still and unreadable, his silence louder than any curse. That silence of the man who’d always had answers—left me exposed.
My breaths grew ragged.
The more I stared at him, the more the walls seemed to close in.
Antonio’s betrayal, my father’s secrets, Dmitri’s chilling claim of me—everything crashed together in my chest, a storm I couldn’t contain.
My lungs seized, a sharp burn clawing up my throat.
I staggered back toward the desk, my hands trembling as I ripped open my backpack. Papers crumpled, pens scattered, until my fingers finally closed around the cold plastic I was desperate for.
The inhaler hissed, the mist rushing into my lungs, icy and sharp.
I clutched the desk edge, dragging the air deep inside me, willing the tight band around my chest to loosen. Slowly, the world stopped tilting, my vision clearing as breath returned in ragged waves.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my father rise, his hand halfway extended—but I jerked away, waving him off. I didn’t want his comfort. Not when every second he kept his secrets buried felt like another knife in my back.
Relief seeped in, but the fury didn’t fade. It boiled hotter, fueled by the tremor in his hands, the fear he thought I hadn’t noticed. Shoving the inhaler back into my bag, I stormed toward the elevator, my legs carrying me before my thoughts could catch up.
The doors of the elevator slid open with a soft ding, and I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirrored walls—cheeks flushed, eyes wide, hair clinging to my damp temples.
I barely recognized the woman staring back.
Maybe Antonio never loved me because there was nothing to love.
Even in high school, boys had chosen my slimmer, prettier friends, while I’d been the one left waiting by the lockers, pretending I didn’t care.
When Antonio came into my life, whispering promises and making me feel seen, I thought I’d finally found a man who wanted me for who I was. Foolish. He hadn’t wanted me—just what marrying me would give him.
Now even that illusion was gone, shattered in front of everyone.
What trouble was my father in? Why had Dmitri Volkov left Italy, where he ruled like a king, only to come here? It couldn’t be for me—I was nothing to a man like him. Nothing but a pawn in a game I didn’t understand.
The elevator opened to the garage, the air cool and heavy with the scent of oil and concrete.
I hurried to my car, a sleek black Audi my father had gifted me on my twentieth birthday, my mind a storm of questions.
I slid into the driver’s seat, the leather stiff and cold, and pushed the key into the ignition—only to freeze as a voice, low and gravelly, rumbled from the backseat.
“Follow my instructions.”
