Page 16 of Darkest Oblivion
“True,” my mother murmured, her voice tightening. “We don’t need that monster’s wrath. Go, but come back soon. We’ll be waiting.”
I hugged her again, clinging to her warmth, then kissed Nonna’s cheek, her wink a fragile comfort.
The scent of sugar and cake lingered as I left them behind.
Upstairs, the shower’s heat washed away the tremors in my body, but not the dread in my chest.
I slipped into a sleek emerald dress, its fabric hugging my curves like armor. Sliding my inhaler into my clutch, I straightened my shoulders and stepped into the living room where Mama and Nonna lingered—Papa was gone.
Their laughter spilled through the foyer as they gossiped about Nonna’s 80th birthday feast in Miami—platters of bakedziti, limoncello toasts, and Nonna dancing barefoot with her cousins under string lights.
“Mom, how do I look?” I asked, giving a small twirl, the dress catching the light.
“Stunning, my darling,” my mother said, her eyes shining with pride.
“Like a queen, tesoro,” Nonna chimed, clapping her hands, her love wrapping around me.
“I’d better not keep you starving,” I teased, slicing a piece of cake, careful not to ruin the 25 banner. I handed them each a portion, their smiles bright as they nibbled.
“Don’t miss me too much,” I said with a grin, masking the weight in my chest.
“Hurry back, cara,” Nonna mumbled through a mouthful of cake, mischief twinkling in her eyes. “This old lady needs her dance partner.”
I leaned in, kissing mother’s cheek, then Nonna’s. “I will. I’ll be back,” I promised, looking them both in the eye. “Soon. We’re cutting that cake properly when I return.”
“Drive safe, Penelope,” my mother said. “Text when you arrive.”
“Stay fierce, my queen!” Nonna added, laughing.
I bit into my own slice of vanilla cake, its sweetness clashing with the bitterness curling in my stomach, and walked out to my Audi.
The morning sun glinted off the hood as I checked my reflection in the mirror, spotting a smear of frosting at the corner of my lip. I wiped it with my thumb, chuckling softly—an ordinary moment before walking into the extraordinary storm of Dmitri Volkov.
Two weeks ago, I had braced myself to be forced into marriage after his threats at the dock, especially with my father and uncles pressing so hard.
But then... silence.
Their persuasion had stopped abruptly, too abruptly, as if they’d given up.
That wasn’t the Romano way. Why had they backed off?
And why, of all people, had Dmitri invited me to his wedding?
I started the ignition, the city blurring past as I drove, curiosity, jealousy, and dread knotted tight in my chest.
Chapter 5
PENELOPE
The drive to Dmitri Volkov’s wedding blurred past in streaks of neon and shadow, my mind spinning faster than the city lights.
My fingers strangled the Audi’s steering wheel, knuckles bone-white.
Why did I secretly wish Dmitri had pressed harder—dragged me onto that chopper to Italy, claimed me the way he’d threatened?
The thought was madness, yet jealousy coiled low in my stomach at the idea of him standing beside another bride.
It shouldn’t matter.
