Page 4 of Darkest Oblivion
Our Romano family was a powerhouse in New York, rivaling the Volkov mafia, and he carried that weight.
“Mr. Volkov,” my father greeted, extending a hand. “A pleasure.”
My mother, elegant in her navy gown, offered a polite nod. “Dmitri, welcome.”
Dmitri shook my father’s hand, his grip firm, then glanced at my uncles, Rocco and Carlo, who returned subtle nods of respect.
His eyes landed on me, and my chest tightened, fear and something else—something magnetic—stirring within.
I thought he’d look away, dismiss me like Antonio always did. Instead, Dmitri held my gaze, and my chest caved under the weight of it.
I tried to look away, but his gaze held me, icy and unrelenting, until I forced my eyes down, my hands trembling.
He turned back to my father, ignoring Antonio completely. “You seem to forget our agreement, Marco,” he said, his voice dangerous. “Five years isn’t long enough to erase a debt. Marrying your daughter to this nobody? Did you think I’d forget?”
My father’s brow furrowed, but he stood his ground, his short stature belying his fearlessness. “We honored the agreement years ago, Dmitri. The payment was made in full. Our debt to your family is cleared.”
Dmitri stepped closer, towering over him. “We never accepted that payment—weren’t you informed?” His voice was steel, cutting through the air. “You may think yourself free, Romano... but your family will always be in my debt.”
I stared, confusion swirling.
What agreement?
What debt?
“She will marry—” Dmitri began.
Uncle Rocco interjected, his voice sharp. “It doesn’t have to be you, Volkov. One of your brothers—Nikolai, Viktor, or Alexei—could marry her. We’ll discuss and decide who’s fit for Penelope.”
Dmitri stepped back, eyes glinting with quiet amusement.
For a moment, those cold, unreadable eyes locked onto mine, pinning me in place, before he flicked his hand in a simple command.
At once, his men moved—flanking him like shadows, their formation tight, lethal. Together they strode down the aisle, the echo of his footsteps lingered, louder than the vows I’d never spoken. My wedding wasn’t ruined—it had been rewritten. And I was at the center of a game I didn’t understand.
My father remained standing, his jaw locked in its usual iron grip. To anyone else, he looked unshaken, a don carved from stone. But I saw it—the slight tremor in his hand as he smoothed the front of his jacket, the bead of sweat trailing down from his temple, caught quickly with the flick of a handkerchief.
“Dio mio...” he muttered under his breath, so low only those nearest could hear.
The words weren’t fear, not exactly. They were acknowledgment. Even Marco Romano, who’d stared down rivals without blinking, knew the Volkov name was a storm no one could outrun.
Chapter 2
PENELOPE
The Romano estate loomed over New York’s skyline, a fortress of stone and secrets perched on the top floor of a skyscraper that screamed mafia power.
The study where I stood beside my father, Marco, was a shrine to our family’s legacy—mahogany walls lined with leather-bound ledgers, a crystal decanter of whiskey glinting on a sideboard, and a massive window framing the city’s glittering chaos below.
It was the day after the half-finished wedding that Dmitri Volkov had shattered, leaving me humiliated, betrayed, and terrified of the future.
Yesterday, after Antonio’s cruel words and Dmitri’s chilling intervention, I’d been driven home in a daze, the limousine’s leather seats cold against my trembling body.
I’d stumbled to my bedroom, buried my face in the pillow, and sobbed until my chest ached, the silk pillowcase soaked with tears.
My mother, Isabella, had knocked softly, her voice gentle through the door. “Penelope, tesoro, come eat dinner. You need your strength.”
She’d left a tray of lasagna—my favorite, fragrant with basil and ricotta—outside my door, but I couldn’t touch it.
