Page 7 of Darkest Oblivion
I whipped around, my heart lurching.
A burly man filled the backseat, his massive frame straining the seams of a black suit stretched over muscles like stone.
His face was a battlefield of scars, his dark eyes flat and merciless.
Ink crawled up his neck while a silver wolf’s-head ring glinted on his thick finger, marking him Italian mafia.
A gun rested casually on his lap, the barrel aimed at the console. He didn’t need to lift it—the message was clear.
Panic clawed at my chest, my lungs hitching for air, but I strangled it down, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles blanched. I wouldn’t let him see me break.
“Drive,” he ordered, his voice a low growl that vibrated in the stillness.
The gun didn’t so much as twitch.
For years, my father had promised I was untouchable—shielded from the blood and danger that stalked every other mafia heirs. While others were locked away behind guarded gates, I had gone to college, traveled, tasted freedom.
I believed him.
But now the threat had come for me.
Was it the Bellantis, furious over Antonio’s humiliation? Or Dmitri Volkov himself, the devil who’d stood in that church and claimed me as his?
I knew better than to fight when the odds weren’t mine.
I reversed slowly out of the garage, the tires crunching on gravel. “Where to?” I asked, my voice steadier than I felt.
“Keep driving straight,” he said, his tone flat.
I swallowed my fear, pretending calm as I glanced at him in the rearview mirror, his scarred face impassive. “So... who do you work for?” I asked, forcing a lightness into my voice.
He didn’t answer, his silence a wall.
“The Bellantis?” I pressed, my mind racing to Antonio, who’d likely want me back to secure his claim to our wealth.
“Dmitri Volkov?” I tried again, but he remained stoic, his eyes fixed on the road.
“To the left,” he commanded.
I hesitated, tempted to defy him, but the gun’s glint kept me compliant.
Whoever sent him needed me alive—for now.
I turned left, the city’s lights blurring past as my phone buzzed in my pocket. I reached for it, but his voice cut through. “Don’t tempt me.”
I let the phone ring, unanswered, and followed his next order: “Pass that side.”
The car rolled into a dark marina dock, the air thick with salt and diesel, the water lapping against rusted containers stacked like tombstones.
I’d overheard my father and uncles whispering about these docks—smuggling hubs for weapons and cash, hidden in plain sight.
They’d tried to shield me from the mafia’s underbelly, treating me like a fragile doll, but I was their only daughter, heir to the Romano empire, and I’d learned more than they thought.
“Stop here,” he said.
I shifted the gear into park, my fingers stiff on the wheel. When I stepped out, the cool air hit me.
Shipping containers towered on either side, their rusting walls tagged with codes and faded numbers, like silent sentinels.
