Page 8 of Darkest Oblivion
Somewhere in the distance, a ship’s horn moaned, low and mournful.
“Come with me.”
He didn’t wait to see if I’d obey—he just strode forward, boots crunching against gravel, his broad shoulders cutting through the shadows.
His confidence was absolute, the kind that came from knowing no one ever dared run.
My pulse hammered, every instinct screaming to turn and bolt. But I wasn’t stupid. Men like him didn’t bark orders without backup lurking in the dark. If I tried, I’d never make it past the nearest container.
My heart thundered as I trailed him, every step pulling me deeper into the labyrinth of steel and silence. My mindscrambled for answers. The Bellantis? Maybe. But Antonio never had this kind of reach, this kind of ruthless precision. No—this felt bigger. More calculated.
And the glint of the wolf’s head ring on his hand haunted me.
Could it be the Volkovs?
Dmitri Volkov.
The devil who had stood in that church yesterday and claimed me like I was his due. The man who ruled Italy with blood and fire. The thought of him being behind this sent a shiver crawling up my spine.
Why me?
And worse—what did he intend to do once he had me in his grasp?
Chapter 3
PENELOPE
The men I kept seeing around the docks weren’t Romano soldiers. Their movements were too precise, too disciplined—wolves, but loyal to someone else. Someone waiting for me.
The thought sent a cold shiver racing up my spine.
The man stopped abruptly and turned, his dark eyes unyielding.
My pulse hammered, but I straightened, forcing steel into my voice.
“If you’re going to kill me,” I said, low and steady, “at least tell me who I’m dying for.”
He didn’t answer. Silence wrapped around me like a noose.
Then, with a curt gesture, he pointed toward a tent ahead, its canvas snapping in the wind like a warning.
“Go in,” he ordered. “He’s waiting.”
My pulse thundered in my ears.
“Who?” I demanded, though dread already curled low in my stomach.
He stepped back, his scarred face unreadable, his eyes flicking toward the tent. A silent order.
I swallowed hard, my mind racing.
The tent loomed only a few meters ahead.
My boots crunched over gravel as I forced myself toward it, each step slower than the last, my heart pounding loud enough to drown out the crashing of the waves.
The closer I came, the more the air seemed to thicken, pressing against my chest like a vice.
At arm’s length, I hesitated. My fingers brushed the coarse canvas, rough against my skin.
