Page 53 of Darkest Oblivion
Dmitri Volkov was a storm—obsessed, cruel, broken—and I was trapped inside him.
Chapter 14
PENELOPE
I slipped into new clothes and hurried toward the door—then halted, ear pressed to the wood, anchoring myself as I eavesdropped, desperate for answers.
“I’m sorry,” Dmitri’s voice came, low and raw, muffled through the door. “I’m fucking sorry, Mama.”
My heart sank, a knife twisting in my chest.
Mama?
Hadn’t he killed his parents with his bare hands? And yet now—he apologized? Did he regret it? Hate himself so much he was breaking under it?
A crash split the silence—his fist slamming into the wall, again and again, the sound reverberating like thunder, as though he’d bring the whole house down.
I imagined him unraveling, broad shoulders heaving, waging war with demons I couldn’t see.
I stormed off and snatched the house phone from a gilded console table, the receiver cold in my grip. I dialed Giovanni, my voice edged with steel. “I need to take a walk.”
“I’ll be with you shortly, ma’am,” he replied, calm, professional.
I sat at the mahogany dining table, its polished surface gleaming under the light, while confusion and curiosity gnawed at me.
My thoughts betrayed me, dragging me back to how easily my body had yielded to him earlier. I hated myself for it—for craving Dmitri’s touch, for remembering the heat of his mouth on mine, the way his hands claimed my breasts, the ache in my hardened nipples, the moans I hadn’t been able to silence.
He was obsessed with me—hated me, wanted to kill me, yet needed me alive all the same. I wanted to hate him just as fiercely, to recoil from his touch. But why couldn’t I? Why wasn’t his touch repulsive, why did it burn instead of freeze?
“Easy, ma’am,” Giovanni’s voice cut in from behind, startling me. I turned, following his gaze down to my hand. Blood dripped from my palm, my nails dug too deep into flesh, the pain drowned out by rage.
He offered a handkerchief, its fabric soft against my trembling fingers. I pressed it to the wound, wiping the blood as he silently guided me outside.
The estate sprawled under Lake Como’s moonlight, its waters shimmering, hills looming like silent sentinels.
The air was crisp, scented with jasmine and lake mist, the gravel path crunching under my sneakers.
This place felt like the end of the world, a prison of beauty, its isolation absolute.
No vehicles could navigate these winding paths—only a chopper could offer escape, a truth that sank like lead in my stomach.
The street was empty at first, but as we approached a bend, a club emerged, its neon sign flickering in jagged blue letters:Lupo Nero.
Tattooed men in leather jackets slipped in and out, their eyes sharp, their movements predatory, the bass of music pulsing faintly through the walls.
I paused, Giovanni a shadow behind me. “Does this club belong to Dmitri?” I asked, my voice steady despite my turmoil.
“He’s one of the owners,” Giovanni said, his weathered face unreadable. “Lake Como belongs to four mafia families. Their clans have lived in harmony here for decades. The first sons inherit the titles, and the territory remains beyond the reach of the law. To the government, this place doesn’t exist—the families pay more than a state’s worth of taxes every year to ensure that.”
“I see,” I murmured, letting his words sink in.
This was an open prison, governed by rules and traditions, yet rotten beneath. “And the laws here... they’re called traditions?”
Giovanni nodded, his eyes guarded. “Exactly, ma’am. Traditions are laws carved in stone by the generations before us. They’ve been dutifully followed by everyone—at least on the surface. Anyone caught breaking them pays the penalty. Doesn’t matter how powerful they are, even the boss of a clan... even Dmitri.”
He hesitated, then added, “For example—forcing a marriage is an abomination here. Dmitri is currently under trial for it.”
My stomach dropped. “What? I had no idea. Did I... did I put him in trouble?”
