Page 56 of Darkest Oblivion
I stood casually, stretching as if bored, and swept the device and paper into my hand with a flick of my wrist, tucking them into my back pocket, my movements smooth, practiced, like the mafia heiress I was raised to be.
“Where’s the women’s restroom?” I asked a nearby staff member, a lanky man with a nervous twitch.
His eyes widened, fear flickering as he pointed to a dimly lit corridor.
“There, ma’am,” he muttered, stepping back as if I were a bomb.
I clenched my jaw.
Why was Dmitri making everyone fear me?
Friends in Lake Como were impossible, my isolation a cage within a cage.
I strode to the restroom, its black tiles slick, the air heavy with cheap perfume and dampness.
Locking myself in a stall, I pulled out the device—a flat, transparent metallic disc, barely noticeable, perfect for spying.
The paper came next. My fingers trembled as I unfolded it, bracing for instructions, a plan, an escape route. Instead, a single word glared back at me in bold ink: SERAPHINA.
My breath snagged in my throat, my chest clenching.
That name. Again. Whispering through shadows, staining my thoughts. The same name tied to the phantom hickeys on his skin.
Who was she? His mistress? His true love? The slender, graceful perfection I could never measure up to?
I shoved the device back into my pocket. It burned there, heavier than metal had any right to be—an unspoken betrayal I couldn’t bring myself to commit.
My father, Marco, had drilled it into me:loyalty is the mafia’s lifeblood.
Even in a marriage I despised, Dmitri was my husband. Planting that bug would end him—his empire, his life. The Bellantis weren’t offering rescue; they wanted revenge for their humiliation, for my stolen wedding.
And yet, despite Dmitri’s cruelty, a flicker of the boy he’d once been still haunted me: the boy who shared gelato, who tied ribbons in my hair.
Foolish hope whispered that maybe, somehow, he could return to the sweet boy I once loved—the one who made me laugh, who felt like home. Not the devil he had become, cloaked in power and cruelty.
I tucked the device deep into my pocket, my resolve firm: I wouldn’t betray him. Not yet.
“Ma’am, are you okay?” Giovanni’s voice came from beyond the door, calm but edged with concern.
“Yeah... just a minute,” I called back, shredding the paper into strips and flushing them away.
My pulse thundered as I stepped out of the restroom, colliding with Giovanni’s guarded stare. He said nothing, only inclined his head before guiding me back into the hall.
“Can I dance with you?” I asked suddenly, desperate for something human, even from him.
His jaw tightened, his tone clipped. “You can dance with your husband, ma’am. Invite him here, and I’m sure he’ll agree.”
I sighed, defeated. “Let’s go home.”
This place—where everyone feared me, where I was a demon in their eyes—was suffocating.
Giovanni led me to the car, and drove in silence, his serious face a wall I couldn’t breach.
At the estate, I stepped inside.
Dmitri’s suit jacket hung over a dining chair, its crimson tie pin glinting.
I headed to the bedroom but paused at a slightly ajar door, the study, its oak frame glowing faintly.
