Page 82 of Darkest Oblivion
I approached the massive main door, its ancient wood looming like a barrier to truths I wasn’t sure I was ready to face.
Three guards stepped aside without a word, their eyes cold, calculating—like they had been expecting me, like they already knew I didn’t belong anywhere but here.
The warm air bit at my exposed skin, but the thought of my father inside, waiting, and the shadow of the man who had claimed me, pushing me forward, drove each step.
Inside, the grand hall reeked of cigar smoke and power.
My father stood at the center, his tailored gray suit a sharp contrast against the long Italian coats and wide-brimmed hats of his associates.
I recognized some from the mafia ball weeks ago—their faces hard, their hands dusted with white powder, sniffed between low murmurs of arrangements and betrayal.
Giovanni lingered nearby, his eyes sliding over me with practiced detachment.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” my father said, voice steady but tense.
He wove through the room, closing the space between us, guiding me down a dim hallway lined with faded tapestries.
Finally, we reached a balcony overlooking Lake Como’s black waters, silvered by the knife-sharp moonlight.
“Sweetheart,” he breathed, pulling me close.
His arms shook, and the warmth of his body did little to calm the chill in my chest. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you. Your mother, your grandmother—they’ve been frantic. We didn’t know where you were. How... how is it with him?” His voice cracked, searching mine for reassurance.
I stepped back, cold and measured. “Dad,” I said sharply, cutting through the warmth, “what did you do to Dmitri? You and Mom—what debt did you owe him that you’d let this happen to me?”
He exhaled slowly, leaning on the iron railing, his silence stretching into a weight that pressed against my chest.
“Sweetheart,” he said finally, voice trembling, “we hurt him... yes. But you... you played a part too.”
My stomach clenched. “I—what part?” I demanded.
Seeing his hesitation to proceed, something inside me snapped.
“I don’t remember hurting him! Not once!” I shouted, my voice cracking with rage.
My hands balled into fists, nails digging into my palms. “And you—stop hiding things from me! This... monster forced me into this marriage, wants me to carry his child, and won’t let me leave. He’s keeping me like a prisoner! For what, Dad? For something I didn’t even know existed? What role did I play in all this? You better start telling me everything, right now!”
My father’s face paled.
“There was a business transaction between Dmitri’s real parents and us... eleven years ago,” my father began, his voice hesitant. “At that time, he was our neighbor, and you... you two were close, thinking we didn’t know.”
“Wait,” I interrupted. “Did you just say Dmitri’s real parents?”
“Yes,” he said, his eyes dark.
He ran a hand through his hair, as if the weight of the truth physically pressed down on him. “The rumors that Dmitri killed his own parents... all lies. Those were his foster parents—the monsters who tormented him, twisted his childhood into a nightmare.”
He paused, letting the words sink in.
“His real parents lived here in New York. They weren’t part of the mafia, but when they learned he had come to New York for school, they moved to claim him. To do so, they needed men, muscle, influence... power.”
He stepped closer, voice dropping to a near whisper. “And at that time... we controlled New York. The streets, the docks, the networks—everything. Only our family could ensure he was taken from his foster parents, both legally and... by other means, if necessary.”
My chest tightened. “Go on,” I urged, my voice trembling with curiosity.
My father’s voice was heavy with guilt. “We promised his real parents men, resources, everything needed to free him from his foster parents, who were part of one of the four most powerful mafia families in Lake Como. Penelope, what he endured under them was pure hell.”
“Whenever he returned to his foster parents’ house in Italy for the holidays, his life became a waking nightmare. It wasn’t just beatings or whippings. He was locked in cages so small he could barely move, forced to hang upside down for hours until blood ran freely from his nose, beaten with iron rods until his skin split open.”
