Page 13 of Darkest Oblivion (Doomed Vows #1)

PENELOPE

The woman’s hand slid up to Dmitri’s cheek, her fingers grazing his jaw.

Torchlight shimmered over her crimson gown, her elegance a living taunt.

Before I could speak, Dmitri seized her wrist and twisted it behind her back. The sharp snap of movement made her gasp.

“I’m married,” his growl was low, venomous. “I fuck my wife. Only her. Touch me again, and I’ll break your arm in two.”

He shoved her away.

She staggered, heels scraping marble, diamonds scattering light as she caught her balance.

But she only straightened, unbothered, smirk still in place. Her green eyes flashed, venom in every word.

“I’ll wait, Dmitri. You’ll come back once you realize she’s too heavy to keep you satisfied. Two minutes on top and she’ll be wheezing like a pig. You know how fat women are—sweaty, stinking, useless.”

Her laugh cut sharp, and two passing men chuckled before choking it back when Dmitri’s gaze snapped to them—a storm of menace in his stare.

Her cruelty sliced through me.

My chest hollowed, my jeans and shirt suddenly feeling like crimes against my own body. Her insults echoed his past words— you could never turn me on .

My cheeks burned, my throat closing, gelato and ribbons unraveling into scars.

She went on, savoring the sting of every word.

“Dmitri, really?” Her laugh was cruel. “Out of all the women in Italy, you chose an American pig? You could have had queens, and you settled for that?”

Laughter followed, merciless, stinging worse than her words.

Dmitri moved like lightning. In a single breath, a sleek pistol was in his hand, the barrel gleaming under firelight.

The shot cracked across the terrace.

I gasped, my heart lurching.

The woman collapsed, blood blooming across her gown, her scream piercing the air as she writhed on the marble.

Around us, heads barely turned. Mafia guests sipped their drinks, their conversations resuming as if nothing had happened. Violence here was no disruption—it was theater.

Dmitri crouched beside her, his voice a venomous snarl.

“You forgot your place, slut.” Dmitri’s voice cut through the terrace, loud enough to silence even those lost in their hedonism. “You’re not dead because I’m not in the mood for war with your father. But if you ever disrespect my wife again, I’ll kill you.”

He straightened, tucking the pistol into his waistband, then extended a hand to me. His eyes were cold, commanding, leaving no choice but to obey.

I placed my trembling hand in his, my mind reeling.

He’d shot her for insulting me, yet his own words—heavy, unremarkable—still festered inside me.

He led me away, the terrace’s moans and shadows fading behind us until we stepped into an expansive garden.

Roses and jasmine glowed beneath strings of light, their fragrance mingling with the cool scent of earth and lake water. Privacy—so different from the ballroom’s scrutiny—wrapped around us.

I yanked my hand free, fury spiking through my fear. “You shot another woman for insulting me?” My voice shook with anger. “Do you know how many times you’ve body-shamed me? How many times your words cut deeper than that bullet?”

“I’m the only one who has the right to,” he said flatly, his towering frame framed by the tailored suit.

“So you won’t stop mocking my body?” My voice cracked, pain warring with defiance.

He closed the space between us, shadows wrapping around him like armor. “I told you to wait. Why did you disobey?”

“You think I’m some machine?” My fists clenched at my sides. “Just meant to sit, obey, and never question you? I won’t.”

His hand brushed a strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture deceptively gentle. But his voice carried that familiar wicked purr that chilled me. “Not following simple instructions will cost you more than you’re willing to pay, Penelope.”

“I’ll take the price,” I shot back, lifting my chin though my heart pounded. “Better that than being your obedient doll.”

“We’re going back inside,” he said, his tone a command. “I need you controlled. I’m about to introduce you to men who don’t tolerate weakness.”

“Good,” I said, my gaze locking with his. “Then they’ll see I’m not weak.”

He leaned in, his whisper a blade. “If you slip, if you humiliate me, I’ll kill you.”

“I know,” I replied, steady, though fear coiled in my gut like fire.

I let a mocking smile ghost my lips. “So let’s go. Or is the great Dmitri Volkov afraid I might outshine him?”

His mouth curved—half threat, half smirk. He offered his elbow. I took it, our steps syncing like a couple walking an aisle—a cruel parody of vows I’d never chosen.

We reentered the ballroom, chandeliers blazing like icy suns. Couples swayed to a slow waltz, graceful but tense.

Dmitri led me to a man in his fifties, silver hair slicked back, black tuxedo adorned with a single ruby pin, eyes sharp with authority.

“Don Fabrizio,” Dmitri said, smooth and commanding, “meet my wife, Penelope Volkov.” His hand pressed possessively to my lower back, a subtle claim, an unspoken warning.

“Nice to meet you, Don Fabrizio,” I said, voice steady, forcing a polite smile.

The man’s lips curved, gaze assessing. “I’ve been waiting to meet the lucky girl Dmitri Volkov married,” he said, warm but sharp. “Or should I say, Dmitri is the lucky one to have you?”

I smirked, letting my defiance flare. “I never consented to the marriage,” I said, voice cutting through the waltz’s notes. “He forced me into it.”

Don Fabrizio’s face paled, eyes narrowing as he turned to Dmitri. Dmitri’s hand clenched at his side, veins visible, jaw tight with barely contained fury.

His shoulders were rigid, eyes flashing icy fire.

“You do not force a woman into marriage,” Don Fabrizio said, low and rebuking. “It’s against our tradition, Dmitri. What abomination is this?”

Dmitri exhaled, voice calm but strained. “Don’t believe her.”

“Why?” Don Fabrizio pressed, tone sharp. “You wouldn’t marry a woman who loves you, then stand here denying her words. If others hear this, your reputation suffers. Come see me tomorrow, and pray her claims haven’t spread.” He turned, each step deliberate, leaving a chill in his wake.

I faced Dmitri, triumph and fear colliding. “You committed an abomination against your own tradition?” I asked, voice mocking, spark of victory burning inside me. “How noble. I hope you lose everything and are forced to send me back.”

He remained silent, eyes fixed ahead, refusing to meet mine.

His silence was a storm, his anger palpable. But I pressed on, fear drowned by fury.

“So, how will you bury me six feet under now, Dmitri?” I asked, trembling but defiant.

I knew I’d pushed too far, but I couldn’t stop. I hated him—his control, his cruelty, the betrayal of the boy I’d loved. I wanted to see him crumble, even if it cost me everything.

“Let’s go,” he said, gripping my hand like iron. I tried to yank free, wrist twisting, but his strength was absolute. “No more drama, Penelope. Come with me.”

I screamed, my voice shattering the ballroom’s hum. “Help me! He took me from America—brought me here against my will!”

The waltz faltered, couples froze mid-step, eyes snapping to us—shock, curiosity, judgment. “He broke your traditions! He forced me into this marriage! Locked me in his house! And now he wants me to stand here and pretend I love him before all of you! He despises me—and I despise him!”

A murmur rippled through the crowd..

“Did you hear? Dmitri Volkov actually forced a marriage... against centuries of our code,” one voice hissed, eyes darting nervously.

“Breaking tradition like that... anyone who does is marked for blood. Entire families have been wiped out for less,” another breathed, voice tight with fear.

“Survive? Don’t talk to me about survival. Cross the rules, and your name is cursed. Your estates, your men, your lives—all forfeit,” a third said, shaking.

A cold dread rippled through the ballroom.

These weren’t idle rumors—they were death sentences whispered in gold and silk. To violate tradition here wasn’t merely scandalous—it was dangerous, a provocation that could ignite feuds, assassinations, and ruin for generations. Eyes flicked to Dmitri, some in terror, some in awe.

Three men approached, tuxedos crisp, faces carved with authority.

The eldest, gray beard trimmed, eyes piercing, spoke first. “We do many things,” he said, calm but firm, gaze fixed on Dmitri, “but we do not force our women into marriage.

Tradition is law, and law is survival. Your wife will be returned to the United States—today.

Relief hit me like a wave; my breath caught, knees weak.

Freedom—was it real?

Dmitri’s jaw clenched, the veins in his neck tightening, but his icy blue eyes flicked only briefly to the elder before returning to the floor, as if weighing the threat.

His hands curled into fists, but he said nothing—an unusual silence that carried a dangerous weight.

I felt a surge of disbelief and triumph, my chest tightening with hope. For the first time, he was confronted, and the consequences of his actions were undeniable. I swallowed hard, lifting my chin, refusing to let fear win.

The elder leaned slightly closer, voice low but cutting. “You really think you can defy tradition, Dmitri? Do you want to gamble your empire on this? Because crossing the code carries consequences far deadlier than you imagine.”

Dmitri said nothing, his gaze boring into me for a heartbeat before he turned and strode away, steps deliberate, suit jacket flaring.

I stood surrounded by strangers—men who looked like devils, power radiating off them like heat. Two of them flanked me, gesturing toward the exit. “This way,” one said, gruff, eyes scanning the crowd.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked, voice steady despite fear creeping back. The reality—mafia, not saviors—settled around me like a weight.

“To a private airstrip,” the other said flatly. “From there, you’ll be sent back to the United States.”

I followed, heart hammering.

The lake shimmered under the moonlight as they led me to a waiting car. The engine purred, a soft growl of motion.

I slid into the backseat, inhaler heavy in my pocket, mind racing.

I’d defied Dmitri, exposed his abomination, and—if only for tonight—won a ticket home. But as the car pulled away, the men’s silence, their hard faces, and Dmitri’s final glare lingered.

Freedom? Perhaps. Or just another cage, waiting. Either way, I swore: I’d escape, and Dmitri Volkov would pay for every wound he’d inflicted.