Page 14 of Darkest Oblivion (Doomed Vows #1)

PENELOPE

Could mafia men truly be noble? Could I trust the ones leading me to the airstrip more than the monster who caged me, shot a woman for insulting me, and claimed, ‘ I’m the only one who has the right to?’

Their talk of tradition seemed noble, but the mafia thrived in shadows

God, let this not be my doom.

The car cut through Italy’s winding streets, Lake Como’s waters glinting under the moonlight, the engine’s low hum a sharp counterpoint to my racing thoughts.

I clutched my inhaler, a fragile anchor, my legs still trembling from the ballroom.

The car slowed, pulling onto a private airstrip, tarmac stretching under harsh floodlights, a sleek jet gleaming in the distance.

Relief flickered, but fear clung like a noose.

The door opened.

A man gestured. “Please, come with us, miss,” he said, gruff yet polite.

I nodded, stepping onto the asphalt, sneakers scuffing the concrete.

What if darkness lurked behind their polite facades? I pushed the doubt down, following them toward the jet.

Inside, a younger man with a scar across his cheek pointed to a seat. “Miss, here,” he said, tone flat.

I sank into the leather seat. If all went well, I’d be in America in eight hours—reunited with my family, free of Dmitri’s cage.

Relief should have filled me, but instead a hollow ache gnawed at my chest.

Seconds ticked by, then minutes, maybe hours, and the plane hadn’t moved.

Restlessness clawed at me, chest tightening—not from asthma but dread.

I rose, jeans stiff with dried sweat, and crept toward the rear galley. Stainless steel counters gleamed under dim lights, voices drifting from behind a partition, low and conspiratorial.

“We’ll stage the drop-off, then send her to the Bellantis,” one man said, a cruel smirk curling his lips. “Big payout if she arrives alive.”

The other frowned, unease creeping into his tone. “Volkov... he might come after us.”

The first laughed darkly. “Only if he gives a damn about her. Did you see him at the ball? Walked out like it was nothing. Let’s get this done, or we’re the ones dead.”

My blood ran cold. The Bellantis—the family of Antonio, my ex-fiancé, the one whose betrayal had stung worse than words.

The Bellantis had placed a bounty on my head?

I had thought Antonio had given up without a fight, but I was wrong.

Panic clawed at my chest. No phone, no way to reach Dmitri, no plan—yet I couldn’t stay frozen. I had to do something.

I tiptoed to the main cabin door. The latch was cold, stiff under my fingers. I wrestled it open, and a rush of cool air hit my face.

“Where are you going, miss?” A voice behind me was polite.

My heart jumped. I spat out the first lie. “Just... needed some air.”

The scarred man stepped into view, eyes narrowing.

Another followed, the bearded man glinting under the floodlights. “We’re about to depart,” the bearded one said, tone flat.

“I need to speak to Dmitri first,” I said, voice trembling.

“No time for that,” he snapped, stepping closer. “We leave now—or not at all.”

I glanced at the endless tarmac, floodlights glaring. Then I bolted.

Sneakers pounded the asphalt, legs burning, lungs screaming. Behind me, heavy footsteps thundered, closing fast. A shove sent me sprawling, skin scraping against the rough concrete.

“Why are you running?” the scarred man snarled, looming over me. “Didn’t you want to return to your family? Changing your mind now?”

I pushed myself upright, chest heaving, fists tight.

He grabbed my arms, his grip bruising, dragging me back toward the jet. I thrashed, my legs scraping the tarmac.

“I’m not going! Let go!” I screamed, panic searing through me.

He spun me, delivering two heavy slaps across my face. Pain exploded, cheeks burning, stars dancing in my vision.

“I’ve had enough of your trouble,” he growled, dragging me toward the jet’s steps. My legs scraped the sharp metal, blood seeping through my jeans.

I pushed against him, weak hands pleading. “Please... let go.”

He shoved me against the doorframe, pain radiating through my body. Then a gunshot cracked—sharp, deafening—followed by the thud of a body hitting the tarmac. I froze, chest heaving, panic flooding in.

The scarred man lay sprawled, blood pooling beneath him, eyes lifeless.

I raised my gaze—and there he was: Dmitri, a demon in the floodlights, pistol smoking, blood staining his tailored suit, icy eyes blazing with fury.

Another man grabbed me from behind, his arm locking around my waist, a cold gun barrel pressing against my temple.

“Dmitri,” he hissed, voice tight with fear, “you make a move, I’ll shoot her.”

“Let her go,” Dmitri said, commanding, a king issuing an unyielding decree.

His gun stayed steady, his gaze locked on the threat.

“No,” the bearded man spat, grip tightening, gun digging into my skin. “You killed Jim”—he jerked toward the fallen man—“I’m next. We’re only following orders.”

Dmitri’s eyes narrowed, voice cutting like steel.

“Following orders? You think I’ll believe you’re sending her back?

I know exactly what you planned—delivering her to the Bellantis alive.

One wrong move, and you die. Cross me, and not just you—your wife, your mother, your father, your sisters.

.. all of them die first. You understand me? ”

“Like I care if they die,” the man muttered, but his voice cracked, hand trembling.

Dmitri waved—a single, imperious gesture—and a gunshot rang out. The man slumped, blood splashing across my shirt and skin, his body thudding against the tarmac.

I gasped, trembling, eyes darting to the shadows where Giovanni emerged, pistol still smoking.

His weathered face was impassive, movements swift and methodical as he dragged the two bodies aside, blood smearing the asphalt. Efficiency and ruthlessness radiated from him, chilling me to the bone.

Dmitri’s gaze locked on me, unreadable, his bloodied hands steady.

“Step down,” he said, voice calm but commanding.

I limped down the jet’s steps, pain shooting through every step.

His eyes never left me. Then, to my shock, he stepped forward and scooped me up bridal-style.

His arms were iron-strong, yet careful, holding me as if I were fragile. The scent of sandalwood and steel enveloped me, confusing my fear with a flicker of something else—something dangerous and magnetic.

I had expected a slap, a beating, maybe death for my defiance. But he carried me with precision, unwavering control. Was this mercy... or another trap?

He strode toward a waiting Rolls-Royce, its chrome gleaming under the floodlights.

Giovanni ran ahead, opening the door. Dmitri lowered me into the backseat; the leather was cool against my bloodied jeans, and a streak of red pooled on the pristine floor.

The car purred to life, rolling away from the jet, its engines swallowing the night’s chaos.

I studied him—his suit stained, face a mask, eyes locked ahead. Each drop of blood on the floor was a mark of my failed escape.

“I’m... sorry,” I murmured, voice small and trembling, part fear, part gratitude.

He’d saved me—but at what cost?

He didn’t answer, didn’t even glance at me. His silence was heavier than any punishment.

My cheeks burned from the slaps, my legs throbbed, and the ache of almost-freedom gnawed at me.

Dmitri Volkov had dragged me back into his cage, and I hated him—his control, his cruelty, the boy I had once loved. Yet, a small, traitorous part of me clung to the memory of his arms holding me, the faintest flicker of safety in a world of devils.

His warning— if you humiliate me, I’ll kill you —and the cold execution of the woman for insulting me gnawed at my thoughts, a hypocrisy that cut deeper than any physical wound.

“I...” I began, voice trembling, catching in my throat, “I just... I thought I had to do something to escape this place. I might not get another chance.”

His silence was a storm, impenetrable.

My chest tightened. I pressed my damp palms against my face, trying to bury the panic racing through me.

What had I done? Was I facing death for my outburst, punishment for revealing his forced marriage, or something even worse?

The car slowed, gliding up the long drive to Dmitri’s Lake Como estate.

I hesitated as he stepped out first, his boots silent on the driveway. My muscles screamed for rest, yet my mind spun with exhaustion and dread.

There was no running—not tonight, not ever.

Inside. My sneakers scuffed faintly as I followed, every step echoing my fear. Dmitri’s composure was unnerving, each step measured

“To the room,” he commanded, each syllable carrying the weight of absolute authority.

I nodded, heart hammering, shuffling toward the bedroom

Why this room?

He entered behind me, the door locking with a soft click that reverberated like a gunshot.

My breath hitched.

His gaze swept over my bleeding legs, the tattered denim sticking to the cuts, and he didn’t flinch. Instead, he moved with measured precision, dragging a velvet chair across the marble floor, its legs scraping loudly. He sat, legs crossed like a monarch, eyes fixed on me—icy, unyielding.

Then he moved to the nightstand and retrieved a slim black leather pouch. Small and precise, it held bandages, antiseptic wipes, and a tiny vial of alcohol, each item perfectly arranged under the fractured chandelier light. He gestured sharply, and I held out my leg.

“You’re clumsy,” he said flatly, tone void of softness, yet precise as a scalpel. “But you’re still my responsibility. For now.”

I swallowed, heart hammering, as he knelt before me, rolling up my jeans and inspecting the gashes.

His fingers were methodical, pressing antiseptic over the scrapes, cleaning the blood with clinical efficiency. The sting made me wince, but he ignored it, eyes locked on mine.

“Breathe,” he said, almost as if issuing a command to a soldier.

He wrapped the bandages tightly, securing them with a deliberate twist. “Pain reminds you where you are,” he murmured, voice low, almost a growl, “and who owns your ass.”