Page 3 of Darkest Oblivion

His black suit hugged his towering frame, his dark hair swept back, his icy blue eyes cutting through the room like a blade.

His throat was inked, his sharp jaw shadowed by stubble, and a scar ran across his brow like a battle mark. His presence didn’t just fill the room—it strangled it.

The priest’s voice trembled. “The gentleman raising his hand, do you have an objection to the union of Antonio Bellanti and Penelope Marco?”

Dmitri stood, and seven men in black suits rose from different corners of the church, their movements synchronized, their faces hard as stone.

Whispers exploded around me.

A man nearby, his tie loose, muttered, “That’s Volkov. The devil himself. I thought he left New York for Italy ten years ago. What the hell is he doing here?”

Two women in sequined gowns leaned into each other, their voices trembling.

“Is it true what they say? That he slit his parents’ throats... then carved the mafia’s crest into their corpses?”

“No,” the other whispered back. “Worse. They say he burned them in the square... and made his men watch.”

I shivered.

The rumors slithered from mouth to mouth, growing darker with every breath. Each word seemed to feed the silence, pulling the air tighter, until the chandeliers themselves seemed to rattle above us.

Dmitri didn’t move. He didn’t need to. One flick of his icy gaze across the pews was enough to choke the whispers in their throats. The man with the loose tie looked away. The jeweled women lowered their eyes. The entire hall seemed to shrink under the weight of him.

I quivered.

The priest whispered to his assistant, his face pale. “Volkov’s here? God help us—he’s a walking nightmare.”

Fear gripped me, my chest tightening.

The Dmitri I’d known was gone, replaced by a mafia king who ruled Italy and New York with blood and terror.

“Yes,” Dmitri finally said, his voice deep and casual, like thunder rolling across mountains. “I object.”

The silence fractured.

“Penelope is mine,” he declared, his gaze fixed on me, burning through me. “Not his.”

Antonio stiffened beside me, but Dmitri didn’t even glance at him.

“This wedding is cancelled.” His tone was final, an executioner’s decree. “Everyone has ten seconds to disappear.”

Chaos erupted.

A chair clattered first, then a woman shrieked.

A burly man in a gray suit grabbed his wife’s arm, nearly tripping as they bolted for the exit.

Three women in stilettos stumbled over their gowns, clutching their purses as they ran.

An old mafia boss, his cane clattering, dragged his frail wife toward the doors, muttering, “Not crossing Volkov—nobody’s that stupid.”

The hall emptied in a frenzy, guests shoving past one another, their fear palpable.

Even the priest vanished, his robes fluttering as he fled through a side door, leaving only me, Antonio, my father, mother, and my two uncles, Rocco and Carlo, in the front row.

Dmitri approached, his seven men fanning out behind him like shadows, their faces carved from granite, guns visible at their waists.

My father stood, his silver hair gleaming, his expression calm but respectful.