Page 42 of Darkest Oblivion

“No.” Her refusal was a challenge, her grip on his tie tightening. She pressed closer, her curves molding to him like they belonged there. “She can’t stop you. She never could. You could fuck me right here, in front of her, and she wouldn’t matter.”

My heart lurched, my cheeks burning with humiliation.

My chest ached with something worse than rage—jealousy, sharp and poisonous.

She was everything he’d said I wasn’t. And I stood there, silent, paralyzed, trapped in a nightmare I couldn’t wake from.

My resolve wavered, but it didn’t die. If anything, it hardened. I would not be broken. Not here. Not by her. Not even by him.

Chapter 11

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 ribbonsunraveling 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.