Page 54 of Darkest Oblivion

“A big one,” Giovanni said bluntly. “Unless he wants a war—which is unwise—he may have to forfeit half of what he owns. And that could include you, depending on the judges’ verdict.”

“You have judges?” I asked, my voice small.

“Yes. Like I said, Lake Como is like an independent state of its own—only it isn’t ruled by the Italian government. The consequences for breaking tradition are so severe that everyone fears them.”

Guilt burned hot in my chest. My outburst at the ball, exposing our forced marriage, hadn’t just humiliated Dmitri—it might destroy him. I hadn’t known, hadn’t realized the punishment could be this brutal.

“Is that why he hates me?” I whispered, shame weighing down the words.

Giovanni’s expression didn’t change. “I do not know the nature of his feelings for you—or if even he understands them,” he replied.

I hummed faintly, my mind racing, tangled with guilt and questions. “Who is Seraphina?” I murmured at last.

The question slipped out, desperate, my need for answers overriding everything.

His expression dropped, a flicker of unease crossing his face.

“Why are you quiet? I asked you a question,” I pressed, my voice firm.

“I don’t know,” he said finally, but his hesitation screamed lies, his eyes avoiding mine.

“Of course you do,” I snapped. “You just won’t tell me. Is she his mistress?”

“I answered you, ma’am,” he said, his voice steady but strained. “I have no idea who Seraphina is.”

I swallowed, my fist clenching the bloodied handkerchief.

I’d find out, one way or another.

I didn’t bother arguing further and marched toward the club, its exterior unhinged, a chaotic blend of sleek black steel and neon, pulsing with blue light that bled into the night.

Inside, the air was thick with cigarette smoke and sweat.

Loud techno music blared, the bass vibrating through the floor, bodies swaying.

“You can watch from afar,” I told Giovanni, my voice sharp. “Give me space.”

He nodded, stepping back, his presence still looming like a predator.

I sighed, hating his vigilance, and sat at the bar, its black marble slick under my elbows.

I needed someone—anyone—to talk to in this godforsaken territory.

“A Negroni,” I demanded, my voice firm, craving the bitter burn of gin and Campari to dull my anger.

The bartender, a wiry man with a scar slashing his neck, slid the drink over, his eyes avoiding mine.

A man beside me, tattooed and leather-clad, glanced my way, then stood abruptly and walked off, his drink untouched.

I frowned, confused.

Why would he leave? I sipped the Negroni, its citrus bite sharp, and another man sat nearby, ordering a whiskey. But as his eyes met mine, he froze, then bolted, his glass clattering.

“Why are they leaving?” I asked the bartender, my voice rising over the music, his avoidance obvious as he polished a glass.

He leaned closer, his voice low. “Dmitri’s warning went across the territory: anyone who touches you dies. Everyone knows his temper, ma’am. Don’t talk to men—you’ll get them killed.”

My jaw dropped, anger flaring.