Darkest Oblivion: An Arranged Marriage Dark Mafia Romance, page 19
The pain intensified, a burning tear inside me, my body convulsing as cramps wracked me, each one worse than the last.
I collapsed to the floor, curling into a fetal position, sobs tearing from my throat as the world narrowed to the fire in my abdomen.
I passed out, the darkness a mercy, but when my eyes fluttered open, hours later, the room was dim, the clock glowing 3 AM.
Something had changed—an emptiness settled in my core, the pain dulled to a throbbing ache.
I pushed myself up, my hands slipping in something warm and sticky. Blood. My chest caved, horror crashing over me as I stared at the pool beneath me, dark and viscous, staining the marble.
No... no, no... let it not be what I think. God, please, not my baby.
I reached between my legs, my fingers coming away slick with red, the metallic scent hitting me like a slap.
The bump on my tummy felt wrong, deflated, and a sob ripped from my throat as the realization hit—miscarriage.
I’d lost our child, the life he’d planted in me during that one night, gone because of his cruelty, his punishment for sins I didn’t remember.
I screamed, the sound raw and primal, echoing through the empty villa.
“No!” I shouted, my voice tearing at my throat as I slammed my fists into the bloodied floor.
Tears streamed down my face, mixing with the blood as I soaked my hands in it, smearing it across my palms like a macabre ritual, wishing desperately that the child could somehow emerge from the crimson mess.
The agony was all-consuming—physical, emotional, a void where my baby had been, ripped away by loneliness, stress, the monster who’d left me to rot.
My body shook, sobs wracking me as I rocked back and forth, the blood sticky on my skin, the metallic taste in my mouth from biting my lip too hard.
I felt empty, hollowed out, the life I’d carried—my secret anchor—gone, leaving me adrift in this hell.
I stood, unsteady, the blood dripping down my legs, soaking my nightgown, not caring how messy or broken I looked.
I walked out the door, the villa’s halls cold and indifferent, the lake’s beauty outside a mocking contrast to my ruin.
The ocean surrounding this territory shimmered under the moonlight, inviting, and I headed toward it, my bare feet numb on the gravel path.
People might see me like this—bloodied, broken, a mentally ill woman stumbling through the night—but I didn’t care.
I approached the lake’s edge, its waters lapping gently, whispering of escape, of drowning the pain. But something pulled me right, toward the woods—a dense thicket of twisted oaks and shadows, their branches clawing at the sky like skeletal hands.
I veered into the trees, the underbrush scratching my legs, thorns drawing fresh blood that mingled with the old.
“My baby is gone,” I mumbled, my voice hoarse, broken, as I staggered deeper. “My sweet little precious one is gone... my baby is gone...” The words spilled on repeat, senseless, desperate, a litany carved out of grief. Each time I spoke them, they cut deeper, yet I couldn’t stop.
The shadows swayed around me, thick and endless, and I mumbled to them as if they might give something back, as if they could cradle what I had lost.
My mind splintered beneath the weight of emptiness, clinging to the impossible — that if I said it enough, if I bled it into the dark, my baby might return.
Memories crashed over me, fueling my delirium—Dmitri tucking me into bed after our night, his kisses knitting me together, planting a life inside me only to ghost me, leaving me in this vast estate like a discarded toy.
I’d called him, begged through the pain, but he hadn’t answered. His punishment was working—loneliness had broken me, depression its blade, and now my baby was the price. “Dmitri...” I whispered, my voice cracking as branches snagged my gown. “Why?”
Voices shouted in the distance—“Penelope!”—but I kept walking, lost in the woods’ embrace. “Penelope!” Closer now, but I didn’t stop. Then, “Penelope,” right behind me.
I turned, and Antonio Bellanti blocked my path, his lean frame in a dark hoodie, his eyes glinting with malice. He paused, covering his nose with his sleeve. “Christ, look at you—bleeding all over yourself like a butchered pig. Can’t even keep your own filth inside, can you?”
I stood still, numb, my tears dried, my body a shell. I’d just lost my baby, stumbled into this trap, and now kidnapping loomed. My chest heaved, but no words came.
Antonio laughed, cruel and mocking, the sound scraping through the night. “I’ve been lurking, waiting for the perfect moment to snatch you. And look at you now—already half-dead, stumbling around like a bleeding carcass.”
He stepped closer, his smirk twisting into something darker. “You can cooperate, or I’ll beat the hell out of you until you pass out and drag you anyway. Doesn’t matter—you’ve already marked the ground with your filth. No one’s coming for you, whale. Who’d even want to touch you, dripping like that?”
Silence. I was empty, broken. But then, instinct screamed: run. I turned softly, then bolted, my bleeding feet pounding the earth.
“Dmitri!” I shouted, my voice ragged, desperate. Why his name? He was my tormentor, the monster who’d ruined me—yet in panic, it was him I called. “Dmitri!”
Antonio’s footsteps thundered behind me, gaining fast. I ran harder, branches whipping my face, thorns tearing my skin, my lungs burning as the woods blurred.
My bare feet slipped on leaves, blood mixing with dirt, but I pushed on, gasping, the world narrowing to survival.
“Giovanni!” I screamed, hoping someone—anyone—from the villa would hear. My panting grew labored, my chest tightening—not just from exhaustion, but the familiar vise of asthma squeezing my lungs. I fumbled for my inhaler, but it wasn’t there—left in the room in my grief.
The attack hit full force, my breath shortening to shallow gasps, my vision spotting as I slowed, staggering.
Antonio crashed into me, shoving me to the ground, his weight pinning me.
He slapped me hard, twice, the sting exploding across my cheeks. “Help!” I screamed, my voice weak, tears streaming as he sat on my barely healed tummy, pain surging through me like fire, the fresh loss of my baby amplifying the agony.
He laughed, the sound vicious, degrading, dripping with contempt.
“No one’s coming for you, whale. You’re nothing but a bloated whore—reeking of blood and failure.”
He circled me with his words, each one a knife. “Who’d save a pig like you? Your body’s a joke—skin spilling over like dough. No wonder Dmitri left you to rot. You’re too heavy to fuck, too ugly to love.”
His sneer deepened, eyes glittering with cruelty. “Your father sold you off because he couldn’t stand the sight of you. And your mother? Your grandmother? They pity you. That’s all anyone’s ever felt for you—pity.”
He leaned closer, spitting the final words like poison. “No one could ever love a fat, worthless bitch like you. Not me. Not your precious father. Not even that monster Dmitri.”
He slapped me again, harder, his words a barrage of cruelty that cut deeper than the pain. “When I drag you back to Rome, I’ll make your life hell. I’ll let my men take turns until you’re broken, bleeding, begging for death. And I’ll make sure you stay fat—force-feed you like the pig you are, so the whole world sees you for what you’ve always been... a filthy, worthless fat slut.”
My eyes widened in horror, my body shaking as his degradation sank in, shredding what little resolve I had left. He pulled out a small gun, its barrel cold against my temple, then smashed it against my head.
Pain exploded, stars bursting in my vision, and everything went dark.
Chapter 24
DMITRI VOLKOV
The message lit up my screen like a spark in a gas chamber:
‘Your filthy fat slut of a wife is finally where she’s always belonged. With me. On my bed. Carrying your child. You want to talk? Call me.’
My eyes narrowed, the muscles in my jaw flexing as rage coiled in my chest. The words didn’t even make sense—Penelope, in another man’s bed? Pregnant? Whoever had the audacity to send this message wasn’t just reckless; he was dancing on the edge of a blade that would cut him to ribbons.
I opened the live feed of the villa.
The house was too silent. Wrong. My Penelope wasn’t in the main bedroom where she often lingered—writing in her little journals, rereading the same books as though repetition could give her comfort, sometimes just staring from the balcony into the lake as if it could answer her loneliness.
I switched to the living room. Empty. No trace of her curled on the couch, eyes shining with false escape as she watched that pathetic soap opera she clung to, the only color in her isolation.
The kitchen was deserted too. No soft clatter of her making honey cake she baked when her silence grew unbearable. No scent of her chamomile tea—the only thing that calmed her nerves when I wasn’t there to do it myself.
Nowhere. She was nowhere.
I dialed Giovanni. He should have answered on the first ring. He always did. My second heartbeat, my shadow. But this time, the line rang and rang. No response. My restlessness surged, a violent tide that threatened to shatter its banks.
I scrolled the feeds again, slower, sharper—and froze. The study. Blood. Streaks of it across the floor.
My chest dropped. I rewound the footage. There she was—my wife. My Penelope. Blood running down her thighs, her body shuddering, clutching her stomach, eyes wide and frantic as she screamed into the phone. Not mine—she didn’t even have my direct line—but Giovanni’s.
What in the world had happened to my wife?
The walls of my control cracked. Hate burned through every vein, colliding with the sick, endless obsession that had made me chain her life to mine in the first place. She was my milaya. My wife. Mine. Even if she hated me, even if the world collapsed, she would never belong to anyone else. Not while I still breathed.
I turned, my gaze locking on the two men chained like cattle before me—her uncles, Rocco and Carlo. Their faces already bruised, their fear already ripe. I had dragged them out of New York like vermin, hunted them down despite the Romano’s protection. Hard to find, but nothing stays hidden from me.
After the night Penelope gave herself to me, I had discovered the truth that shattered bone and marrow—that she had not been untouched, as she believed. My training in medicine told me instantly. She had been taken. Defiled. And my hunt had uncovered the filth: her own uncles, twice, when she was still a child. They buried it so deep she couldn’t even remember.
I had not left her. I had left Lake Como because I couldn’t breathe while her violators still walked free. My obsession wouldn’t allow it.
But Giovanni not answering my call? Impossible. Giovanni was worth ten bodyguards. If he wasn’t responding, then something catastrophic had already happened.
And if Penelope had been harmed—if even a single drop of her blood was spilled—the world would pay in screams and fire. I would drown Italy and New York alike. I would burn the continents if I had to.
I dialed the number from the message. With my other hand, I reached for the instruments of pain laid out before me: the branding iron, the pliers, the bone saw. My fingers closed around a dagger, sharp enough to split tendons. I dragged the blade across the necks of her uncles, relishing the way terror bloomed in their eyes.
The call clicked alive. A mocking voice slithered through.
“Dmitri,” the voice drawled, thick with smugness. “I almost thought you’d be too proud to call.”
My grip on the dagger tightened until the hilt creaked. “Name yourself.”
A low laugh slithered through the line. “The great Antonio Bellanti. The man whose wedding you ruined. The man you should have finished when you had the chance. I put your loyal dog, Giovanni down, and I took back what was always mine. Penelope is in my father’s house now.”
My chest constricted, a cold, lethal calm flooding me.
My enemies had tried for years to break me, to breach my walls. None had succeeded. And yet this Bellanti—this mongrel from a small clan—had slipped past every defense in Lake Como and laid his hands on my wife.
The audacity. The insult.
But the storm inside me would not show. My training held me steady—never give your enemy leverage, not even a flicker of fear.
“What do you want?” I asked, my voice dead, though in my mind I saw only her: Penelope’s trembling hands, her pale face contorted with pain, her blood on the floor.
Antonio’s laugh was slow, venomous. “At first, I wanted one thing. Now, I want two. After all... she’s carrying your child. Your heir.”
My jaw clenched. The earlier message echoed in my skull. Carrying my child? Impossible. We had only been together once. Once. And yet—
He cut through my silence, his voice dripping with malice. “She almost lost the baby to panic. To fear. But she’s still carrying it. Still carrying your heir.”
The dagger slipped from my hand, clattering against the table.
I sat heavily in the chair opposite the chained men, staring at them with the cold, merciless gaze that had made kings tremble.
My voice was low, poisonous with hate, heavy with obsession. “Have you touched her?”
“Not yet.” His smirk dripped through the line. “If you grant my two requests, I’ll hand her back untouched. But hesitate, deny me, and I’ll send you a video—my men violating her while you watch.”
I was silent, outwardly unbothered. Inside, my storm screamed, demanding blood, demanding her.
“Go on,” I said at last, voice flat with lethal promise, obsession burning like a brand under every word. “State your request.”
What’s Next?
Thank you so much for reading the first book in the Doomed Vows series. The story doesn’t end here—Book Two is available for pre-order!
Title: Twisted Addiction by O.S. Feathers
Also by O.S Feathers
Doomed Vows Series
Darkest Oblivion
Twisted Addiction
Broken Vows series:
Cruel Deception
Crushed Vow
Sinful Obsession
The Savage Vow Series :
Sweet Obsession
Sweet Deception
Broken Obsession
A standalone pregnancy mafia romance:
A Night With The Dark Prince
Acknowledgement
Thank you to every reader who has taken this journey with me through the shadows and obsessions of Darkest Oblivion. Your support and messages mean more than words can convey.
To my editor, your sharp eyes and patience turned chaos into clarity—I am endlessly grateful.
To my family and friends who have encouraged me to chase this story, even when it seemed impossible, thank you for believing in me.
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O.S. Feathers writes Mafia romance, and only Mafia romance—intense, addictive, and emotionally wrecking in the best way possible.
About The Author
O.S. Feathers writes Mafia romance, and only Mafia romance—intense, addictive, and emotionally wrecking in the best way possible.
O.S Feathers, Darkest Oblivion: An Arranged Marriage Dark Mafia Romance
