Page 197 of Blackwood

CAL: You sure about that, Bells?

ME: I need to know, Cal. I need answers.

CAL:I’ll meet you outside.

♥♥♥

NOX - Manhattan, New York

Cal doesn’t say a word as we pull up at NOX. He just puts the car in park, gets out, and falls into step beside me like a silent shadow. We cut through the grand lobby, following the signs towardThe Obsidian. The hallway is darker here, lit with red back lights and humming with low bass that pulses through the floor like a heartbeat.

When we reach the heavy black doors, the bouncer shifts to block us. “We’re not open.”

I don’t back down. “I want to see Roman Russo.”

He crosses his arms. “He’s not taking visitors.”

I meet his stare. “Then tell him…” I step forward, chin raised. “His daughter, Isabella, is here to see him.”

The bouncer hesitates, then reaches for his earpiece. A few seconds later another bouncer comes out, older than the first. His eyes widen when he sees me, a flicker of recognition flowing through his face.

Apparently I really do look like her.

“Follow me.”

Cal and I exchange a glance and then we’re moving deeper into the belly of the beast.

The Obsidian is bathed in red light, glowing like danger itself. Shadows crawl along the black marble walls, flickering with the pulse of low, sensual music. A massive bar stretches across the left side, all obsidian stone. The dance floor is jet black glass, reflecting the ceiling’s web of chandeliers like liquid ink. Black tables with crimson candles scatter the room, sleek and silent and ready to host sins.

It’s beautiful.

It’s deadly.

And it’s his.

We’re led down a private hallway of mirrored walls with no visible cameras. Everything looks curated and cold, until we stop in front of a thick, matte black door.

The bouncer knocks once, opens it, and gestures us inside.

Roman doesn’t look up right away. He just sits there still and poised with a glass of something dark swirling between his fingers like it’s an extension of his control.

He isn’t what I expected. Not some fat old mobster. Not a cold, gray ghost from my nightmares. He’s… hot. Unsettlingly hot—which, yes, I realize is weird as hell considering the DNA situation—but seriously, the man looksgood.The kind of man women whisper about in stories they’re not supposed to tell.

Black hair swept back with just enough silver at the temples to make it worse. And a damn jawline that could’ve been carvedfrom marble. A black dress shirt, top buttons undone, sleeves rolled to his forearms like power’s just another accessory.

He looks up slowly. Like he already knew I’d walk in, like I’m the last move in a game of chess he’s been playing for years. His steel-gray eyes, sharp and assessing. The same as mine. Just one glance and something old and heavy settles between us.

He doesn’t look like a father. He looks like the villain in every good girl’s fantasy.

He rises, smooth and unhurried, a predator dressed in precision. He steps around the desk, closing the distance one measured stride at a time. When his hand starts to lift—maybe to touch, maybe to test—instinct takes over.

I draw my gun and shove it right in his face.

Cal chokes behind me. “Shit, Bella! When the fuck did you get a gun?!”

Roman doesn’t flinch. His steel eyes lock on mine and something changes in them, something slow, sad, and certain.

“You really are her,” he says quietly.