Page 15 of Lord of the Dark (Drawn into Darkness #1)

Fiona Robertson

With a pounding heart, I knocked on Mrs.

Pierce’s door and stepped inside, struggling to conceal my nervousness.

My boss looked up from a stack of files and gave me a polite but firm smile.

I took a moment to steady my breath before I began.

"Ah, Fiona, perfect timing," she said briskly.

"I was just about to speak with you regarding the next meeting for the Dade County deal."

Perfect.

An opportunity to present my case.

"That’s actually why I’m here," I replied, sitting down and gathering my thoughts.

"I’ve… been thinking that perhaps someone else could handle the site visit.

I’m stretched thin across multiple projects, and this one is already on track—the major questions are settled—"

Mrs.

Pierce folded her hands and studied me intently, as if trying to read my mind.

"Fiona, I understand you have a lot on your plate," she began, and I immediately heard the but in her tone.

"However, you’re the project lead.

You know the details of this deal better than anyone else on the team."

I opened my mouth to suggest another alternative, but she continued: "And it’s especially important that you conduct the visit.

The client’s attorney—Mr.

Russo—called me personally last night and insisted, in no uncertain terms, that you attend.

Apparently, there are certain details he only wants to discuss with you."

An icy shudder ran down my spine, and for a moment, my thoughts blurred.

Russo had called my boss.

He had explicitly demanded my presence.

After everything that had happened—after that night—he was pulling strings behind the scenes, forcing me back to the table because I refused to answer his messages.

Mrs.

Pierce was still watching me, and I knew I couldn’t protest further without raising suspicion.

So I forced a tight nod and a professional smile.

"Of course, if it’s that important… I’ll be there."

"Good." She nodded in satisfaction and reached again for the papers on her desk.

"I knew I could count on you, Fiona."

As I left the office, I fought the fury surging inside me.

Calling my boss? The thought made my blood boil.

Without thinking, I opened my phone and fired off a message to him:

"Have you lost your goddamn mind? Dragging my boss into this? If you dare take one more step into my professional life, you’ll see exactly what I’m capable of.

Maybe you should take a page from my book and consider whatever happened between us a fucking mistake."

I stared at the screen, my finger hovering for a split second before hitting "Send."

The moment the message delivered, my phone vibrated.

Without hesitation, I declined the call.

A brief pause.

Then another vibration.

Same game.

I clenched my jaw, fury flaring hot in my veins, and fired back a terse reply: "I have nothing more to say to you."

Seconds later, his response lit up my screen:

"If you don’t pick up right now, I’ll be in your office in four minutes."

My pulse spiked.

How could he possibly be that close? Did the bastard have nothing better to do than lurk outside my workplace? Or was this just another empty threat? But I wasn’t about to test him.

I stared at the words glowing on my screen as if Russo had carved them directly into my thoughts.

In your office in four minutes.

So fucking typical of him—blunt, uncompromising, leaving zero room for negotiation.

My heartbeat thundered in my ears, anger and unease twisting together in my gut.

The fact that he could just show up here, consequences be damned—

I dragged a hand over my face, forcing a slow breath.

No.

I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

"This is my workplace.

Respect that and walk away."

The three dots appeared, taunting me.

My entire body locked onto that screen, seconds stretching into eternity—until his reply hit:

"Pick.

Up.

Now.

Last warning."

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

Adrenaline prickled across my skin.

I let the call go unanswered again and dropped into my chair, palms flat and tense against the desk.

Ever since I'd blocked Russo's attempts to contact me, a familiar calm had slowly but surely returned to my life.

Piece by piece, I regained the feeling of control—over myself, over my choices.

But now, that toxic cocktail of adrenaline and cortisol surged through me again, flooding my nervous system with that all-too-familiar mix of electric arousal and raw, primal thrill.

I felt hunted, like prey in flight, hyperaware that the predator was just a breath away, poised to strike at any moment.

And damn it, it was that very unpredictability—that danger—that sent a dark, addictive rush through my veins.

The silence didn’t last.

My phone vibrated again.

His persistence left no room for doubt—Russo wasn’t backing down.

I drew one more steadying breath and finally hit Accept.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Fiona?" His voice was a sharp crack through the receiver, rough with barely leashed fury.

Just his tone alone sent a wave of dread crawling over my skin.

"It didn’t mean anything," I blurted, the words nearly breathless, as if I were trying to convince myself.

"That night—it was a mistake.

A one-time slip."

For a heartbeat, there was silence.

Thick, suffocating tension, like we’d both stopped breathing.

Then I heard it—the slow, dangerous inhale on the other end.

"Didn’t mean anything?" he repeated, so quiet I almost missed it.

His voice was nothing but a lethal whisper, charged with something that made me feel his glare through the phone.

"You can’t seriously believe that’s how this works."

A shudder ripped through me.

His voice carried through the line with such intensity, it was like he was standing right in front of me.

My pulse hammered so hard it had to be unhealthy.

"Alessandro…" I started softly, the tension inside me coiling tighter with every second.

I wanted to draw a line.

I needed to stay strong.

But the memory of his touch, the way pleasure had seared through me like wildfire—it was an inferno I couldn’t extinguish.

It flared up now, choking my words, forcing me to acknowledge just how little control I had over this craving.

He stayed silent, as if sensing the war raging inside me.

I shut my eyes, scrambling for composure.

"It was...

a mistake," I whispered, but even to my own ears, it sounded weak.

"I’ve made my decision, Alessandro.

And I’m asking you to respect that."

He laughed then—low, cold, sending another tremor down my spine.

"Could’ve sworn I saw something different in your eyes when you looked at me in the mirror.

And it sure as hell didn’t sound like a mistake when you were begging me to let you come."

In an instant, the memories of that night crashed over me.

I remembered every second, every ragged plea torn from my lips—how sure I’d been, how desperate.

And God, I wanted to surrender to that hunger all over again.

But I couldn’t.

"I’m in a relationship," I forced out, the words brittle.

"I won’t do this to Carter.

He deserves better!" My desperation bled through now, my voice breaking into something close to a plea.

"You know, Fiona," he began, his words so quiet and deliberate it felt like each syllable was being fired straight at me, "now that I know you better, it's almost amusing how attached you are to Carter."

"What's that supposed to mean? You don't even know him." I wanted to sound cool, unaffected, but the tremor in my voice betrayed me.

"I know everyone in this industry," he shot back with such conviction I had no choice but to believe him.

His tone was so infuriatingly sure.

"I've worked with him before.

And I value him as a business partner for the same reason you value him as a lover—his delightful lack of spine and how easily he bends to pressure."

"Stop it, Alessandro," I screamed.

"This is pathetic—are you really trying to paint him in a bad light? He's… he's not like you."

"He certainly isn't, and that's exactly the point," he answered, his voice calm.

"He's a child, Fiona.

You could push him around however you like—and he'd thank you for it." Even through the phone, I could see his mouth twisting into a mocking grin.

"It's sad, really, that you've settled for something like that."

His words seeped into my consciousness like poison.

"This…" I finally began in a hushed whisper, one last attempt to regain control, even as I felt it slipping through my fingers like sand.

"This ends now, Alessandro.

I can't… I won't hurt Carter."

"You already did when you screamed my name uncontrollably through Delaney's guesthouse while I fucked your mind out…" My blood boiled, and he twisted the knife deeper.

"I'm looking forward to next time," he added, taunting.

"There won't be a next time, you bastard!" I finally lost all composure and roared into the phone, gripping it so tightly in front of my face that my knuckles turned white.

He had already hung up without another word.

I was beside myself with rage, blood roaring in my ears.

Who the fuck did this goddamn asshole think he was? I could feel the carefully constructed facade of control I'd built over the years begin to melt away, replaced by an almost fanatical fury—one I hadn't felt with this intensity in a long time.

Every shred of rationality in me surrendered without a fight.

I was sick of drowning in his control, sick of letting him dictate the game.

You want to play, Russo? Then buckle the fuck up.

You want to play, Russo? Then buckle up.

I typed Russo Ventures into our client database, but all that appeared was the general phone number and email address.

Physical addresses and personal contacts required higher clearance.

That wouldn’t stop me.

I gathered my things and strode briskly into Mrs.

Pierce’s office, her eyebrows lifting at my uncharacteristic urgency.

"Mrs.

Pierce, Mr.

Russo just asked me to personally deliver some critical documents for the deal.

Time is of the course, as you know—courier would take too long.

Unfortunately, I don’t have access to his office address." He wasn’t the only one who could redraw boundaries.

Mrs.

Pierce had access to all client data, and since Russo clearly wanted to stay off the radar at all costs, her involvement was necessary to obtain his company's address.

She nodded slowly, well aware of the pressure surrounding our collaboration with Dade County.

"Very well, if Mr.

Russo deems it necessary, then so be it." She removed her glasses, opened a document on her screen, and scrolled through the contacts.

"His office is located at the Obsidian Tower.

1050 Meridian Avenue, 16th floor."

I thanked her and strode out of her office, a faint, self-satisfied smile playing on my lips as I reached for my phone.

Once I was far enough away, I dialed the general number for Russo Ventures.

Of course, I would make sure he wasn’t there before setting foot in his office.

It rang a few times before a polite, professional voice answered.

"Russo Ventures reception, how may I assist you?"

I cleared my throat and replied in a firm tone.

"Good afternoon.

This is Kate Reynolds from Dade County Investments.

I need to personally deliver some urgent documents to Mr.

Russo—time is critical, as his client’s deal is closing next week. He asked me to bring them by today. Is he in the office?"

"One moment, please," came the courteous response, accompanied by the soft tapping of a keyboard.

Then: "Mr.

Russo is out all day for business meetings and isn’t expected back until tomorrow.

But you’re welcome to drop them off regardless."

Perfect.

"Exactly the answer I'd hoped for.

'Thank you, I'll do that.'"

I hung up and felt determination surge through me.

So Alessandro wasn't there—my chance to stay one step ahead.

Surely his office held documents I could use to pressure him, should he keep trying to exert his control over me.

Something that would make it clear I could play this game just as well as he could.

And that I wasn't afraid of him.

Less than forty minutes later, I entered the lobby of the Tower and introduced myself to the courteous lady at reception as that Kate Reynolds with whom she had just spoken regarding the documents for Mr.

Russo.

She greeted me and escorted me to the elevator, which would take me directly to his command center.

A thrilling shiver ran through me as she inserted the key into the elevator lock and politely granted me entry.

Oh, Mr. Russo, if only you knew how much pleasure our game brings me.

A soft chime announced my arrival.

I stepped out slowly, surveying the space.

The reception area exuded an elegant, almost icy modernity.

The desk was minimalist, a muted gray that harmonized perfectly with the dark marble floors.

Subtle integrated lighting accentuated the furniture’s clean lines, creating a floating effect that emphasized the room’s understated style. Behind the desk, a wall of large white marble panels stretched, veined with delicate gray streaks that reinforced the space’s cool sophistication. In the left corner stood a massive bookshelf, its compartments arranged in geometric patterns like an art installation, seamlessly blending into the refined yet stylish ambiance.

The two employees, impeccably dressed and flawless in their poise, blended seamlessly into the controlled aesthetic of the room.

Both were clad in dark suits, their hair neatly styled, their expressions detached and professional.

One of the women was engaged in a phone call, while the other stared intently at the screen before her, barely lifting her eyes.

I waited for the right moment—until the second employee finally stood, tucked a folder under her arm, and made her way toward one of the offices.

The remaining receptionist was now entirely absorbed in her telephone conversation, and I seized the opportunity to slip forward unnoticed.

At the end of the long hallway, my gaze landed on a double door of black wood, broad and heavy, like an imposing gateway to a world accessible only to a select few.

Everything about that door exuded power and secrecy—and I knew instinctively that this had to be Alessandro’s office.

I paused briefly, my pulse quickening, but the adrenaline gave me the necessary courage.

With one last cautious glance over my shoulder, I reached for the handle.

To my surprise, the door opened without resistance, and I slipped inside, electrified with tension, stepping into what felt like a sacred, forbidden space.

The moment I entered the office, my breath caught.

This was no ordinary workspace—it was a domain of power, a near-sacred stage where Alessandro Russo conducted his affairs.

The walls were a deep, shadowed gray, almost black, lending the room an air of refined yet untouchable austerity.

The ceiling was structured with geometric precision, softly illuminated so that light fell in golden accents, casting the space in muted radiance.

At the center stood an imposing desk of dark wood, its lines sharp, its surface smooth and polished.

Almost nothing cluttered it—just a few papers and an elegant lamp.

The desk was the focal point of the room, like an altar of control, and I could vividly imagine Alessandro seated there, gazing over the city as he pulled his strings.

Behind the desk stretched a vast window front, framing the skyline in its entirety.

The view resembled a living painting—as if the city were mere scenery, a stage Alessandro had claimed as his own.

To the left of the windows stood a deep gray armchair, flanked by low shelves lined with books bound in dark leather—a library radiating knowledge and power, but no warmth.

A large, abstract black-and-white print hung on the wall behind the desk.

The image was like a silent, brooding presence, an echo of the inscrutable aura surrounding Alessandro.

On the right side of the room sat a single chestnut-brown leather chair.

Modern and elegant, it was clear no one sat here to relax—it seemed more like a place for brief, calculated conversations.

A small side table beside it held only a glass decanter and two understated, refined tumblers, prepared for moments when drinking was likely more ritual than indulgence.

The floor was made of high-quality parquet, laid in a herringbone pattern that complemented the room’s monochrome elegance perfectly.

The only splash of color was a large, cream-colored rug in front of the desk, visually segmenting the space and softening the dark tones with quiet harmony.

I took a deep breath, letting the room’s heavy silence settle over me.

Here, in this space, Alessandro was the undisputed ruler.

Every detail of the decor reflected his controlled, untouchable demeanor—cold and commanding, just like his gaze.

I could easily picture him sitting here, summoning and dismissing people, making decisions no one dared question.

But today, this room was accessible to me—and I was determined to find something I could use against him.

A nervous thrill shot through me as I circled the desk.

My fingers trailed lightly over its cool, polished surface.

It was absurd how present he felt here, even in his absence—as if his gaze still watched over the room, piercing through me, challenging me.

I settled into the large leather chair at his desk, opened the top drawer, and hesitated briefly—documents, some sealed, others loosely stacked.

Everything was orderly, as expected, and yet hidden within was a world I was desperate to unravel.

My pulse quickened as I pulled out a sheet of paper.

It was a detailed list of numbers and names—clients, partners, sums that surpassed any notion of ordinary business.

Alessandro operated in a league far beyond anything I’d ever encountered. I returned the document and opened another drawer, deeper this time. My hand brushed against a small notebook, leather-bound and unmarked. An odd object, almost personal. A brief hesitation—then I flipped it open.

The pages were filled with notes, some in his handwriting, others in printed letters.

Certain passages were marked with tiny symbols, cryptic annotations in the margins—almost like a code.

Traces of his inner world, the one he kept so tightly controlled.

A shiver ran down my spine.

I knew I was staring into his soul, the one he always fought to conceal. If he caught me here, he’d probably strangle me with his bare hands.

My fingers skimmed the pages as if desecrating something sacred.

But this was exactly what I needed—proof that I was dealing with someone as human as anyone else.

It made him more vulnerable, yet at the same time, it filled me with a strange dread.

Suddenly, a faint sound came from outside.

A soft creak, slicing through the quiet, almost sacred silence like a sharp knife.

My heart leapt into my throat.

What would I do if he walked through that door at any second? I had no idea.

My breath hitched as I listened, straining against the room’s stillness. Footsteps? I couldn’t be sure. Maybe it was just the building settling, a ventilation shaft, something harmless—but for one fleeting moment, panic burned through me like wildfire. I froze, eyes locked on the door.

My first instinct was to put everything back in its place, close the drawer, and slip out of this room unnoticed—as if I’d never been here.

But something held me back: the question of what else I might find.

I’d stepped into a world that offered a tantalizing glimpse of Russo’s true power.

If I retreated now, I’d never know just how far his shadows stretched.

And in those tense moments, I realized something else: how dull my life had been until now.

Russo was right.

This wasn’t me.

I was like him.

I craved the thrill, the adrenaline burning through my veins.

When I’d left my parents’ home and the daily violence behind, I’d locked away the darkness inside me, buried it.

Carter would have shattered if he’d ever seen my true self.

But the feelings Alessandro stirred in me hurled me back into that abyss—no turning back.

And I needed it.

I was born in that darkness.

The sound faded, and silence returned, thick and suffocating as before.

My fingers gripped the edge of the next drawer, and I slid it open slowly.

At the back, half-hidden in the dim light, lay something dark—a gun, cold and lethal, placed so deliberately it seemed to wait for the moment it would be used.

My violence-obsessed father had taught me to shoot by age thirteen.

I wondered if I could still handle one after all these years.

This weapon in this drawer was a silent warning, a reminder that Alessandro was prepared to do anything to protect his power.

It was as if I could feel his presence more sharply than ever—his will, his destructive force. I should have felt fear, unease, or both. Instead, my core tightened with something dangerously close to arousal. I shook my head—disgusted with myself, with my body’s twisted response.

I closed the drawer and reached for the next one, unsure what I’d find but determined to keep searching.

What lay inside turned my blood to ice.

Agreements—secret deals, carefully worded side letters, signed by high-ranking city officials.

Every name was familiar.

Senators, council members, key figures who shaped Miami’s future, all seemingly tied to Russo in some way.

The details outlined land sales, massive investments, guaranteed developments for entire districts.

Projects worth fortunes, reshaping neighborhoods, cementing power and influence. It hit me like a physical blow: I’d stumbled into something far bigger than I’d ever imagined. Russo wasn’t just playing a game of money and influence—he was pulling the city’s strings, and the power he wielded was absolute. My stomach turned.

These weren’t just business documents.

They were proof of his control over the highest political tiers, every signature a binding thread in his web of dependency.

A net that ensnared anyone foolish enough to step into it.

A crushing weight settled in my chest as the full scope of his power became clear.

Russo could reshape entire districts with these deals, and the public wouldn’t even whisper about it.

I sank back into the chair.

He held the entire city in his grip—and suddenly, I felt infinitesimally small, like an ant that had stumbled onto a predator’s hunting ground.

A cold shiver raced down my spine.

The gun I’d just seen wasn’t the real symbol of his danger.

No, the true threat lay in these papers, in the power he wielded silently, over countless lives.

I forced myself to return the documents and close the drawer quietly, but my mind reeled.

One thing was certain now: I could no longer afford any illusions about Alessandro Russo. This wasn’t a man ruled by emotion or impulse. He was calculating, strategic—and dangerous on a scale I was only beginning to grasp.

Once again, I thought I heard a faint sound—but my guard wasn’t as sharp as before.

Only when the doorknob began to lower slowly, silently, did my gaze lock onto the door in frozen shock.

My breath caught.

In one automatic, almost instinctive motion, my hand slid toward the drawer where the gun lay.

The cold polymer of the Glock beneath my fingers felt like an anchor in this surreal moment—yet my heart pounded so violently I feared he might hear it.

Alessandro stepped inside, and his mere presence turned the air to ice.

Dark jeans, black T-shirt—simple, but on him, it looked like armor, only emphasizing his powerful frame.

His expression was glacial, unyielding, his eyes pitch-black with fury.

Something ominous lurked in his gaze, an unspoken warning: I’d gone too far.

The door clicked shut softly behind him.

He stood there, one hand still on the knob, staring at me as if I’d just declared war.

His glare was arctic, his aura so threatening my knees nearly buckled.

He moved toward me with deliberate slowness, as though he had all the time in the world to corner me.

"You’ve got some fucking nerve, Fiona," he finally shattered the silence, his voice vibrating with rage.

"Or maybe you’ve just got a death wish." His words were razor-sharp, and though I tried not to flinch, a tremor coursed through me.

He stepped closer, each movement a silent, violent threat, until I finally found my voice again.

"Stop right there!" I thundered, my grip on the gun desperate, white-knuckled.

A fleeting, amused smirk crossed his face, but his eyes remained glacial.

"You do realize you've broken into my office, don't you?" he asked softly.

"This is my domain, Fiona.

And intruders aren’t handled with kid gloves."

I swallowed but didn’t back down.

"How did you know...

I was here?"

A shadow of triumph flickered in his expression.

"You didn’t actually think someone could enter my office without me knowing?" His gaze drifted upward, and I followed it.

Tiny black circles, nearly invisible, blended into the shadows of the ceiling—motion sensors, discreet but ever-watchful.

Of course.

"I knew you were a challenge, Fiona," he growled, turning back to me and continuing his advance as if my order to stop had been nothing but a whisper in the wind.

"But I didn’t think you’d go this far." His eyes dropped to my hand, still gripping the gun aimed at him.

II wouldn’t shoot to kill—but a grazing shot? That was on the table if he left me no choice.

His smile darkened.