Page 19 of Lord of the Dark (Drawn into Darkness #1)

Alessandro Russo

I opened the trunk of my car and reached for the iron-clad mask.

It was heavy, with rough edges, and felt cool in my hands.

The Lord of the Dark’s mask—a tool of terror and an unmistakable symbol in this world.

The Lord of the Dark was more than a name—he was a living legend, an untouchable phantom in the underworld’s shadows.

Those who moved in this parallel world feared him, yet no one knew the man behind it. Alessandro Russo risked his flawless reputation as a respected lawyer and businessman. The Shadow King, however, reveled in the dreaded reputation of an ice-cold killer.

I fastened the mask, tightening the straps until it molded to my skin.

With every breath, I became another man—a figure who commanded both respect and fear.

No one in this world could know my true identity.

The air in the yard was thick, laced with the scent of metal, oil, and the sharp tang of burnt electronics.

Gravel crunched beneath my boots as I approached the old warehouse.

The windows were boarded up, the metal gate rusted on its hinges, and the faint glow of the mercury lamps above cast long shadows across the uneven asphalt.

The dull thudding, rhythmic and almost mechanical, was audible even through the thick steel walls.

Giovanni was still at work.

I pushed open the heavy door, its hinges screeching in protest.

Inside, it was cool, the darkness broken only by the sporadic beams of overhead lights that cast a sterile, unnatural sheen on the concrete floor.

The stench of blood, sweat, and disinfectant hung heavy in the air.

At the center of the room sat the Colombian—head bowed, blood dripping irregularly from his chin onto the floor.

A wretched heap, his clothes torn and soaked with sweat and crimson dampness.

His hands were bound to the broad metal arms of the chair with zip ties, his fingers filthy and covered in abrasions.

Giovanni stood beside him, sleeves of his black long-sleeve rolled up, pliers in hand.

On a small table next to him lay an array of tools—a scalpel, zip ties, a broken syringe.

"Good news," he announced without looking up as he heard me approach.

"He's talking." Then he turned to me, low enough that the Colombian couldn’t hear: "He named Jiménez."

"He named Jiménez? And you pulled his teeth out for that?" I asked, stepping closer, studying the Colombian.

Two gaps yawned in his bloodied mouth, his breath rattling.

He looked like a man who already knew he was lost.

"I thought we were getting more refined."

Giovanni lifted his head and scoffed, tossing the pliers onto the table.

"Refined? I didn’t slit his throat like you nearly did with his thigh.

You let him bleed out like a pig.

Now you’re blaming me for pulling a few teeth?" His voice was edged, his eyes glinting under the sparse light.

I took a long look at the Colombian's injuries.

"Do you know Jiménez?" I finally asked, turning back to Giovanni.

Giovanni arched a brow, leaned back, and crossed his arms over his chest. "No."

I turned to the Colombian again, studying him as he squirmed nervously in his chair like a trapped animal.

"So, what’s your boss’s name?" I asked calmly.

His gaze flickered anxiously—darting to Giovanni, then to the table of tools.

Finally, he whimpered: "Jiménez."

I stepped closer to the Colombian, whose panicked stare was fixed on the mask.

The Lord of the Dark had that effect on people—the mask alone was enough to break most.

"Is it álvaro Jiménez?" I asked coolly.

His eyes widened, and he began nodding frantically.

"Sí...

Sí, Se?or.

álvaro Jiménez."

I took a deep breath and turned away with slow, deliberate steps.

The table of tools wasn’t far.

My fingers trailed over the scattered items until I found the knife again.

It was my favorite weapon—this one heavy, perfectly balanced.

Absolutely ideal for my purposes. I picked it up and dragged the blade sharply across the table’s surface. A shrill, piercing screech cut through the warehouse’s silence. His eyes bulged in panic as he stared at the knife in my hand.

The Colombian gasped, terror flashing in his eyes.

He probably assumed I was about to finish what Fiona had interrupted.

"I swear, it’s Jiménez! I—"

I pressed the tip playfully against his cheek.

"The problem with lies," I murmured, letting the blade glide lightly over his skin, "is that you have to be damn good to sell them.

And you—" I jerked the blade to a stop right at his jawbone.

"—are not good.

And you know what I do to people who lie to me?"

I yanked the knife back suddenly, flipped it in my grip, and drove the point straight through the back of his hand—pinned flat against the chair’s armrest.

"Jiménez is dead," I roared, twisting the blade deeper.

The pain made him crumple.

"Shot by his own brother."

He screamed, writhing in agony.

Blood welled over his knuckles, dripping from the armrest onto the concrete below.

Giovanni, who had been watching with his arms crossed the whole time, gave a slight shake of his head.

"Christ, you’re such a fucking sadist."

"Can't handle it? Then get out!" That subtle jab—coming from Giovanni, of all people—soured my mood.

"I'm just good at spotting liars.

And our friend here—" I eyed the Colombian, whose entire body was shaking violently.

"—is a fucking terrible one."

He flinched, panic having long since overtaken him.

"Vargas! It's Vargas! Diego Vargas!"

"Vargas?" I leaned back, studying him thoughtfully, keeping the knife buried in his hand.

"That makes a lot more sense," I said slowly, "but here's the thing—I don't trust you anymore."

He shook his head, unable to speak, but I saw his gaze flicker toward Giovanni's bloody pliers.

Sweat rolled down his forehead in thick beads.

"Please… I… I didn’t mean to lie!" he stammered, his voice cracking with fear.

I paused, the knife still, but my stare locked onto him.

"You didn’t mean to lie?" I mocked.

"Then let’s set the record straight.

What’s the real name?"

He trembled like a leaf, his throat quivering before he surrendered in sheer terror: "Vargas! Please...

it's Diego Vargas! ?Dios mío!" The Colombian shook his head frantically, tears streaking down his face.

I straightened, yanked the knife from his hand, and finally dropped it carelessly onto the table.

Then I turned to Giovanni.

"Untie him.

It’s time our friend here delivers a messa—"

The air split with the deafening crack of gunfire.

The sound was sharp, brutal, sending adrenaline screaming through my veins.

"Fucking hell!" Giovanni snarled, throwing himself behind one of the warehouse’s massive concrete support pillars.

His face twisted in fury.

"Did you sweep him for trackers?"

"No!" I lunged in the opposite direction, ducking behind a metal tool table.

"I thought you did."

Giovanni glared at me from cover, his voice raw with rage.

"Fuck no!"

Footsteps pounded against concrete, accompanied by frantic Spanish shouting.

Giovanni silently raised his left arm, palm facing me—five fingers for five men.

I gave a sharp nod and slid across the floor behind a pillar, still covered, while they remained fixated on the Colombian.

Five men.

If Vargas had really sent that arms dealer and five of his men all the way to Miami, this was more than just a warning.

Vargas—the man who controlled the second-largest cartel in Colombia after me.

For years, the conflict between us had smoldered like embers beneath the surface. But this wasn’t quiet saber-rattling anymore. This was a declaration of war. And if he was willing to send men across borders, then it was clear: the spark had caught.

I drew my Glock, checked the magazine once more, and screwed on the suppressor I carried like a talisman.

"Who did this?" a booming voice echoed off the walls.

"Who was it?"

The Colombian, pale from blood loss, gasped for air.

Panic twisted his features as his eyes darted between the men in the room, until finally, in a trembling voice, he stammered: "T-T-The Lord...

the L-L-Lord of the Dark," the Colombian choked out in broken Spanish.

For a heartbeat, the room went deathly still.

Even the dripping water from a pipe seemed to pause.

"Mierda, carajo...

él está aquí..." — "Fucking hell...

he's here..." one of the men hissed under his breath.

A single gunshot rang out.

The Colombian slumped lifeless in his chair, his head lolling heavily to the side.

He'd failed his mission—to eliminate me in Miami, or at least sabotage me.

And Vargas, clearly displeased, had given his men explicit orders.

The sound of his last breath was little more than a faint rattle.

More gunfire shattered the silence, followed by deliberate, heavy footsteps.

I removed the mask from my face and set it carefully aside.

The reflective metal could have given me away.

And even if they recognized me, they wouldn’t be leaving this warehouse alive.

"Lord of the Dark," a voice echoed through the darkness, razor-edged with tension.

"We know you're here.

You were good, but we’ve got you.

Coming out would be smart."

I felt Giovanni’s questioning gaze.

I gave an almost imperceptible shake of my head.

Not yet.

They were nervous, but not reckless.

No reason to throw away the advantage of our cover.

Pressed tight against the pillar, Giovanni scanned the warehouse intently.

He pointed his index finger toward my right, raised two fingers for two men on my side, then gestured toward the center, lifting two more fingers for another pair advancing mid-room.

The fifth was closing in on Giovanni’s left.

"Not even you can take us all," the voice came again, sharper now.

"You’re not invincible.

Show yourself, and we’ll talk."

Another muttered something in Spanish.

I didn’t catch every word, but the tone suggested a warning.

These weren’t amateurs, no wave of incompetents to mow down blindly.

They were trained.

Hunters. But not lords.

The first set of footsteps drew closer.

The outline of a body became visible, weapon raised.

I shifted my weight, bracing my left hand against the cool concrete pillar while tightening my grip on the Glock in my right.

I held my breath and squeezed the trigger.

The shot was clean.

The suppressor did its job, muffling the crack into a dull thud.

A heavy impact followed as the man crumpled before he even realized he'd been hit.

Four left.

The reaction to the loss was immediate.

Spanish curses.

Footsteps scrambling.

Giovanni was faster.

A silhouette turned, weapon rising—another shot. Three.

One stepped into Giovanni's range.

Soundless, he emerged from the shadows behind the man—a wet gurgle was all the warning before the body dropped.

Three down.

We were in lethal form.

"Goddammit," one of the two remaining men swore, his Spanish thick with tension.

"He's picking us off one by one."

They scrambled for cover.

One of them made the fatal mistake of sprinting blindly past my pillar.

I tracked him with the Glock, aimed for his leg to drop him, then put a second round through the back of his skull to silence him for good.

The last man fired wildly in our direction, bullets ricocheting off the pillars.

I ducked instinctively, but a stray round grazed my left hip—a searing pain that made me grit my teeth.

"Fuck!" I hissed under my breath, pressing a hand to the wound.

A graze, but deep enough to draw blood.

Giovanni used the man’s panic to end it with a single, precise shot.

The warehouse fell silent.

Adrenaline still surged through my veins.

Giovanni stood over the last body, checking the men with routine efficiency before nodding at me.

"That’s it.

Had enough adrenaline for one night?"

"Son of a bitch," I muttered, lifting my hand to press harder against my hip.

Blood seeped through my fingers.

Giovanni smirked.

"Not invincible, huh?"

"Shut the hell up," I growled, retrieving my mask and eyeing the lifeless bodies.

Giovanni moved beside me, his gaze drifting over the dead men.

"Vargas always sends his best, doesn’t he?"

"Now he knows what that gets him." I leaned against one of the warehouse pillars, pulling up my shirt with a sharp inhale.

The bullet had taken a decent chunk out of my hip.

It burned like hell, the pain amplified by the adrenaline, and I knew I had to patch it up fast.

Infections weren’t on my to-do list.

Giovanni returned with a first-aid kit from the back corner where we kept basic supplies.

"Here," he said, tossing it to me with a smirk.

"You gonna stitch yourself up, or should I do the honors?"

"Make sure the bodies disappear without a trace," I said, setting the kit down.

"I’ve got this."

Shaking his head, he muttered something under his breath and moved toward the dead men.

Meanwhile, I grabbed the disinfectant, pouring a generous amount over the wound.

The clear liquid mixed with blood, and I clenched my jaw against the sting.

With a sterile pad, I cleaned the area carefully, then packed it with gauze and secured it with tape—a makeshift pressure bandage.

It would hold until I could get proper stitches.

He came back, flipped a crate over, and sat down beside me.

His hands were still bloody from the cleanup, but he casually pulled a cigarette from his jacket and lit it.

"Not bad for someone who just got shot," he remarked, exhaling smoke.

I tossed the medical supplies back into the kit.

"Ever heard of washing your hands?"

Giovanni took a drag and shrugged, that crooked grin playing on his lips.

"Why? You gonna teach me the manners from your fancy dinner parties? Or you worried I’ll ruin the ambiance of this slaughterhouse?"

I leaned back, giving him a flat look.

"I’m worried your filth’s gonna rub off on me."

"You’ll live." Smoke curled from his mouth even as he spoke.

The man smoked so much it practically seeped from his pores like a chimney.

"Vargas’ men are operating in Miami like they’ve got a goddamn free pass," I said, testing the bandage.

The pressure dressing held.

"What the hell is Morales even doing in Colombia besides collecting a very generous paycheck?" What was the point of having that bastard on payroll if bullets were still flying at our heads?

He gave a casual shrug, though I was clearly testing his limits.

"Morales is doing what he can, but Vargas has connections.

Deep ones.

Maybe it's time to give him more resources—or replace him."

"Or I could fly down there and handle it myself," I shot back dryly, tugging my shirt back into place.

"But if I have to do that, you might wanna ask yourself why I’m paying you as head of security."

He flashed me that crooked grin.

"You’re too soft, Alessandro."

"I know.

And you’re too mouthy.

Fix it." My patience was thinning.

"This shouldn’t be happening.

Not when I’ve got someone like Morales in Colombia."

Giovanni tapped his cigarette ash, unfazed.

"Seriously, you can’t just rely on one guy sitting a few thousand miles away.

Vargas is bigger than Morales can handle alone." His gaze flickered—like he wasn’t sure how much truth to dump on me.

"You talk like he’s working solo.

He’s got over sixty trained men on the ground.

I expect results, not excuses.

Do your damn job." I was done with justifications.

"Replace Morales or give him more men. And fly to Colombia yourself. I want Vargas too scared to even think about operating in Miami."

"You really don’t know?"

"Know what?"

"Vargas is recruiting." Giovanni’s voice turned grave.

"A hundred-plus last count.

Ex-military, mercs, guys with no morals but plenty of experience."

My gaze swept the warehouse—past the bloodstains, the chair.

The air was thick with iron and burnt fear.

"And?" I finally asked.

"Rumors say he’s planning a counterstrike."

"If Vargas really thinks he can piss on my turf in Colombia, let him try." My voice was ice.

"But if he does, I want every last one of his men left rotting in that jungle."

"You need to go down there, Alessandro.

The men we’ve got? They’re stretched thin, restless.

If you don’t show face, we lose control."

I exhaled sharply.

"It’s about presence," Giovanni pressed.

"Morales is loyal, but he doesn’t have what you do.

He can give orders, but he can’t lead." A vague gesture with his cigarette.

"You know how they operate.

No respect for titles or chains of command. But with you? They listen. Because you’ve got something none of them understand but all of them feel. You’re the glue holding that lawless mess together. Without you, they fracture."

"You really think they’re dying to see my face?"

His eyes dropped to the bloodstains.

"No.

Definitely not.

They know you don’t take prisoners.

But that’s exactly why it’s time for a visit. Morales is losing their respect."

I held his stare.

Long.

Then a curt nod.

"You fly ahead.

Tonight. I’ll follow when I can."

"Sounds like a lovely vacation," he muttered, standing to survey the aftermath.

"Want me to bring you back a souvenir in case you don’t make it?"

"Only if it’s not an STD.

You’ve probably got more of those in your bag than clothes, and I’ll pass.

And I will make it."

"Hilarious." A beat of silence before he pivoted hard.

"So, you fucking her daily now?"

"What did you just say?" My jaw locked.

Giovanni was like a brother, and I valued his bluntness—but even he usually knew where to draw the line.

"Maybe you should just give her a key to your office, since she means so much to you." He took a deliberate drag from his cigarette.

"That way we can all watch your little romance unfold."

I leaned forward until our eyes were level, my voice grinding like rusted steel: "Say that in front of anyone else, Giovanni, and I'll make sure your tongue never forms words again."

He didn't even flinch.

The lighter clicked, fresh flame devouring another cigarette.

His gaze—that familiar mix of mockery and clinical interest—raked over my face.

"You know, Alessandro, I'm not an idiot.

I've known you forever." A blue smoke ring curled toward the ceiling. "Whatever this is with that woman—it's changed you."

"Changed me?" My jaw was concrete.

Of course it had.

From that first second, nothing had been the same.

I was obsessed—her goddamn mouth alone short-circuited my brain.

The rest of her? Fatal.

He stared through me like an X-ray.

"You used to have Italy's A-list lining up for your bed.

Now?" Ash tumbled to the floor.

"You're distracted.

Twitchy. She must be fucking phenomenal."

"Italy's A-list." They'd thrown themselves at me in droves.

Flawless bodies, perfectly made-up faces, perfumed wrappings full of calculation.

They'd read every desire from my eyes, submitted to me without resistance, eagerly delivered everything men supposedly need without me ever having to ask.

And back then, I truly thought that would give me the thrill.

Until Fiona stormed into my life.

"What do you want to hear, Giovanni? That she fascinates me? Yes, damn it.

That I've never met a woman like her? Probably that too."

He grinned, his tone turning more familiar, almost brotherly.

"I want to know why.

What's different about her? I mean, think about the others.

Remember...

what was her name? Isabella? Don Salvatore's daughter?"

I barked a laugh.

"He really wanted to kill me after I dumped her."

Giovanni shook his head in amusement.

"You're unbelievable.

Who tells Don Salvatore to his face that his daughter isn't wife material because she's not good enough in bed?"

"I never meant to insult him.

It was just the truth."

"The truth? You basically told him his daughter had no fire.

That's a serious insult.

Especially right after a family dinner where he'd just gifted you Cuba's finest cigars."

"There was no fire, not even a faint breeze," I countered.

"That woman was boring.

Not even the world's best cigar could've fixed that."

He laughed so hard he shuddered.

"And what about...

Federica? You know, the opera singer.

The diva who made a scene when you canceled on her."

I racked my brain until it hit me.

"Francesca.

She claimed I'd destroyed her muse."

"Her muse?" He snorted.

"She meant her cunt."

A sharp pain shot through my wound as I laughed too.

"The best part was when she begged you publicly after the Scala premiere to give her another chance."

I could still see the embarrassing scene clearly.

"And then dramatically threw a glass of red wine in my face in front of everyone because I refused."

Giovanni wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, laughing, and flicked his nth cigarette into the dirt.

"So what the hell fascinates you about Fiona? You're not the type to get pulled into something like this."

I leaned back, hand pressed to my hip—the wound throbbed faintly.

But it was nothing compared to what Fiona ignited in me.

Her dark eyes, always sharp and intense when they looked at me.

The way she challenged me—without fear, without submission.

Even in moments where others would've long broken, she stood tall against me. She wasn't like the others.

"Fiona is proud and independent," I said finally, my voice quieter, almost lost in thought.

"She's not impressed by any of it—what or who I am.

It's like she's built a damn firewall around herself.

She's a force of nature."

Giovanni raised a skeptical brow.

"You're talking about her like a...

teenager."

I chuckled low, but my gaze stayed cold.

"She's unpredictable.

You know how our first real encounter went? At Delany's party.

She had a knife.

And you know what she did with it? First held it to my cock, then cut me. Right over the rib. And she enjoyed it."

Giovanni's eyes widened in shock.

"You're fucking with me."

I rubbed my fingers over the fresh scar, as if I could shake off the memory.

"She stood in front of me, pressed the blade to my skin, slow, like it was a game.

And smiled with so much fucking pleasure while doing it.

That woman is a goddamn sadist—with an angel's face and that fucking voice that clouds your brain." Talking about her, especially about our time together, made me restless—something that never usually happened.

"Give me a cigarette."

Giovanni held the pack just out of reach.

"Not giving you one.

You take two drags then stub it out.

Waste them every damn time."

I eyed him sideways.

"Because I don't want this addictive shit.

I despise it—that loss of control, the need to cling to something.

Pathetic." I leaned in.

"But right now I need one."

He sighed and finally handed me a cigarette.

I took it, put it between my lips, grabbed the lighter and lit up.

The first drag burned like fire in my lungs—harsh, biting, perfect.

My eyes fluttered shut as I slowly exhaled the smoke. "Fuck..."

"Told you," Giovanni muttered, grinning as he lit his own.

"Listen..." I leaned back, running a hand through my hair.

"Then we had sex—"

?Sex?“ Giovanni arched a mocking brow.

"I thought you fucked.

Or is it 'making love' now?"

"It's not 'making love.' It's twisted." I shook my head.

"She fought me like a fucking fury—all rage and hunger.

Like she hated me and wanted me at the same time.

And her eyes..." I paused, the memory alone gripping me again.

"...like she was possessed. It was raw. Feral. Like we fucked each other straight out of our minds."

He didn't utter a word, listening with rapt attention as if trying to process—or simply comprehend—what he'd just heard.

I took another drag.

The smoke burned, clawing its way through my lungs, spreading like a vice I'd never shake.

I held it inside for a moment, like I had something to prove to myself—then exhaled sharply, as if it had offended me.

I flicked the cigarette to the ground, crushed it under my heel until nothing but ash remained.

"Cristo santo...

lo sapevo," Giovanni swore under his breath.

"She really did fuck your brain out.

Not getting another one from me!" He stared at the ruined cigarette like I'd tossed a masterpiece to the floor.

His expression was pure, silent drama—as if mourning a fallen soldier. "It was practically new," he muttered accusingly. Then, slowly, he lifted his gaze. "So...? What happened next with Bonnie and Clyde?"

"It's not fucking funny.

After our first night, she just vanished.

No note, no message.

Middle of the night.

I woke up alone in Delany's ugly-ass guesthouse—"

"Wait, you were at the party.

Why the guesthouse?" He pried for every detail.

"I chased her.

She hid in the guesthouse."

Giovanni let out a low whistle, shaking his head in disbelief before barking a rough laugh.

"You...

why the hell did you chase her? And then she held a knife to your dick?" He snorted.

"Fuck, Alessandro...

you two are sick. She's blowing every fuse you've got," he observed, rubbing his chin.

"No shit.

Listen, I texted her after waking up, called her." Fury crackled through me at the memory of her cold dismissal.

"I felt like a piece of shit," I hissed.

"She ghosted you?"

?"Like some mangy stray," I growled, continuing.

Giovanni barked out a laugh, dripping with schadenfreude.

"After all the shit you've pulled...

how many women you've discarded...

honestly, it's only fair you finally end up on the other side." He leaned back, shaking his head with a wide grin.

I shot him a warning glare.

"And she's not afraid of me.

Fuck no, she's not.

That little viper—" I closed my eyes, shaking my head at the memory of what she'd done earlier.

"The motion sensor in the office tripped today, like I told you. But when I checked the feed? There she was, digging through my drawers like it was her goddamn office." I exhaled sharply, forcing the rage down. "And when I walked in, she was in my chair. Behind my desk. With my gun in her hand. She aimed. And pulled the trigger." I grabbed the water bottle and took a deep swig.

"You're seriously telling me she almost put a bullet in you?"

"Exactly that.

Didn't even blink."

"Honestly, at this point, I'm not sure you didn't fuck each other insane." Giovanni dragged a hand slowly over the back of his head, like he needed to confirm he'd heard right.

He shook his head in disbelief.

"Alessandro...

you need help.

Or an exorcist."

"I swear, I've never been this close to killing someone and fucking them at the same time."

Giovanni studied me a long moment, then cracked a filthy grin.

"Sounds like your dream woman." He froze mid-motion, cigarette halfway to his lips, and stared at me like I'd grown a second head.

"Christ." He took a drag, leaned back, and smirked.

"She got a sister? Preferably with the same brand of crazy.

I could go for that."

I laughed darkly.

"You'd be sobbing at her feet before she even got your pants off."

Giovanni chuckled low, flicking ash, and shook his head.

"You underestimate me.

I don't fold for a woman like you do.

She'd break her teeth on me."

"Yeah?" My gaze turned lethal.

"I meant to break her today, after that stunt in the office.

Held my gun under her chin.

Chambered a round just to test her." I shook my head slowly.

"She locked onto me immediately. Looked me dead in the eye. Like she enjoyed it. And she fucking did."

He exhaled smoke in a slow, thoughtful stream, staring into space.

Then he turned slightly toward me.

"How do you know she enjoyed it? Maybe she was bluffing to deny you the satisfac—" He cut off, realization dawning.

His brow twitched, gaze sliding past me like he was piecing the scene together.

"Oh.

You fucked after.

Holy shit..." He shook his head, almost awed. Giovanni inhaled deeply, like his world depended on it, then let the smoke curl from his nostrils. "You're fucked, my friend. She's destroying you, and you're relishing it."

"Not relishing it, Giovanni.

Needing it."

He eyed me sidelong, equal parts admiration and concern.

I stood, grabbed the mask from the floor, and surveyed the bloody wreckage we'd left behind.

"Make sure Morales sends Vargas a message he won't forget.

We meet by tomorrow."