Page 21 of Lord of the Dark (Drawn into Darkness #1)

Fiona Robertson

It was a golden afternoon in Miami, and the small bistro where I met Rachel was bustling with activity.

The outdoor terrace was bathed in soft sunlight filtering through the palm trees, and the scent of fresh bread and herbs filled the air.

The white wooden tables were lovingly decorated with small vases holding pastel-colored blooms.

The aroma of sautéed garlic and herbs mingled with the fragrance of freshly brewed coffee, while the gentle clinking of silverware against porcelain underscored the lively atmosphere.

I sat at one of the small tables, staring at the menu, but my thoughts were miles away.

The tension in my shoulders was ever-present, growing worse with each passing day.

Rachel appeared in a flowy summer dress that fluttered with her every energetic movement.

She pushed her sunglasses into her hair and sat across from me, her eyes studying my face intently.

"Hey.

Wow, you look like you need to talk," she said bluntly as she opened the menu.

I wrapped my hands around my water glass and took a deep breath.

"Yeah, you could say that."

A waitress came to take our orders.

Rachel chose a Greek salad and homemade lemonade, while I went for a Caprese salad and a glass of rosé.

The sun cast soft reflections on the glass water bottle between us as I tried to gather my thoughts.

When the drinks arrived, I started slowly.

"You already know about the coffee with Alessandro.

I wanted to meet him outside the office because...

well, I wanted to avoid more questions.

Especially after what happened in the break room last week."

Rachel raised an eyebrow and stirred her lemonade.

"I get why you'd want to skip that.

The guys would’ve probably grilled you again."

I nodded and reached for a piece of bread from the small wicker basket on the table.

The herb-infused olive oil and hint of garlic were tempting, but I hesitated.

"It’s not just that.

The whole thing is...

complicated, Rachel."

She leaned back and took a sip of lemonade.

"Complicated because he’s not just any man.

He’s Alexander Russo."

I placed the bread back on the plate and looked at her.

"He's not just any man, Rachel.

He's...

I don't even know how to describe it.

He's like a storm. Tall, powerful, overwhelming. When he enters a room, you feel it. You do too. Everyone feels it." I paused, wrestling with words I barely dared to speak.

"And?" Rachel asked quietly, her eyes curious and a trace worried.

"He already has me completely in his grasp.

It's as if he controls every decision I make.

I feel...

consumed.

And I'm afraid I'll never break free of him."

Rachel pushed her salad aside and stared at me intently.

"Never again? But you've only known him a few weeks.

Honestly, it sounds terrifying.

You're not someone who gets backed into a corner so easily.

What the hell has he done to you?"

"I don't know.

It's his way.

How he speaks, how he looks at me.

And he knows everything about me, even the things I never wanted to reveal.

And then there's the attraction..." My voice grew softer, almost a whisper. "It's not just physical, Rachel. It's like he's forcing me to be more honest with myself. He makes me do things I never thought possible. But the truly frightening part is that I enjoy doing them. Willingly. In his presence, I'm a different person."

The waitress brought our salads, and for a moment, silence settled between us.

The bright red of the tomatoes on my plate formed a sharp contrast to the creamy white of the mozzarella, and I speared a piece, though my appetite had long since vanished.

Rachel took a bite of her salad, chewed thoughtfully, and finally set down her fork.

"That does sound deeply concerning, Fiona.

But...

how does it make you feel? Does it make you happy? Or the opposite?"

I chewed on the inside of my cheek.

"Both," I finally admitted.

"He pushes me to my limits.

Challenges me in ways no one ever has.

And that’s the problem at the same time. I’m afraid I’ll lose myself in this storm."

Rachel watched me over the rim of her glass, her expression growing more serious as I set down my fork.

"There’s something else, Rachel," I began hesitantly, choosing my words carefully.

"It was Alexander who made me realize Carter has been lying to me all along."

Her eyes widened, and she set her glass down abruptly.

"Lying? What do you mean?"

I took a deep breath and lowered my gaze to my plate.

"Carter’s in financial trouble.

His business is on the verge of ruin, and he never told me.

Alexander… made sure I understood that.

In his own way."

Rachel’s fork hovered mid-air before she let it drop.

"Financial trouble? Carter? Are you sure that’s… true? He always seems so secure, so put-together."

"That’s what I thought too," I said bitterly.

"He spun me a world where everything was perfect.

Made me believe we had a solid foundation, that he was always honest with me.

And now I find out he’s been hiding all of this from me." I reached for my glass of rosé and took a long sip, the bitterness in my voice unmistakable.

Rachel leaned back, frowning.

"I wouldn’t have expected that from Carter.

He always seemed so… sincere.

Did he explain why he didn’t tell you?"

I shook my head, the lump in my throat swelling.

"He says he didn’t want to burden me.

That he thought he could fix it all on his own.

But that’s no excuse, Rachel.

We’re partners—we’re supposed to face these things together. Instead, he treated me like a child, shielding me from the truth."

Rachel stirred her lemonade without taking a sip.

"That doesn’t sound like the Carter I know.

But… Alexander.

Why did he tell you?"

I let out a sharp laugh.

"He’s not selfless, Rachel.

I’m not na?ve enough to believe that.

Alexander does nothing without a reason.

He’s calculating, and I know damn well he wanted me to find out. Maybe to push me away from Carter. Maybe to drag me deeper into his grasp."

"But even if his motives weren’t pure, it doesn’t change the fact that it’s the truth."

"Do you think Carter genuinely meant well, or do you believe he deliberately...

lied to you?"

"I don’t know anymore, Rachel.

Maybe he really thought he was protecting me by keeping me in the dark.

But that’s no excuse.

We’re supposed to be partners.

Shouldn’t we be able to rely on each other?"

Rachel nodded slowly.

"But that’s not all," I continued.

"It’s not just this one lie.

It’s...

everything.

I don’t even know if I truly love Carter. I think I’ve known for a while. Even before Russo entered my life, I was struggling with these thoughts."

Rachel took a sip of her lemonade, set the glass down, and leaned forward.

"But why? You’ve always said he gives you stability."

I leaned back, letting my gaze drift across the terrace as I searched for the right words.

The warm hues of the walls and the murmur of other guests felt worlds away from the turmoil inside me.

"Because it’s not enough, Rachel.

Because there’s no passion, no fire.

It’s like something’s missing.

And now that trust is gone too, I don’t see any reason to stay with him."

"And then what? Do you think Russo would be better?"

I let out a quiet laugh and shook my head.

"Since he came into my life, I feel like I’ve lost all control.

Over myself, over everything.

Every part of him is intense.

Every. Single. Thing."

Rachel arched her eyebrows. "Go on."

I took a deep breath, staring down at my salad as if the shredded greens could help me form a coherent thought.

Then I looked up and met Rachel’s expectant—but wary—gaze.

Her expression was open, but I knew she’d analyze every tremor in my voice, every hesitation.

"It’s...

hard to describe," I began quietly.

My fork absently dragged through the dressing without me even noticing.

"He’s nothing like Carter.

Not even close. Everything about him is... raw. Direct. Like there’s no filter between impulse and action."

Rachel’s eyebrow twitched, but she stayed silent.

She knew there was more.

"The passion between us is overwhelming.

He..." I swallowed.

"He tears down every boundary I've ever had.

Not with force.

Not in the way you're thinking. It's like he sees me—truly sees me—and knows exactly where I'm strong, then pushes right there until I don't even remember who I was before he entered my life." I leaned back, feeling my pulse quicken. Just the memory made my skin prickle. "When he looks at me..." I searched for the words. "...I feel like I'm falling. But not because I'm weak. Because I know I'd give him everything willingly. My control. My rules. My whole damn world."

Rachel's expression barely shifted, but I recognized the mix of concern and growing incomprehension in her eyes.

"Fiona—"

"No." I raised my hand to keep speaking.

"It's more than desire.

More than sex.

He...

instinctively knows when I'm pretending and demands I be myself. Because I discover parts of me I've never allowed before. Because I realize I don't just want order. Don't just want safety. I want depth. Darkness. I want him."

Rachel stayed silent.

Her fork lay motionless on her plate.

"What about Carter?" she finally asked, the words cautious.

Everything in me wanted to downplay it, qualify it.

But why bother?

"Honestly?" I met her gaze, my voice steady but final.

"Carter is a joke compared to him."

Rachel blinked.

Said nothing.

"When I'm with him, I feel...

nothing.

Not anymore.

Not really.

I can sit beside him in a perfect restaurant, with candlelight and polite small talk—and the only thing on my mind is Russo. His scent. His voice. The way his damn gaze strips me bare without him even touching me."

I let out a dry laugh, dropping my eyes for a moment.

"Carter is nice.

Sweet.

Routine.

But Russo... is everything I shouldn't want, and exactly what I do. I want that darkness. That control. I want him, even if it destroys me."

Rachel's eyes widened with a flicker of horror.

She picked up her fork again, pushing at the remains of her salad.

But her gaze avoided mine.

She was trying to mask her real thoughts.

"Well...

maybe it's just attraction, you know? That kind of thing can be deceptive.

Especially when it's so...

physically intense." Her tone was forcibly light, but a fine crack ran through every word.

I watched her quietly.

The way she speared a piece of avocado despite having no appetite left.

The way she tried not to show the alarm bells ringing inside her.

"He's just the complete opposite of Carter," she murmured.

"Of course that fascinates you.

But that doesn't mean—"

"Rachel." My voice cut through her defense.

"I know what you're thinking.

You don't have to say it."

She stopped.

Looked at me.

And there it was—an expression caught between concern and disbelief.

This time, she didn't look away.

"Actually, Fiona.

I need to say it." She set down her fork, crossed her arms.

"This doesn’t sound like some little adventure or physical attraction anymore.

This sounds like you’re completely losing your mind."

I stayed silent, letting her speak.

"You talk about him like you’re his creation—like he molded you to his liking, and you’re even grateful for it! Do you even hear yourself?" Rachel’s voice trembled with anger.

"That’s not romantic, Fiona.

That’s sick.

That guy is dangerous.

And you? You sound like you can’t even breathe without him. Are you seriously trying to tell me that’s love?"

"Love?" I laughed without warmth.

"If it were love, I could walk away right now.

I would’ve ended it, forgotten him, moved on.

But this?" My gaze hardened.

"This is something else. Something that’s burrowed deep inside me. And no, I don’t know what it is. But I know I can’t escape it—and that I don’t even want to."

Rachel dragged a frustrated hand through her hair.

"Damn it, Fiona! This isn’t you.

You’ve always been the strong one.

You had everything under control—your career, your life, your choices.

Where’s that resilience I admired so much? You’re sitting here talking like it’s okay to surrender yourself to someone who’s destroying you."

"That’s very dramatic.

I feel stronger in his presence, too.

More confident." I leaned back, feeling the erratic thud of my pulse.

"But yes, maybe I need to break first to know who I really am."

Rachel stared at me, stunned.

"That’s not strength, Fiona.

That’s self-destruction."

As if on cue, Rachel’s expression shifted into a mix of shock and awe.

But also fury.

Conversations around us died, replaced by a strange murmur spreading through the guests.

I noticed people turning, their gazes locked on a point behind me.

It was like someone had flipped a switch.

"What?" I asked, confused.

"Speak of the devil..." Rachel tilted her chin slightly behind me.

A shadow fell over our table—long and ominous—and in that moment, I knew only one person could command that kind of presence.

Slowly, I lifted my head, following the shadow.

Alessandro stood there, hands casually tucked into the pockets of his tailored black suit.

The dark sunglasses made him seem almost otherworldly—like a GQ cover model come to life.

God, he looked hot.

Instantly, the sight of him sent heatwaves racing down my spine, and the deepest muscles inside me twitched in eager acknowledgment—as if they, too, had sensed his presence.

"Fiona," he said, with an urgency that brooked no refusal, "might I steal you for a moment?"

How polite.

"Lovely to see you so...

unexpectedly, Alexander.

I’m here with Rachel, as you can see," I replied, as composed as possible.

"You’re welcome to join us."

He offered Rachel a polite, almost mechanical smile before turning back to me.

The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

"It’s urgent."

Rachel’s face had flushed crimson by now, her gaze darting frantically between us.

She looked like a fuse about to blow.

Just moments ago, she’d been lecturing me on morality—yet there she sat, paralyzed, utterly overwhelmed by his mere presence.

So much for resilience.

"Apparently, I wasn’t the only one susceptible to this devil in a tailored suit."

"Uh… no.

It’s fine.

I… I’ll leave you two alone." She practically leapt up, fumbling for her bag as she muttered something about an appointment before stumbling away without so much as a backward glance.

"You scared her off," I noted, lips pursed.

"She didn’t seem particularly thrilled.

What did you tell her?"

"The truth.

She warned me you were dangerous."

"Then she’s smarter than she looks." Alessandro shrugged, unmoved, still making no move to sit.

"I’ll grab ice cream and settle your bill.

We need to talk—urgently, and without an audience.

It’s about Vaughn."

"Wait, what?" I asked sharply but kept my voice low to avoid drawing more attention.

"And I’ll pay for myself."

Of course, he didn’t wait for a reply.

He was already striding ahead.

I snatched up my bag, haphazardly clearing the table, my gaze lingering on the half-empty glasses and barely touched salads.

When I looked up to pay, Alessandro was already back in front of me—utterly unruffled, ice cream in hand, his tongue dragging slow and deliberate over the creamy surface.

A familiar ache throbbed between my thighs as I stared, transfixed by that casual, obscene display—far longer than the situation warranted.

Jesus Christ.

It was just a damn ice cream cone.

Yet every movement of his felt like a direct line to my pleasure centers.

Of course, he’d noticed.

"Should I lick slower?" he taunted, the corners of his mouth curling into a devilish grin.

"No idea.

You’ve never eaten me."

His tongue stilled for a fraction of a second.

My bluntness had caught him off guard.

I shook my head—more at myself than at him.

"How did you know where to find me?" I changed the subject quickly, following him.

"And where exactly are we going?"

"Didn’t I tell you I’ve got eyes on you?" He didn’t even glance my way.

"Ever since you tried blackmailing me, I’ve made it a point to stay updated."

"That’s psychotic, Alessandro." My voice was bone-dry.

He stopped, turned slowly to face me, his grin widening.

"It’d be psychotic if I didn’t.

You’re...

a special case."

"A special case?" I barked a laugh.

"Is that your charming way of justifying stalking me?"

"Stalking is such an ugly word.

I prefer ‘precaution’." His gaze dragged over me like he was memorizing every inch—as if I were under a goddamn microscope.

"We’re going to my car."

No matter how mundane the situation seemed, no matter how harmless the conversation started—the tension between us always boiled over the moment we got too close.

This damn attraction was a game we’d already lost, even if neither of us would admit it.

"Where’s your car?" I asked, feigning nonchalance.

"Just up ahead, around the corner." A curt nod.

We rounded the corner—and I halted abruptly.

Alessandro gestured with the last of his ice cream cone toward a black Defender, parked like a hulking shadow between glossy, pastel-colored convertibles.

A laugh burst out of me.

"That? Seriously? It clashes with your suit.

And with Miami."

"It’s my work car." A roguish grin flashed as he finished the last bite of his cone.

"For the kind of work that gets messy."

My steps slowed.

I shot him a look—challenging, loaded.

"Work that leaves marks on your skin?" I asked, sarcasm dripping.

"You said it."

"Why this tank, though? Trying to cosplay as a mafia diplomat, or just desperate to stand out while pretending to be subtle?"

He exhaled an irritated scoff.

"Can you ever just shut up?"

"Only if you answer.

Why the armored beast?"

He stopped dead, turning to face me.

"Because I’m not at full mobility today.

Happy with that explanation?"

"Depends.

What happened?"

"I swear to god, one day I’ll gag you just for ten minutes of peace."

Sounds tempting, I thought but kept quiet.

Instead, I pressed on, voice deliberately innocent: "Were you with your Colombian friends last night?"

He paused mid-step, almost imperceptibly. "Yes."

"And is that related to your...

physical limitations?" I pressed, relentless.

"If you’d just tell me what happened, I wouldn’t have to drag every word out of you."

He stopped again, slowly removed his sunglasses, and pinned me with a sharp look.

"Did you interrogate Vaughn yesterday?" The subject change was so abrupt I nearly laughed out loud.

"He reached out to me.

And frankly? I’m less than thrilled with what I heard."

"Deflection noted." I didn’t move, my gaze sliding over the Defender’s tinted windows, which swallowed every trace of light.

"Just so you know—this car looks like a rolling abduction van.

You’re aware of that, right?"

"Get in." The order was quiet.

Unmistakable.

I opened the door—and froze.

"Why the back seat?"

No reaction.

No reply.

He circled the vehicle in silence, entered from the opposite side, and let the door click shut like a full stop.

Confused, I leaned forward, peering inside.

Luxurious.

Spacious.

And utterly sealed off from the world.

Alexander? Why the back seat?" I asked again, suspicion lacing my voice.

He turned his head slightly, our eyes locking.

Then, with deliberate slowness, he stretched out his arm, let his hand glide over the leather seat—and tapped two fingers beside him.

Slow. Wordless.

I hesitated before finally opening the door and sinking into the backseat.

My gaze swept the interior—black leather, windows tinted to near-opacity.

Normal cars only had rear tint.

This one was completely impenetrable from the outside.

A mobile safe room. Or a cage.

He sat deep in his seat, angled slightly to the side, moving slower than usual.

Subtly, he favored his left flank.

My eyes narrowed.

"What happened?"

No response.

So I pressed harder: "And you’d better tell the truth, because I won’t back down."

An annoyed sigh escaped him as his head dropped against the headrest for a moment.

"I got shot."

"What?" I gaped at him.

"Are you insane? Why aren’t you in a hospital?"

He shrugged.

"Because I don’t want painkillers or pity."

Concern shot through me, and before I could stop myself: "You should take this seriously, Alexander.

A gunshot wound isn’t nothing."

A mocking smile curled his lips, as if I’d told a particularly stupid joke.

"Really? I almost forgot how dangerous that could be.

It’s only my first gunshot wound, after all." The sarcasm in his voice was so thick it smothered my worry instantly.

His tone was so arrogant that my concern burned into pure fury.

"You know what?" I hissed.

"Do whatever you want.

Play the hero, bleed out on your damn backseat."

He leaned closer, gaze sharp.

"Carter told me he’s been in contact with two Russians.

Through one of his advisors."

My stomach twisted.

"And?"

"And I know them.

They’re not people you mess with.

Especially not when you’re as naive as Vaughn." His eyes locked onto mine.

"He thinks he can prove he doesn’t need me.

But it’ll cost him everything. And you right along with him." A hard stare. "So. What did you say to him?"

I leaned back slightly.

"Me? Nothing important."

"Don’t lie to me." His voice turned razor-edged.

"You said something that rattled him.

What was it?"

When I stayed silent, he suddenly surged forward, grabbed my throat, and yanked me roughly toward him. "Talk."

I grimaced at the grip around my neck.

"It was nothing earth-shattering."

"I hate being lied to to my face." His voice dropped to a growl. "Well?"

"I...

mentioned your name," I finally admitted, avoiding his eyes.

"Not directly.

But he connected the dots." White lies are allowed, right?

"Fantastic." Alessandro released me.

"Why did you mention my name?"

"I don’t know.

Probably to warn him," I stammered, flustered.

"Warn him? About who? Me?" he asked, incredulous.

"Who else?"

He scoffed derisively.

I crossed my arms and shot him a defiant look.

"You give plenty of reasons, Alessandro."

He arched a challenging brow and slumped back into his seat with visible irritation.

"Why can’t you just let that bastard face his own fate?"

I stared at him, my thoughts racing.

For a moment, I actually considered it.

What if I just let it happen? But then I shook my head.

"I can’t."

"And why not? Do you think you owe him something?"

I met his gaze, struggling to stay calm.

"Because I’m involved.

And if he goes down, I go down with him."