Page 27 of Lord of the Dark (Drawn into Darkness #1)

Fiona Robertson

After we had left breakfast behind and the morning air in Rome grew gradually warmer, Carter and I made our way to the reception, where our driver was already waiting for us.

The plan was to spend the day in Florence, wandering through the winding alleys and letting ourselves be awed by the Renaissance architecture.

Carter was thrilled, especially by the prospect of seeing the Santa Maria del Fiore cathedral and immersing himself in the city’s art and culture.

He had been raving for days about how romantic it would be to drive through Tuscany, with all its gentle hills, olive groves, and vineyards.

The idea would have excited me under normal circumstances, but today, something heavy weighed on me.

Florence—his city.

The thought made my heart skip a beat. It was as if I were stepping directly into his territory, into a world inevitably tied to him. Every part of me rebelled, yet I forced myself to maintain the fa?ade.

We climbed into the sleek black luxury car that would accompany us for the day.

The driver was polite, opening the door for me and welcoming us before securing the luggage in the trunk.

Carter settled beside me on the back seat, resting his hand on my thigh and flashing me a broad smile that telegraphed just how much he was looking forward to the day.

"Florence, Fiona," he said, a hint of excitement in his voice.

"I can’t wait to show you the city."

I offered a weak smile and nodded, leaning back into the seat as I watched Rome’s streets blur past through the tinted window.

My heart felt leaden, the tension in my stomach unrelenting.

Carter was so eager, so full of anticipation for this vacation—for our time in Europe.

He saw this trip as a chance to mend what had frayed between us, while with every passing second, I only grew more acutely aware of how much I now despised what he was.

The drive out of Rome was smooth, quiet, yet humming with undercurrents of tension—at least for me.

Carter seemed to savor the passing landscape, recounting all the things he’d read in the guidebook and the specific places he was determined to visit.

His enthusiasm was infectious, but my thoughts weren’t truly with him.

They kept circling back to Russo.

His face, his touch, the way he looked at me as if he could read the depths of me. I tried to focus on Carter, on this moment, on our trip, but it was as though something inevitable kept pulling me in the opposite direction.

Before long, the city faded behind us, and the scenery began to shift.

Rome’s urban sprawl gave way to rolling hills and vast fields where olive trees and grapevines glistened under the warm summer sun.

It was breathtaking, the sky a brilliant blue streaked with wisps of cloud that looked almost painted.

Tuscany was every bit as picturesque as I’d imagined.

The endless green hills, the quiet winding roads leading us through quaint, idyllic villages—it was a stunning sight, one I would have reveled in under different circumstances.

"Look," Carter said suddenly, pointing to a row of cypress trees standing sentinel along a hill.

"That’s the classic Tuscan view.

Exactly what I’ve always dreamed of."

I nodded and forced another smile.

"It’s beautiful," I replied, though my thoughts were miles away.

Was he here? Which of these estates belonged to him?

The driver seemed barely aware of our conversation, focused on navigating the gentle curves as soft music played in the background.

Carter was absorbed in his guidebooks, mentally mapping out the days ahead, while I tried—and failed—to stay present.

I wanted to be here.

I wanted to enjoy this trip with Carter, to lose ourselves in this time together without anything intruding.

Then my phone buzzed in my pocket.

The sudden sound sliced through my thoughts like a razor.

Instinctively, I reached for it, fingers trembling as I pulled it out.

The screen lit up with the words: "I hope you’re enjoying Florence."

So simple, so unassuming—and yet so insidious.

My breath hitched, my grip tightening around the phone as if I could crush the message out of existence.

My pulse kicked into a gallop, a shudder rippling through me.

He knew I was here.

Of course he knew. Russo left nothing to chance. This wasn’t a greeting, not some polite gesture. It was a marker—a symbol of his control. I wasn’t even in Florence yet, and already, he had me in his sights.

I closed my eyes, wrestling back the surge of emotion threatening to drown me.

The last three weeks had been hell.

He’d left me hollowed out, nothing but the scars of his touch and his betrayal remaining.

Every night, I’d fought against the darkness inside me, every hour a battle not to shatter under the weight of the pain.

And I’d survived. Somehow.

I’d sworn never to let him back into my thoughts, let alone my life.

I’d rebuilt myself, piece by fractured piece, clawed my way back—tried to become the Fiona I’d been before he’d torn me from my world with such ruthless precision.

But now, with those words on my screen, it all split open again.

The wounds I’d so carefully stitched shut bled fresh.

Part of me wanted to fling the phone away, ignore him, prove he had no power over me anymore.

But another part… another part still felt that pull, that craving that made me seethe with self-loathing.

"Everything alright?" Carter asked beside me, his voice steady and soft, as always.

He glanced over, utterly unsuspecting.

I curled my fingers around the phone before he could see the message.

"Yeah, fine," I answered too quickly, forcing a smile.

"Just a work email."

Carter nodded, satisfied, and turned back to the scenery.

I watched him, guilt a leaden weight in my chest.

He’d been my anchor these last weeks, his patience the only thing that kept me from unraveling completely.

And I’d sworn to repay that—to be the woman he deserved.

But now, in this moment, it felt like Russo was reducing all of it to ashes without even being here.

I looked at the message again.

The words seared into my mind, his shadow settling heavy over my heart.

But I wasn’t the woman I’d been three weeks ago.

I’d learned to banish him from my thoughts, learned to be strong—or so I’d thought.

So why were my hands shaking? Why was my heart slamming against my ribs like it was fighting for its life? The conflict was unbearable—the pain he’d carved into me, the hatred I felt for him and myself, and that inexplicable hunger, poison in my veins.

Still.

I wouldn’t reply.

Wouldn’t let him sink deeper into my mind.

I had to stay strong.

But the fact that I even had to fight not to respond proved just how thoroughly he still had me.

Carter pointed suddenly to a winery on the horizon, his voice bright.

"Look—maybe we could stop on the way back, pick up a few bottles."

"Yeah, sounds good," I answered, my voice distant, hollow.

The emptiness inside me yawned wider as my fingers clenched around the phone.

The Tuscan landscape rolled past in all its splendor, and I saw none of it.

All I felt were the two forces warring inside me, relentless, and I didn’t know which would win.

The narrow streets of Florence were crowded with tourists, and the majestic Renaissance buildings loomed over us as we wound our way through the city.

While our driver took us to the hotel, my gaze remained fixed on the masses of people streaming past the streets.

The hotel Carter had booked for us was a jewel of Renaissance architecture, with magnificent facades and columns adorning the entrance.

The porter opened the heavy wooden doors and greeted us with a charming smile as we stepped into the cool lobby.

Marble floors, high ceilings, and intricate frescoes filled the space—it was the picture of a perfect vacation, yet I felt trapped.

Trapped between Carter, who was eager to share this moment with me, and Russo, whose invisible presence hung over me like a dark cloud.

Carter handled the check-in while I lingered slightly apart, my phone clutched tightly in my hand.

I had told Carter I felt dizzy, and he had accepted it without question.

"Rest," he had said tenderly.

"I’ll explore the city and bring you something later." His eyes were full of understanding, and that only made it worse.

Now I sat alone in the luxurious hotel room, the heavy silence broken only by the occasional sounds of the city drifting through the half-open windows.

My fingers gripped the phone as if it were my only tether to reality.

Anger rose in me—at Russo, at myself, at this unbearable situation.

For three weeks, I had tried to banish him from my life.

For three weeks, I had fought to suppress the pain and longing.

I had almost succeeded.

And now? Now it was all back, as if I hadn’t spent a single day away from him. Tears burned in my eyes, but I swallowed them down. He had treated me like a chess piece, used me and discarded me as if I were nothing. My body betrayed me. Refused to let Carter in, the rejection growing stronger with every attempt to close the distance between us.

When Carter finally returned to the room, his excitement shone like a harsh light in my shadowed mind.

"Florence is incredible," he gushed, recounting the places he had visited.

His joy was genuine, contagious—but I felt numb.

I turned and caught my reflection in the window.

My face was pale, my eyes wide, as if a demon had written itself into me.

A demon that devoured me, destroyed me, yet never let me go.

"I have an idea for tonight," Carter snapped me out of my tormenting thoughts as he shrugged off his jacket.

"A business contact reached out—he happens to be in town and suggested an amazing club.

One of the most exclusive spots here.

Perfect for getting out a bit and getting your blood pumping."

My alarm bells rang.

"A business contact?"

Carter nodded and reached for his phone.

"Yeah, an Italian guy I worked with a few months ago.

Good man, very cultured.

He said the club is a must—the place to be seen in Florence."

I swallowed hard.

"What’s his name?" I asked cautiously, my fingers gripping the armrest so tightly my knuckles turned white.

Carter looked up, his brow slightly furrowed.

"Why are you so interested?" His voice was lightly amused, but I heard the curiosity in his tone.

"Just curious," I said quickly, though the words felt heavy on my tongue.

"It just seems...

unexpected."

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further.

"His name is Matteo Ricci.

He’s a contractor, owns a pretty successful firm here in Italy," Carter explained casually as he reached for his phone.

"We worked together on a real estate project in Milan a few months back.

Had no idea he was in Florence, but he messaged me this afternoon and said this club is a must—the kind of place you can’t miss."

It sounded so plausible it was hard to find anything suspicious about it.

Yet my stomach twisted, and my thoughts raced feverishly.

The name meant nothing to me, and the explanation fit.

Maybe I really was imagining everything.

Russo wasn’t the only powerful man in Italy.

"Okay," I finally said, forcing a smile onto my lips.

"Sounds interesting."

Carter seemed satisfied with my response.

"This will be good for you, Fiona.

Getting out, dancing, enjoying life.

It’s exactly what we need.

But we should get ready."

We prepared in the suite, and as I rummaged through my suitcase, the tension inside me thickened like a dense fog in my mind.

Carter kept glancing my way, humming softly to himself, clearly looking forward to the evening.

He chose an elegant yet casual look—a perfectly fitted dark blue shirt paired with black trousers and high-end leather sneakers.

His style was relaxed but still suited for the exclusivity of the club.

I opted for a figure-hugging black dress, elegant yet seductive.

It left just enough to the imagination without being overt.

The golden earrings Carter had gifted me a while ago glinted in the light as I let my hair fall loosely over one shoulder.

As I stood before the mirror, putting the final touches on my makeup, Carter stepped up behind me.

"Wow," he murmured, his gaze sliding over me.

"You look so fucking hot."

I paused, studying our reflection—Carter with his effortlessly stylish look, and me, struggling to maintain the facade of calm and composure.

His smile was genuine, his eyes warm, and for a moment, I felt safe.

"Thanks," I whispered, turning toward him.

"You look amazing too.

The perfect gentleman."

He grinned, stepped closer, and slid his hands around my waist as he watched us in the mirror.

"I’m the gentleman taking you out tonight," he said playfully, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead.

"We’re going to have fun, Fiona." Hopefully.

Amused, I countered, "Only if you don’t drown yourself in Negronis again."

Carter laughed, running a hand through his hair.

"Yeah, that was rough.

Milan, remember? That night at the little restaurant with the red velvet couches.

Thought I could outdrink my colleagues with Negronis."

I smirked.

"Until after the fourth one, when you started toasting Italian cocktail artistry to everyone."

He made a face.

"Okay, not my proudest moment.

But at least I tipped generously."

"Only because I made you," I shot back, still smiling.

"Tonight, I’m sticking to two—promise," he said with mock seriousness, holding the door open.

"Legendary, yes, but no escalation."

I slipped my jacket over my shoulders and took a deep breath.

"I’ll hold you to that," I said, grabbing my clutch.

"And if you overdo it anyway, I’m taking pictures—for posterity."

"Cruel as always," he replied, feigning outrage before holding the door for me.

"But fair.

Let’s go—this is gonna be legendary."