Page 28 of Lord of the Dark (Drawn into Darkness #1)

Fiona Robertson

The club "Il Tempio" was a sight to behold even from the outside.

The building looked like a relic from another time—a fusion of modern design and historical elements.

Dark glass and smooth stone walls formed a striking contrast to the delicate bronze embellishments framing the entrance.

Towering black metal doors were bathed in subtle, indirect lighting that made the club's golden logo—a stylized temple—gleam faintly.

It was a masterful blend of exclusivity and understatement.

DThe air was thick with a deep bass emanating from within, yet the entrance remained calm and orderly.

Two large, muscular security men in perfectly tailored suits stood before the doors, and a small group waited to be let in.

Carter and I joined the line, and I noticed Carter tightening his grip around my hand as we drew closer.

One of the security men assessed us with a neutral expression before asking, "Whose invitation?"

"Matteo Ricci," Carter answered confidently, giving a slight nod.

The security man radioed something into his headset and waited for a response.

His posture was professional, yet unmistakably clear: no entry without confirmation.

A guest who had clearly had one too many drinks stumbled into me on his way out, muttering a quick apology before moving on.

I stiffened and shook off the moment, though my heart had raced for a brief second.

Carter didn’t even notice.

Then, suddenly, the security man nodded and opened the massive doors.

"Welcome to ‘Il Tempio,’" he said with an inviting gesture.

The club’s interior was overwhelming.

Dark, elegant walls bathed in soft, warm light framed the space.

The ceilings were high, adorned with golden stucco that seemed like a tribute to the Renaissance.

At the same time, a modern lighting installation spanned the room—flowing lines of LED strips weaving like a net across the ceiling, pulsing in shifting colors to match the beat.

The dance floor was the club’s centerpiece, a throbbing sea of bodies moving to the driving rhythm.

Surrounding it were multiple tiers housing seating areas, private lounges, and bars.

Everything was crafted from luxurious materials—polished black marble, plush velvet furniture in dark tones, and gleaming glass that amplified the reflections of light.

Carter pulled me through the crowd, his face alight with excitement.

"What a place, right? Matteo wasn’t exaggerating."

I nodded slowly.

It was impressive, yes—but also suffocating in its perfection.

A perfection that felt all too familiar.

At the same time, the casual atmosphere soothed me.

The people here seemed relaxed, drinking, laughing, and dancing without the razor-sharp severity I associated with Russo.

After just a few steps, we came upon a man who shook Carter’s hand enthusiastically.

Matteo Ricci, I assumed.

He was tall, with a friendly face, wearing a tailored shirt that made him look more like an entrepreneur than a businessman.

"Matteo, this is Fiona," Carter introduced me.

"Pleasure to meet you," Matteo said with a charming smile, offering his hand.

I returned the greeting politely while Carter and Matteo immediately dove into business talk.

"I’ll leave you two for a moment," I finally said, gesturing to my jacket.

"I’ll just go put this away."

Carter nodded absently, and Matteo gave me a polite smile before pulling Carter back into conversation.

The coat check was at the club’s edge, in a slightly quieter area.

Another security man took the jackets, inspecting them carefully.

I stepped up, slipped off my jacket, and handed it to him.

He took it with a practiced motion, but then he froze.

His gaze locked for a moment before his eyes lifted to meet mine.

His face remained neutral, but his eyes… there was something unsettling there.

"Everything alright?" I asked, trying to stay calm.

Suddenly, the security man reached into my jacket pocket and pulled something out.

A small, transparent bag of white powder.

My heart stopped.

I stared at it, unable to speak as my mind raced for any possible explanation.

The man who had bumped into me outside must have slipped it into my pocket.

"Cos’è questo?" he asked in Italian, his voice icy and sharp.

"That—that’s not mine!" I stammered in English, raising my hands as if to prove my innocence.

"I don’t know what that is! It’s not mine!"

His gaze remained cold, unyielding.

Without another word, he seized my arm, his grip like a vise, and dragged me away.

"Wait! This is a mistake!" I cried in panic, trying to wrench free.

But his hold was iron.

We moved through the crowd, past the dancing guests who noticed nothing of what was happening to me.

The loud music pounded in my ears, blending with my rapid breaths and rising screams.

"Carter! Carter!" I shouted, my gaze frantically searching for him, but I couldn’t see him.

The security man held me firmly and dragged me onward.

He led me through an inconspicuous door at the edge of the club, one I hadn’t noticed before.

Behind it was a long hallway, cool and dimly lit.

The walls were made of dark concrete, interrupted in places by narrow LED strips that cast a cold, bluish glow.

The floor was polished slate tile, and my footsteps echoed alongside the security man’s firm strides in the narrow, silent corridor.

I kept turning around, desperately searching for someone—anyone—who could help.

But the hallway was empty, and the security man ignored my protests completely.

"Please, this isn’t mine! I don’t know how it got in my pocket!" I begged.

But he didn’t react, his steps remained steady, and his grip only tightened as I struggled again.

Doors lined the walls to our left and right, dark and locked.

Each looked identical—smooth metal with small numbers.

It felt like this hallway would never end, an endless march into uncertainty.

My throat tightened, panic and fear threatening to overwhelm me.

Finally, the security man stopped in front of a door.

It was barely different from the others, save for a small red light above it.

He punched a code into a keypad beside it, and the door unlocked with a soft click.

He shoved me inside, and I stumbled into the room.

The atmosphere changed instantly.

The space was dimly lit, a single overhead lamp casting cold, whitish light.

The walls were rough concrete, and a lone metal table stood in the center, surrounded by impersonal steel chairs.

It was obvious this room was designed to unsettle.

On a shelf in the corner lay plastic bags and devices that looked like drug-testing kits.

The room had a suffocating air—cold, clinical, yet unmistakably a place where decisions were made that no one was ever meant to know about.

"Sit down," the security man ordered, this time in English, his voice sharp and emotionless.

My knees trembled, but I didn’t obey immediately.

I couldn’t.

Every instinct in me resisted surrendering to this man.

My breath came in ragged gasps as I stared at him, his cold, impassive face, as he placed the small bag of white powder on the table like evidence.

My thoughts raced.

"Someone planted this on me!" I finally cried, my voice louder than I intended.

"I was bumped into outside the club.

Someone must have slipped it into my pocket!"

The security man lifted his head, stepped closer, and studied me with a calculating look.

"Interesting story," he said dryly, his voice laced with disbelief and mockery.

"But this isn’t a courtroom, Signorina."

I felt my stomach twist, but I clenched my jaw.

"I didn’t do anything! I’m not a drug dealer! I have rights, and I demand you listen to me!"

He laughed—a cold, harsh sound that cut through my nerves like a knife.

"Rights?" he asked sarcastically, shaking his head.

"If you keep screaming, things will only get worse for you."

As he reached for me, his hand outstretched to grab me, I felt panic explode inside me.

I jerked up from my spot, twisted to the side, and aimed a sharp low kick at his knee—as best I could in pumps.

A deep curse escaped him as he staggered back, and I seized the chance to bolt for the door.

But I didn’t get far.

His hand clamped around my arm with merciless force, yanking me backward.

I screamed, kicked wildly, but he was too strong.

With a brutal jerk, he forced me back into the chair.

The security man paused as I stopped struggling and pulled black zip ties from his jacket pocket.

The seconds stretched endlessly as I stared at them—those sharp, gleaming strips of plastic.

They were disturbingly familiar.

My heart skipped before pounding in frantic terror.

It was like the ground had vanished beneath me.

The memory of Russo, of our meeting in the car, flooded back—the moment he had used these same ties to mark me in an instant of his power.

A dark shiver ran down my spine, my body freezing.

But this was different.

This wasn’t passion, wasn’t a game. This was cold. Dangerous.

"No!" I screamed, thrashing and twisting, but the man seized my wrists with brutal strength and wrenched them behind the chair’s back.

"Stop fighting, Signorina," he growled as the first zip tie tightened with a click.

The plastic bit into my skin, painful and unrelenting.

"I didn’t do anything!" I cried, my voice breaking as I desperately tried to wrench free.

"I’m not a drug dealer!"

His voice was ice, his hands merciless.

"You’ve got nerve, I’ll give you that."

The zip ties cinched tighter around my wrists, and I felt tears welling—not just from pain, but from the suffocating helplessness threatening to drown me.

"Please," I whispered, my voice hoarse and cracking, "this isn’t me.

You don’t understand—"

"No, Signorina," he cut me off, his face so close I could feel his breath.

"You don’t understand.

Just shut up."

My mind raced, fury and fear warring for dominance inside me.

The plastic of the zip ties burned into my skin, my fingers were going numb, but panic kept me screaming.

"I'm innocent! Let me go!" I twisted as much as I could and, in pure desperation, spat at him.

The droplet landed on his cheek.

He froze, his hand pausing mid-motion.

Then he slowly shook his head, anger and disgust twisting his features.

He wiped the spit from his face, his expression darkening as he took a deep breath.

Then he growled low and sharp: "Che cazzo fai, stronza?" He reached for a cloth, unhurried.

"No! Don't touch me!" I shrieked as he stepped closer.

I thrashed, kicked, but the chair only wobbled beneath me, barely inconveniencing him.

"Forse questo ti farà stare zitta," he muttered, shoving the cloth between my teeth.

It was rough, scraping unpleasantly against my mouth.

My eyes widened, but he remained unfazed.

His movements were coordinated, professional, as he pulled the fabric taut and knotted it roughly at the back of my head.

The pressure was uncomfortable.

My protest died into a muffled, choked sound, and I could do nothing but stare at him with wide eyes as he assessed me with cold detachment.

The taste of the fabric was vile, but it was the humiliation that enraged me.

His gaze lingered on my face for a moment before he shook his head and walked to the door.

"Idiota," he hissed under his breath before the door slammed shut with a heavy click.

I snorted through my nose.

The silence that surrounded me now was even more unsettling.

The room seemed to close in around me, the dark walls pressing closer, the cold steel of the chair digging uncomfortably into my back.

I tried to regain control, but my body wouldn't stop trembling.

My heartbeat pounded in my ears, and the memory of Russo and his zip ties was so overwhelming I felt like I might pass out.

I was trapped.

Alone.

Powerless. And the knowledge that no one knew where I was made the panic inside me rage like a storm.