Page 3 of Lord of the Dark (Drawn into Darkness #1)

Alexander Russo

The black Bentley came to a soundless halt before the glass entrance of Pierce & Clarke.

I remained seated in the car a moment longer.

It wasn’t about making anyone wait—it was a matter of timing.

When I entered a room, I did so on my terms.

A faint vibration pierced the silence as my phone lit up. The call was overdue.

"Yes?" My voice remained calm.

"Everything is ready, but there's a delay with the transfer.

It's being handled discreetly," came the reply, laced with a hint of nervousness.

I paused, letting the moment hang in the air.

"Discreet isn’t enough." My voice was sharp, but not loud.

It didn’t need to be.

The message was clear.

"Understood.

It will be done."

I ended the call.

In my world, it wasn’t just about deals and negotiations—it was about power.

And power revealed itself in the details.

I set the phone aside and let my gaze drift through the tinted windows.

People hurried along the street, lost in their own little dramas.

Max, my chauffeur, opened the door, and I stepped out of the car.

Sunlight hit me, but my steps remained cool and measured.

Nothing about me suggested haste, even though time was pressing.

As I pushed open the grand glass doors, the familiar scent of freshly polished marble and expensive leather enveloped me.

The Pierce & Clarke building was a reflection of the firm itself—sleek, flawless, and yet soulless.

I knew what awaited me.

I was playing the lawyer for Thompson, who had gotten it into his damn head that he needed a new property on Fisher Island.

The $50 million Dade County deal was an impressive figure, but that was just the surface.

It was about far more.

It was always about more.

The elevator opened silently, and as I studied the mirrored wall inside, my eyes caught my own reflection.

The dark gray suit fit perfectly, my dark hair styled precisely back.

For every role in my life, there was a matching look.

I could be the perfect lawyer, like here for Thompson—polished suit, calm and composed mask.

In negotiations that took place in the shadows, I was precise, unyielding, always one step ahead. And then there were the moments when the fa?ade no longer mattered. When necessary, I took great pleasure in beating the shit out of someone. Some things were settled with words, and then there were people who occasionally needed a very clear reminder of who was in charge. Every movement, every detail about me was meticulously calculated. In my life, there was no room for accidents.

The doors slid open, and I stepped out, moving down the hallway toward the conference room.

The atmosphere shifted palpably as I pushed the glass door aside.

The room was filled with suited figures, and for a suspended moment, they all paused as I entered.

Unspoken, but unmistakable: they knew I had arrived.

I let my gaze sweep the room without directly scrutinizing those present.

Yet my mind registered everything—Mrs.

Pierce’s practiced smile, the discomfort of some junior associates.

And then my eyes caught on her.

Fiona Robertson. She sat at the table, posture rigidly composed, her dark shoulder-length hair falling softly over her shoulders as if it, too, were as disciplined as she was. She wore a navy suit with a white blouse beneath—understated yet perfectly chosen to accentuate her dark eyes, which were fixed on me with a sharpness I rarely encountered. She was no novice, that much was immediately clear. And she was certainly not a woman who was easily impressed—least of all by someone like me. I liked that.

It was as if she were assessing me, like a hunter waiting for her opponent to make the first mistake.

Her professionalism was undeniable, yes, but it was the control she exerted over the space around her that struck me.

No flashy jewelry, nothing superfluous—just a cool elegance that set her apart from most.

Women in this industry often tried to assert themselves through bold details.

Not Fiona. She didn’t need decorative insignias to prove what she was capable of.

I let my gaze linger on her, longer than necessary, and noted how she met it head-on.

No nerves, no hesitation.

A woman who knew exactly what she was doing and where she stood.

She wouldn’t be intimidated—and that was what piqued my interest.

I knew she was watching me, trying to decipher my movements, to guess my intentions. But she would fail. No one ever knew exactly what was going on in my head—until I allowed it. And I had no intention of doing so here today.

For a moment, a flicker of irritation crossed her face—undoubtedly because I was late.

But she recovered quickly, her professionalism unshaken.

Not a single sign that my tardiness had unsettled her.

When she spoke, her voice was clear and firm, as if she had planned every word.

It was obvious she was comfortable in her role, that she wasn’t afraid to lead.

Her presentation was flawless, delivered with a precision that suggested she knew every figure, every clause, every possible contingency by heart.

"The villa's location is ideal, both for a long-term investor and for a buyer looking to resell at a profit later," she said, her voice crisp, maintaining eye contact with everyone in the room.

She wasn’t just presenting—she was commanding the space.

That impressed me.

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she emphasized the property’s high market value and analyzed its potential appreciation.

It was clear she was stressing this point to capture my attention—and it worked.

While she continued, I subtly reached for my phone resting on my lap.

With a quick motion, I opened my messages and typed a brief note to Giovanni: Fiona Robertson.

Find out everything about her.

Immediately.

Giovanni had been my shadow for over a decade.

A former military man who’d transitioned into private security after his service.

He was my head of security, but also the man who could uncover anything about anyone.

If there was information that wasn’t meant to be known, Giovanni was the one who extracted it—discreetly, reliably, and without questions.

His network stretched far beyond Miami—contacts all over the world, from old ties in Europe to the streets of this city. He’d handled the dirtiest jobs for me, always with the precision of a professional.

Giovanni: On it.

As I slid the phone back into my pocket, I refocused entirely on Fiona.

I decided to test her—just a little, to see how she handled pressure.

"Ms.

Robertson," I interrupted just as she was addressing a point about potential risks.

Her eyes flicked to me, calm and unsurprised. "You mentioned possible appreciation upon resale. What if the market crashes? Miami is known for its volatility." She had my full attention, searching for any flicker of uncertainty.

For a fraction of a second, she hesitated—but barely let it show.

"Of course, there are always risks, Mr.

Russo," she replied coolly.

"But if you examine market trends from the last decade, you’ll find coastal properties have remained stable even during downturns.

An investment like this, with its unique positioning, will remain profitable long-term."

Good.

She didn’t flinch.

But I wanted more.

"That may be," I said slowly, "but I wonder just how confident you really are." My words were a provocation—an invisible needle pressed against her composure.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, and I could see her weighing whether to engage or dismiss my challenge.

"Confident enough to recommend it to you, Mr.

Russo," she said finally, her voice unshaken.

A faint smirk tugged at my lips.

She let my provocations slide right off.

That raised the stakes.

My phone vibrated.

Giovanni.

I glanced at the screen as the discussion in the room continued.

The message waiting for me contained far more than I’d expected.

Fiona Robertson.

27 years old, born in Jacksonville.

Fractured family background—single mother, father vanished early.

A hard life, but she fought her way up.

Top-tier education. Been in a relationship with Carter Vaughn for several years. Guy’s in real estate, used to be fairly successful. But word is he’s on shaky ground now. More details to follow.

No easy childhood, but she'd fought her way up.

She had a degree that had propelled her into the top tier of her industry.

No surprise—given how she carried herself in that meeting, I'd expected nothing less.

But then another name jumped out.

Carter Vaughn.

Her boyfriend.

A real estate shark, successful, well-connected in Miami.

Vaughn was known for deals that made him rich—but on shaky ground? What did that mean? He'd negotiated with people I knew before—and hadn't always come out looking good. A deal gone wrong a few years back had nearly broken him. Yet somehow, he'd clawed his way back up. And now? Financially strained, backed into a corner. His pretty fa?ade was intact, but the man behind it? Far less untouchable than he appeared.

That Fiona was with him amused me.

Her—controlled, relentless—had tied herself to a man who crumbled at the first real challenge? Almost too funny.

Men like Vaughn had an expiration date, because when they faced someone with real power, they shattered.

I remembered a meeting with him years ago.

Strictly business—and the only thing that stuck was how he folded under pressure the moment negotiations got tough. Pathetic.

I wondered if Fiona knew her so-called successful boyfriend was teetering on the edge.

Probably not.

I'd seen plenty like him come and go.

Fiona had success, but she wanted more.

I could see it in her eyes. There was something in her that hungered for greater things. And that made her a woman you didn't underestimate lightly.

"Dig up everything on Vaughn.

His current deals, his connections, his weak spots.

Anything that could prove useful." My fingers flew across the screen as I sent the message.

The intel I needed would arrive soon enough.

The presentation was dragging now, Fiona wrapping up her final points.

Thompson would be pleased.

The deal was solid, the numbers checked out, and the villa would likely sell even better than projected.

Not that it mattered—the man was a piece of work, if I was being honest.

Had a habit of treating anyone who wasn’t useful to him like dirt. An arrogant bastard who thought the world revolved around him. Normally, I’d have steered clear, but I owed him. Nothing major, but in this business, debts lingered. Thompson and I weren’t friends. But he paid well, and for a man like him, I could play lawyer for an afternoon. This Dade County deal wasn’t my thing anyway—his project, his idea, his millions. My job was to protect my interests. And if that meant humoring this prick for a few hours, so be it.

As I slid the phone back into my pocket, I felt Fiona’s gaze lock onto me.

The hunter, eyes sharp and alert, her target squarely in sight.

There was no mistaking it—she’d noticed my distraction, the way my attention kept drifting to my phone.

For a split second, I even felt caught—a sensation I hadn’t experienced in years.

She didn’t glare, but the look in her eyes left no room for doubt: she expected my undivided attention. Now.

"Mr.

Russo." Her voice was steel wrapped in professionalism.

"I hope nothing more important is occupying your thoughts.

We are discussing a significant deal for your client, after all."

Did she just publicly call me out?

Her tone was clipped and professional, yet the challenge in her words was unmistakable.

She demanded not just my attention, but my complete, undivided awareness.

It had been years since anyone had so deftly gotten under my skin.

Now she had me hooked—and not just professionally.

A smirk played at my lips as I fixed my gaze on her.

"Naturally, Ms.

Robertson," I said smoothly, "not a word you say escapes me.

But some matters demand immediate attention." I let the words hang just a beat before adding: "Yet I’m entirely yours."

She held my stare without flinching, nodding once.

"I should hope so, Mr.

Russo.

We are here to achieve results." Oh, sweetheart, you wouldn’t talk to me like that if you knew what you were dealing with.

Yet she wasn’t wrong—and she’d noticed.

Fiona wasn’t one to be dismissed.

"Of course, Ms.

Robertson," I replied, all polished courtesy, "you have my undivided attention." Christ, I sounded like some schoolboy begging forgiveness.

Her eyes remained locked on mine, unblinking, her expression unreadable.

Almost indifferent, as if my words meant nothing.

"Glad to hear it," she answered coolly.

The reply was clipped, making it clear half-measures wouldn’t suffice.

For a fleeting second, she seemed to soften—but it was just that: fleeting.

She was a goddamn control freak, that much was obvious now.

And I knew—knew—she wasn’t the type to relinquish that control easily.

Her public reprimand sent heat coiling low in my gut.

The thought of her writhing beneath me, fighting to keep command of her body as she screamed my name in pleasure, made my cock twitch in anticipation.

Fiona Robertson had just walked straight into my crosshairs.

And I wouldn’t let up until she was mine.