Page 30 of Lord of the Dark (Drawn into Darkness #1)

Every instinct roared to make her feel how thoroughly she was mine.

No preparation. No gentleness. Just the raw, unfiltered intensity of what burned between us.

A choked sound tore from her throat, distorted by the gag, as I slammed into her with one brutal thrust.

Her back arched off the cold metal table, every muscle locking as she took me—all of me.

Fuck.

The tight, scorching heat around me stole my senses.

I closed my eyes, surrendered completely to instinct, and left the last shred of reason behind.

My fingers dug deeper into her flesh as I drove into her with a hard, savage rhythm.

There was no trace of restraint here, no false promises of tenderness. Only raw, untamed hunger. Our movements were a brutal dance, fueled by pent-up desire that recognized no limits. She moaned against the gag, her head lolling to the side, and I could feel her resisting the intensity. "This is what you wanted, isn’t it?"

Her hands clutched the edge of the table, fingers clawing at the smooth metal as if she could fight the waves crashing through her.

The table beneath us groaned and shuddered under the force of our collision, her legs straining against the restraints holding her down—like she wanted to take me deeper, break every boundary, close every gap.

"You're a depraved, sinful masterpiece, Fiona," I rasped hotly against her skin.

"And you belong to no one but me."

The dim light cast shadows over her arched silhouette as I drove her forward against the cool surface again and again, unrestrained in my thrusts.

We were a tangle of passion, hunger, and defiance.

I slid my hand lower until my fingers found her clit.

She jerked at the contact, a muffled cry escaping through the gag.

The heat surrounding me was overwhelming, every tiny movement of hers stoking the fire inside me.

My fingers worked in ruthless circles, perfectly timed with the deep, punishing thrusts that pinned her to the metal.

The combination of her reactions and the slick, clenching heat swallowing me whole was intoxicating—all-consuming.

"You will surrender to me, Fiona," I demanded, my voice rough as I tightened my control over her body.

My hand slid possessively along her skin, feeling every tremor, every involuntary twitch of her muscles, playing her like an instrument tuned to my darkest desires.

Each thrust was a claim—raw, unrestrained passion spiraling into something deeper, darker.

I bent over her, marking her neck with a biting kiss that drew a sharp gasp.

"This is what you need. Pain and pleasure—bound together."

She fought beneath me, writhing against the punishing rhythm, her body tensing in delicious resistance.

Her breath came in ragged bursts, her muscles trembling as she teetered on the edge of control.

I could feel her wetness against me, slick and desperate, and I wanted to ruin her—to drive her so deep into madness she’d never think of anything but me.

The tension in her back coiled tighter, her hips bucking against me, seeking more—more friction, more of this consuming, destructive hunger that had us both in its grip.

I felt her nearing the edge, her body tightening—then I pulled back abruptly.

A choked whimper escaped her, her hips jerking uselessly into empty air, begging.

"You don’t come until I allow it," I growled, merciless.

My grip on her hips was iron, forcing her still as my hand slid up to her breast, fingers closing around the soft curve with deliberate pressure.

My thumb found her nipple, teasing at first—just enough to make her arch—then pinching hard.

Her body jerked under the sudden intensity, a muffled moan tearing from her throat as she twisted against my touch.

"Look down.

None of them have any idea what’s happening here.

You’re alone with me, Fiona.

No one’s coming to save you," I murmured against her ear, tilting her head to force her gaze toward the dance floor below.

My fingers twisted her nipple just shy of cruel, dragging a broken sound from her. Her head dropped forward, breath hitching against the gag—but still, her right middle finger stayed down.

Tougher than I expected.

And goddamn, that made her perfect.

With one sharp tug, I undid the knot of the cloth in her mouth, letting it fall.

"You fucking sadist—" she gasped, voice shaking with breathless fury and want.

"...driving me...

insane." Her words were fractured, as if coherent thought was beyond her now.

I leaned in closer, my grip on her hip turning punishing.

"Tell me how much you want me," I ordered, my breath scorching her neck.

"Say it, Fiona," I pressed, my hips moving in slow, deliberate strokes, dragging the pleasure out.

She closed her eyes as if trying to escape, but I gave her no reprieve.

"I want to hear it," I whispered, "be a good girl." But she stayed silent.

Her head dropped forward, hitting the table like she could ignore me.

I released her and slowly circled the table.

When I stood before her, I gripped her chin, forcing her eyes to meet mine. "Say it."

She glared. "No."

"No?" A dark smile flickered across my lips.

My grip in her hair tightened—a reminder of who held control.

I dragged her face to the edge of the table, seized her jaw, and thrust myself into her mouth.

Her fingers dug into the wood, her throat working desperately around me, every choked gasp only fueling the hunger coiling tighter in my gut.

My movements were relentless. Her breaths came in ragged bursts, a rhythmic struggle between defiance and surrender. She hated me in this moment—and wanted me just as fiercely.

I pulled back slightly, letting my hand slide through her hair.

Her lips stayed parted, her breathing rough.

Gripping her chin, I forced her to look at me again—her eyes met mine, a clash of pride and submission.

"I decide when your fire burns—and when it smolders." I pushed back in, deeper this time, until I could feel the heat of her throat.

Her body tensed under the intrusion, a faint gag escaping her, fingers clawing harder into the table. This was raw, uncompromising—a game she already knew she’d lose. Yet she still fought. And that was the thrill.

"Breathe," I growled, tightening my hold on her hair, dragging her head back as I set a punishing rhythm.

Her nails scraped against the table, every twitch of her body betraying the edge she balanced on.

I withdrew just enough to let her gasp before surging forward again.

Her throat convulsed around me, and this time, the sound she made could’ve been protest—or surrender.

That fragile moment meant everything—the second she had to realize she was mine.

Her lips trembled like she wanted to speak, but I pressed a finger against them.

Not yet.

"I see what you feel," I murmured, my breath scorching her skin.

My lips brushed her ear as I spoke, low and deliberate: "Say it."

Her mouth opened.

Hesitation.

A visible war with herself.

Her body was taut, fighting instinct.

But I gave her no choice. My grip tightened.

"I… hate you," she finally breathed, voice fractured, the hesitation making it even more potent.

"But god damn it, I want you to fuck me." She held my gaze, then added hoarsely: "I want you to fuck me senseless."

A dark grin spread across my lips, my breathing turning heavy.

My fingers lingered on her cheek before dragging her closer.

"Fuck, Fiona," my voice was a rough growl, thick with want.

"You’ll get it.

Every. Last. Inch."

Her eyes locked onto mine, and I saw the hunger burning back at me.

I moved behind her, fingers trailing over her ass before spreading her legs wider, my body pressing flush against hers.

Her skin was warm, damp, the slight roll of her hips against my cock betraying her need.

I pulled her back, arching her deeper over the table.

When I drove into her, a sharp gasp tore from her lips.

She was molten around me, tight and welcoming, her muscles clenching like she couldn’t decide whether to pull me deeper or push me away. I hauled her harder against my thrusts. The sound of skin on skin filled the room—a filthy, rhythmic beat of pure hunger.

I felt her teetering, that edge so close.

"Come for me, Fiona," I rasped against her neck.

*"I want to watch every fucking second of it."

With a loud, unrestrained cry, she surrendered, her entire body tensing as every muscle fiber trembled under the force of the climax that crashed through her.

Her hands clawed into the edge of the table, knuckles whitening, while her head fell back.

Her breaths came in short, ragged gasps.

It was as if she’d forgotten the world around us—as if nothing existed but the two of us.

I could feel it, every twitch, every aftershock of her body pulsing against mine, pulling me deeper.

My movements grew more controlled, the intensity unwavering, every tremor, every last quake inside her echoing through me as if it were my own.

I closed my eyes, let her pleasure drag me under, surrendering to the raw, uncontrollable force that yanked me over the edge with her.

A low curse escaped my lips as the wave broke over me—a fierce, all-consuming sensation that drowned my senses. I held her tighter, fingers digging into her hips like anchors. Her heat, her closeness, her complete loss of control—it was everything I wanted, and more than I’d expected.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, I finally sank forward, my breath heavy, my body collapsing onto hers as a wild rush of hormones still roared through my veins.

Fiona’s forehead rested against the table, her back rising and falling with deep, exhausted breaths.

I knew she was spent, but I couldn’t bring myself to pull away just yet.

The thought of severing this connection was almost unbearable.

"Fiona," I finally murmured against her skin, my voice rough but warm, "you still alive?"

A soft, breathless laugh escaped her before she mumbled, "That… was the most intense thing I’ve ever felt." Her voice trembled slightly, a mix of exhaustion and raw awe.

My hands slid gently over her sides, feeling the heat of her skin still quivering under my touch.

She turned her head, cheek pressed to the cold table, her eyes searching for mine.

"I don’t ever want it to end."

I never thought words like that would mean anything to me.

But with Fiona, it was different.

Everything was.

From the very beginning, in ways I couldn’t even name.

Our bodies were still joined, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause.

There was only us.

No tomorrow, no obligations—just this searing, unbreakable tether.

"Neither do I," I murmured, my lips brushing the soft skin of her back.

I wanted to memorize her, to trap this moment and keep it forever.

My fingers traced tenderly over her arms, holding her in a touch that was protective this time.

After a while, I slowly pushed myself up.

My legs felt like lead, heavy as if I’d just run a marathon.

Carefully, I began undoing the restraints at her wrists.

When her hands were free, I let them rest for a moment before lifting them gently.

My thumbs stroked lightly over her wrists, massaging the spots where the pressure had been strongest.

"You okay?" I asked, watching her face.

She gave a weak nod, her cheeks still flushed.

I crouched behind her to cut the zip ties at her ankles.

The first snip made her flinch slightly, and as I freed the second, I noticed the deep red marks branding her delicate skin.

"Okay… that’s definitely gonna raise questions," I admitted, unable to suppress a filthy grin as my fingers skimmed over the imprints, as if I could wipe the pain away.

She craned her neck to inspect the evidence of our madness now etched into her skin, shaking her head.

"Russo… you’re completely insane, you know that?"

"Maybe," I countered, amusement lacing my voice as my gaze lingered on the marks.

"But you seem to find crazy fucking irresistible." I lifted her carefully—her legs were unsteady, her body leaning heavily into mine.

"You were incredible," I rasped, holding her close, pulling her in to press a kiss to her forehead.

"I didn’t even do anything…" She arched a brow, a crooked smile playing at her lips as she slumped against me, spent.

"That’s what made it incredible," I murmured against her skin before kissing her again.

She shook her head.

My lips found hers once more—warm, soft—a kiss that spoke everything I felt.

Intense but tender, almost devoted.

Slowly, I guided her toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, lowering us both until we sat naked before the glass.

The world below pulsed on, club lights painting flickering patterns across our sweat-slicked skin.

Fiona’s head rested on my shoulder as my arms encircled her protectively.

After a while, I felt her shift.

Her skin slid against mine, and I let her go without resistance.

She moved just far enough for her back to meet the cool glass.

"Can they see us from down there?"

I shrugged, grinning, letting her imagination run wild for a beat before answering: "One-way mirror."

Relief flickered across her face as she let her head fall back against it.

I watched her trace an idle finger down the glass, her gaze drifting to the scene below—where club-goers moved like insignificant pawns in a game.

My eyes followed hers until they locked onto one figure in particular: Carter, lounging below.

His relaxed smile, the ease in his posture—like nothing in the world could touch him.

"He’s been sitting there this whole time without a damn care.

What a piece of shit," Fiona finally muttered, her voice low but dripping with venom.

She dragged her finger in a slow circle on the glass, as if trying to order her thoughts.

"To think I was stupid enough to fall for his bullshit…"

I tilted my head against the window, studying her—every micro-expression, every flicker of emotion.

"He exploited your trust.

But you underestimated him, too."

"Three weeks," she continued, eyes still fixed on the lounge.

"He knew he was putting me in danger.

Knew it, Alessandro.

And still—nothing.* No explanation, no honesty.

Just lies."* Her fingers dug into her thighs, as if grounding herself. "I should’ve known better. Should’ve seen what a goddamn coward he was from the start."

I stayed silent, absorbing the sharpness of her words—less aimed at Carter than at herself.

My body remained still, but my eyes never left her.

Fiona turned her head slightly, her gaze finding mine again.

"Is this your club?" she asked flatly.

A single nod.

She exhaled a slow, bitter laugh, shaking her head.

"Of course," she murmured, more to herself.

Her fingers fidgeted along the glass edge.

"Did you have Ricci tail Carter?" Her eyes searched mine, probing.

"Do you even know what hotel we’re at?"

I held her stare, unflinching.

"You’ve met Giovanni," I said finally.

"He has a six-man team for intel."

She laughed softly—a bitter sound echoing in the quiet room.

"Of course." She turned her head away, staring back down at the club below.

"You know what?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.

"I don’t even care anymore.

I can’t hide anything from you anyway. No matter what I do, you’ll always know." Her head thudded lightly against the glass as she closed her eyes for a moment. "You’re the most corrupt thing I’ve ever met, Alessandro," she murmured, exhaustion and anger seeping into every word. When she opened her eyes again, they locked onto mine. "That you’d actually go this far—" Her voice cracked, and she shook her head wordlessly, too drained to finish.

"It’s my club," I said evenly.

"Whatever they planted on you doesn’t matter.

There would’ve been no consequences."

She stared at me for a long moment, disbelief etched into her features.

Her eyes searched for something I couldn’t give her.

"That’s not the point.

It’s the principle.

And how do you think it made me feel?" She exhaled sharply, leaning back against the glass. "But like I said—I don’t care anymore." Her voice was rough. "I meant it when I said you ruined me."

I stayed silent.

"Everything I built—my morals, my values—everything I tried to salvage from that fucked-up childhood…" She swallowed hard.

"You destroyed it in a heartbeat.

All the things I believed in, the things that made me me." Her eyes glistened.

"Now I just feel… empty."

I took my time before answering.

"It’s not emptiness.

It’s the loss of control.

You fought me.

You didn’t want to admit how much you need me."

A quiet, mocking laugh escaped her—more scorn than amusement.

"Loss of control?" she repeated, voice trembling.

"That’s what you think? You’re so goddamn self-righteous, Alessandro.

Maybe I needed you.

Maybe I was drawn to that… darkness in you. But do you need me? Or am I just another piece in your fucked-up power game—something to use and break as you please?"

My jaw tightened as I fought the urge to reach for her.

"You’re not a tool, Fiona," I said finally, my voice low.

"You’re the only one who gets under my skin."

Her eyes held mine, her brow furrowed as if weighing her next words.

Then, quietly: "I’m afraid of you.

You’re so damn manipulative.

Carter’s a pathetic fool, and even he played me like a fiddle."

She heard the words but didn’t truly understand them.

She was looking for an excuse—anything to avoid admitting she felt the same.

"What are you really afraid of, Fiona? Me? Or your feelings for me?"

I’d hit the mark.

She rolled her eyes.

"That’s what scares me.

There’s nothing you don’t see through.

That’s not a healthy foundation."

"There’s no better foundation," I countered.

"Says you." Her gaze was sharp with irony.

I let my eyes trace her face.

"You have a choice to make."

"What choice?"

"Whether you want to stay in your world," I said slowly, "or let me in.

All of me." I paused, searching her expression for any sign of understanding.

"It won’t be easy, Fiona.

Being with me means leaving everything behind—your safety, your comfort, the illusion of normalcy..." My gaze flickered away briefly before returning to hers.

"I’m not easy, I know that. And I won’t change much. But you’re the only one who’s ever made me think there could be more." A beat of silence. "I need you, Fiona. More than I’ve ever needed anyone."

She went still, absorbing my words.

It almost seemed unreal to her—that I was capable of feeling this way.

Then, finally, she lifted her chin slightly.

"You’re really not easy, Alessandro," she whispered, her voice softening.

"But then again… neither am I."

I let out a quiet laugh.

"No, you’re definitely not," I murmured, brushing my thumb along her cheek.

"But that’s what makes us, I think.

We’ll probably destroy each other, Fiona.

But goddamn, I can’t do this without you."

She closed her eyes, leaning into my touch.

"Then let’s find out what this really is." Her voice was suddenly calm—as if she’d finally stopped fighting herself.

It felt like she had finally understood that resistance was futile.

She could run, fight, bite—but in the end, she was mine.

It wasn’t just her surrender that filled me with satisfaction, but the realization that she was finally facing the truth.

That she’d stopped fighting what we were.

And I wanted more of it.

"Let me show you Florence," I said, then added with deliberate ambiguity: "My way."

Fiona arched a skeptical brow, her voice dripping with irony.

"Your way?" She drew out the words, emphasizing the double entendre.

"That sounds… dangerous."

I leaned closer, letting my gaze flicker to her lips before meeting her eyes again.

"There’s no better way to see the city," I stated, pushing off from her and standing to dress.

"Oh, how promising." She mirrored me, smoothing her dress.

"And how exactly do you plan to pull that off? In case you forgot—I’m not here alone."

I couldn’t help but smirk.

"That’s the least of our problems.

He’ll get a babysitter."

Fiona’s grin widened as she shook her head in amusement.

"A babysitter? Who, one of your goons to bore him with small talk while you show me the city?"

"Exactly," I replied with a shrug.

"He’ll spend the day drowning in Shanghai weather reports and stock forecasts—just enough to make him feel indispensable."

"Can you turn the glass back into a mirror? I’m pretty sure I look like I’ve been thoroughly… occupied." She laughed, shaking her head.

"Stock forecasts… you’re so damn ruthless, you know that?"

"News to me," I deadpanned before continuing: "I want you to see the Boboli Gardens.

Not the crowded squares, but early in the morning, when the city’s still asleep.

From there, you’ll see the real Florence—beyond the rooftops, all the way to the hills."

I pressed the button in the wall, and the window shifted back into a mirror.

Leaning against the concrete, I watched her—fingers combing through her tousled hair, smoothing the wrinkles from her dress.

The sight forced a satisfied smirk onto my face.

Her disheveled look, the red marks on her skin she couldn’t quite hide—everything about her screamed that she’d just come out of one hell of a ride.

Our eyes met in the reflection. And I loved how hard she was trying to keep up appearances.

"This isn’t funny.

He’s not that stupid—he’ll know exactly what this"—she gestured at herself—"means.

And you don’t look any better, by the way."

I studied my reflection—hair wild, strands sticking out in every direction like I’d just brawled my way through a fight (which wasn’t far from the truth).

My usually polished appearance was completely wrecked.

I dragged a thumb over my split lip, grinning.

"I thought I’d seen it all.

Then I met a wild thing who apparently specializes in breaking jaws in her free time." I turned to her, my smirk widening. "You’re more dangerous than half the men I do business with. Maybe I should hire you as my bodyguard."

She crossed her arms.

"Forget it.

You’d just micromanage me to death." Amusement glinted in her eyes.

"So, a stroll through the gardens? Sounds almost romantic.

Are you going to pick me flowers too?"

"Flowers?" My grin turned predatory.

"I’ll pick you.

Then we’re going to Oltrarno."

"Oh no, that’s packed with tourists—"

"Do I look like a tourist?" I cut her off.

She really was impossible.

"Just trust me.

No tourists.

Just real craftsmanship—workshops passed down for generations. You’ll see how Florence actually lives."

"So, art and culture," she said slowly, as if testing me.

"What else?"

"Lunch at Trattoria Mario.

Looks like a hole in the wall, but they serve the best bistecca alla fiorentina in the city.

After that, we drive into the hills.

Wine tasting at a vineyard with a view that’ll steal your breath."

She leaned in slightly.

"I prefer when you steal my breath," she murmured.

"And what happens when Carter notices I’m gone?"

"Like he did today?" I countered, snatching the bag of coke from the table as I headed for the door.

She rolled her eyes.

"You enjoy twisting the knife, don’t you?" Pausing, she glanced back at the room.

"I haven’t forgotten what you did to me here today, Russo.

Just so we’re clear."

"I’m sorry, okay?" A lie.

"So what’s really going on with this meeting with the Russians?" she asked, tension sharp in her voice.

I exhaled, weighing how much to tell her—or if there was even a point in holding back now.

"Carter wanted it in Miami," I began tightly.

"I pulled strings to move it to Florence.

It wasn’t easy.

These men are careful, paranoid—for good reason. I had to leverage everything to get them here." I paused, holding her gaze as I chose my next words carefully. "The problem, Fiona, is that Carter doesn’t understand how dangerous they really are. To him, it’s just a deal—he needs it to save his company. But for the Russians? It’s personal."

Her brow furrowed, gaze sharpening.

"And why are you telling me this?"

"Because it’s vital they never find out you mean something to me—Carter included.

Who knows what else he might try." My voice hardened.

"If this meeting goes south—and odds are, it will—they could use you as leverage against me or him."

Her eyes widened slightly as the weight of my words sank in.

"So… what does that mean?"

We walked back to the office together, where Giovanni was undoubtedly still waiting, eager for my report.

"It means you’ll have to act completely neutral around them," I explained.

"No looks, no touches—nothing that suggests there’s more between us than polite professionalism.

If they get even a hint that you matter to me..."

"Oh, is that so?" she prodded deliberately.

I smirked.

"If they notice, you’ll be in grave danger." I stopped and turned to her.

"And that risk, Fiona...

isn’t just high.

It’s lethal," I said, my voice icy.

She chewed on that before meeting my eyes again.

"And what if I decide not to go?"

I held her gaze, answering after a long pause: "That’s not an option.

Not anymore."

She arched a brow, nodding thoughtfully.

"Big fucking mess, huh." For a moment, neither of us spoke.

"I’ll handle everything, Fiona.

But these men are professionals—they smell weakness.

They can’t suspect a thing.

That’s why it has to be just you, Carter, and me in that room." We started moving again.

"Where is this even happening?"

"A bar.

Secluded, run-down.

Perfect for business no one’s supposed to see.

Back room."

"A bar? That doesn’t sound... safe."

"Safe? There is no safe place for this.

They know how to apply pressure, how to provoke.

One wrong move, and it escalates."

"And then?" she whispered.

"Then there’s blood.

But Carter—that slimy bastard—" My jaw clenched, fury rising.

"I could kill him for dragging you into this."

She stared at me, motionless, but something flickered in her eyes.

Fear? No.

Something better—understanding.

I pushed open the office door, Fiona right behind me.

Giovanni lounged on the couch, back to us, and without turning, he drawled: "Maestro, did she rip your balls off, or did you actually fuck her?" His voice echoed before he’d even turned around. Shit.

I froze.

Fiona, standing just behind me, shot me a scathing look.

Silence stretched until I broke it: "Giovanni, meet Fiona."

He spun, stunned, then went completely still.

His eyes darted between us, his expression shifting from shock to pure disbelief.

"Holy shit," he muttered, staring at us like we were ghosts.

"You two...

look like you just crawled out of a bar fight—or worse."

I followed his gaze.

Fiona’s hair was still a mess despite her attempts to fix it, her cheek flushed from my grip, marks from our earlier encounter still visible on her skin.

Her ankles told the rest of the story.

My split lip and the blood on my collar filled in the gaps.

Giovanni slowly sank back onto the couch.

"The hell happened to you two?" He leaned back, lacing his hands behind his head, studying us with open amusement.

"Looks like two psychos found each other.

Almost romantic—in a completely fucked-up way."

I rolled my eyes and stepped aside, letting Fiona take the lead.

She fixed him with a look that rendered any explanation from me unnecessary.

"Pleasure to meet you...

Giovanni," she said coolly.

He stood, approaching cautiously.

"Yeah...

likewise." His eyes flicked to me, then back to her, as if still processing the sight of us.

Then his usual grin returned.

"Honestly? I was worried for him. You nearly shattered my knee."

"You deserved it," she fired back without hesitation.

"You knew I was innocent." This woman had more fire than anyone I’d ever met.

He shrugged, throwing me a pointed look.

"That was his idea," he admitted.

Fiona shot me a glare as I opened the safe and put the drugs back.

"Yeah, that doesn't surprise me one bit."

"Sometimes drastic measures are necessary," I said without looking up.

Then I turned to Giovanni, muttering a few words in Italian—hopefully lost on Fiona—before returning to her.

"Still, pleasure to meet you," Giovanni said sincerely.

"Even if...

under less than ideal circumstances."

Fiona crossed her arms, remaining guarded.

"You could say that."

Giovanni leaned against the cabinet, his finger pointing directly at Fiona's ankles.

A wide grin spread across his face.

"Madonna mia, Alessandro," he said theatrically, shaking his head.

"You really are a sick bastard.

Even the Russians don’t leave marks like that."

Fiona followed his gaze, and I watched the flush creep up her neck.

Still, she straightened, her posture radiating defiance as if he’d been talking about someone else.

Giovanni jerked his chin toward my split lip next.

"And this? Looks like a damn street mutt got ahold of you."

I leaned against the wall opposite Fiona, my eyes locked on her as I smirked.

"Only one mutt’s ever dared."

"Mutt?" She arched a brow, baring her teeth in a quick snap.

"You provoked it."

Giovanni burst into laughter but quickly raised his hands as if trying to pacify us both.

"You two are completely unhinged.

Respect, though.

Not many go toe-to-toe with him and walk away in one piece."

She folded her arms, shooting me a smug grin.

"Oh, he’s still stubborn, but by the time I’m done with him, he’ll jump at a finger snap."

I just shook my head and disappeared into the bathroom without another word.

The water scalded my skin, but my thoughts refused to quiet.

They dragged me back into the whirlwind—back to Fiona, to what had just happened between us.

I braced my hands against the cool tiles, eyes shut, the images flooding in so vividly they nearly overwhelmed me.

The way she’d writhed beneath me, utterly powerless yet still burning with defiance. That lethal combination of strength and surrender, woven into her very being, driving me mad.

But it was the goddamn worry gnawing at me—even now, alone in this room.

The thought of what lay ahead ate at my gut.

She had no idea what was coming.

And Vaughn would pay dearly for dragging her into this nightmare.

The Russians would scent any weakness, any hesitation.

And Fiona would be the one to pay the price.

The thought of her in danger was driving me out of my goddamn mind.

I had to find a way to protect her—at any cost.

I wiped the water from my face, took one last deep breath, and stepped out of the shower.

When I returned to the room, I wore only dark jeans.

My damp hair fell across my forehead, and I immediately caught her gaze—unflinching, direct.

Her eyes trailed slowly over my torso, lingering on the scars marking my skin, following the lines of muscle accentuated by the dim light.

She tried to play it cool, but her attention was unmistakable.

An amused smirk tugged at my lips.

"You’re making it obvious, you know that?" I knew exactly what the sight of me did to her, and I reveled in toying with that effect.

That initial hesitation, the moment she realized she’d been caught, then the way she straightened—like she was trying to flip the power dynamic back in her favor—it was all an open book to me.

She only arched a brow, though a faint flush crept up her neck.

"You’re the one parading around like a piece of meat in a display case," she shot back, lips curling in challenge.

Giovanni, leaning against the wall and watching the whole exchange, let out a quiet laugh and shook his head.

"You two are a fucking spectacle.

I could watch this for hours."

"Don’t get your hopes up, Giovanni," I said dryly.

"You’re not invited to the show."

Giovanni grabbed his jacket, grinning as he headed for the door.

"Either you two kill each other—or end up ruling the damn world together," he tossed over his shoulder before disappearing, still shaking his head.

"Now what?" Fiona asked, suspicion sharp in her voice—like she already knew she wouldn’t like my answer.

"Now we work on your acting." I pulled on a shirt and jerked my chin toward the door.

"What?" Her eyes narrowed.

"We’re both going to Carter’s table.

You’ll practice your poker face."

She froze, voice rising.

"Are you insane? I’m not doing that."

"Wasn’t a question, Fiona." I kept walking, not even turning around.

Her footsteps stalled behind me.

I heard her sharp inhale.

"Alessandro, I’m not—"

I stopped, took a single step back, and pinned her with a hard look.

"Your adrenaline will be screaming when you face the Russians, Fiona.

Your heart will race, your mind will play tricks.

If you don’t practice now, you’ll serve them your mistakes on a silver platter." A beat.

"Carter’s harmless. A fucking dress rehearsal. You think the Russians will go easy on you if you crack?"

Her lips pressed into a thin line, fury sparking in her eyes—but then it clicked.

She exhaled sharply, shoved past me with a muttered, "This is going to be a fucking disaster."

"More like a hell of a good time," I murmured, too low for her to hear.