Page 33 of Lord of the Dark (Drawn into Darkness #1)

Fiona Robertson

I had forgotten what true peace felt like.

Not the quiet kind of peace, but the kind you only experience near someone when you know: You don’t have to be on guard.

No need to control.

Just breathe.

And yet, it had been Alessandro who jolted me awake with a sharp, painful bite.

I flinched as the memory flashed through me—the sharp sting on my ass paired with that devilish glint in his dark eyes.

"Good morning, babe," he'd said, delivering another light smack to my backside.

I'd startled, furious, scrambling half-naked out of bed.

His response? A smirk.

"Twenty minutes.

Breakfast is waiting."

What I found under the label "breakfast" was Alessandro in his purest form: a single espresso, a spread-out newspaper, nothing even remotely resembling pancakes or fruit salad.

I'd laughed then, and I was smiling again now, chewing the last bite of my pizza.

Here, in the heart of Florence.

He'd actually made it happen.

I didn't know what price he'd paid or what favors were now owed—but I was here.

With him.

In a tiny pizzeria with peeling paint and the best dough I'd ever tasted.

I leaned back, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear as I took a sip of water.

Alessandro had disappeared a few minutes earlier—some phone call he had to take.

Probably business.

Or danger.

With him, you never knew exactly where one ended and the other began.

A shadow fell across the table.

I looked up into the face of a middle-aged man—well-groomed, sunglasses.

"Mind if I sit?" he asked in Italian.

I was about to nod—but he didn’t wait for an answer, simply lowering himself into the chair opposite me.

I offered a polite smile.

"Of course."

He studied me for a moment.

"You’re not from here, are you?"

I arched a brow, replying with a wry smile: "That obvious?"

Then Alessandro returned.

His black sunglasses hid his eyes, but I could still see the rigid set of his jaw.

In that moment, I knew—something was wrong.

He stepped wordlessly to our table, positioning himself beside the stranger—and then I heard it.

The soft click.

The sound of a gun being cocked.

My gaze snapped to Alessandro.

The barrel of his pistol was pressed against the man’s back.

"You know why it’s so obvious to Salvatore Carbone that you’re not Italian?" he said, voice low but so cold it stole my breath.

"Because he’s been watching us.

Probably since last night."

My heart pounded in my throat.

I glanced around—the waiter, the couple at the next table, a child with an ice cream—all of them completely oblivious.

No one had noticed a thing.

"Alessandro, please..." I whispered.

"Not here.

He just asked if I was a tourist."

He turned his head slightly toward me, and though I couldn’t see his eyes behind the glasses, his expression was unmistakable.

Ice.

I fell silent instantly.

"Hear that, Carbone? She still believes in the good in people.

What do you think—are we two good men?"

Carbone let out a quiet laugh.

"If we count as good, then hell must already be full."

"Probably.

So be a good boy and signal your men.

Now," Alessandro said, the gun digging harder into his back.

The man hesitated.

Just for a fraction of a second.

Alessandro pressed the muzzle deeper.

"I don’t repeat myself."

Slowly, Carbone raised his right hand.

And then—movement.

From the corner of my eye, I saw men who had seemed like ordinary tourists or patrons stand, casually dispersing from nearby cafés, restaurants, alleys.

One by one.

My stomach twisted.

A sharp wave of nausea hit me.

Alessandro spoke calmly: "Now, both of you stand up.

Nice and slow.

Fiona, you first.

Then our friend here.

And we’re all going inside together. No show, Carbone. Or this gets really ugly."

I took a deep breath.

And stood.

My legs trembled as if all strength had been drained from them.

I looked up at Alessandro.

His face was frozen—no flicker of emotion, no trace of humanity—as if he’d switched to some other mode entirely.

With a silent tilt of his head, he motioned toward the entrance.

"Slow.

Unnoticeable."

I gave the barest nod and began to move, each step measured, as if walking on thin ice.

Behind me, I heard the stranger—Salvatore Carbone—rise, followed closely by Alessandro.

As I crossed the threshold of the restaurant, his voice came again, quiet but razor-sharp: "Right.

Then straight.

To the kitchen."

I hesitated.

Wanted to turn, to question.

But before I could even shift my head, his command cut through—hard, absolute:

"Don’t turn around.

Keep walking."

I swallowed hard, fighting to keep my balance from tipping as I obeyed.

Straight ahead, just as ordered.

The kitchen staff turned when I entered—two men, one woman.

Their eyes met mine for just a second.

Then they saw Alessandro.

And instantly, they looked away, as if they'd seen nothing at all.

They kept working, movements stiff, gazes fixed. Pretending we weren't even there.

A shiver ran down my spine.

It wasn’t just fear—it was the sudden realization.

The man behind me, Alessandro—they weren’t strangers here.

Far from it.

"Keep going straight," his voice came again.

"Through the back exit."

I stepped outside.

The sudden brightness blinded me briefly, and for a moment, everything seemed almost… normal.

A few men stood smoking, chatting quietly like employees on an extended cigarette break.

But the illusion lasted less than two seconds.

The moment Carbone and Alessandro stepped out behind me, the atmosphere shifted violently.

The men stopped talking.

Postures tensed.

One of them—broad-shouldered, in a black suit—reached under his jacket and drew a gun.

Without hesitation, he leveled it at Carbone.

I gasped—and recognized Giovanni.

He strode toward me, grabbing my arm.

"Come on, Fiona."

"What—?" I jerked my arm back.

"No.

I’m not leaving without Alessandro."

His expression was cold, resolute.

"This isn’t a place for you."

"I don’t care." I stood rooted to the spot.

"I’m staying."

Behind Giovanni, I saw Alessandro.

His gun was now pressed directly to Carbone’s temple.

His gaze flicked to me briefly before he called out: "Let her, Giovanni.

If she insists on seeing this..."

My heart hammered.

I could barely breathe.

Every muscle in my body was wound so tight I thought I might snap.

Adrenaline burned through my fingertips.

Alessandro leaned in.

Whispered something to Carbone—words I couldn’t hear.

Carbone turned, now facing Alessandro, and knelt before him.

A blink later, he pulled the trigger.

Carbone just… crumpled.

No drama.

No cry.

Just the dull thud of his body hitting the asphalt.

Nausea hit me like a punch.

I staggered back, turned, stumbled behind the black SUV—and vomited.

Over and over.

My body convulsed, my knees buckling.

I clung to the bumper like it was the only thing keeping me upright.

The world spun.

Everything spun.

I’d arrived, suddenly and violently, in the heart of Alessandro Russo’s world.

Footsteps behind me.

A hand gliding gently over my nape.

Someone gathering my hair back.

"It’s okay, babe… Breathe.

This is normal." His voice was almost soothing.

Nearly tender.

"If you’d taken that without flinching, I’d have been worried."

I laughed.

A shaky, absurd sound—the only thing my body could still manage.

He handed me a tissue.

I wiped my mouth, still kneeling there like someone who didn’t know what had hit them.

"And now?" My voice was fractured.

"The police… they’ll come any minute—"

Behind me, Giovanni let out an amused chuckle.

"La polizia?" he muttered, shaking his head.

Then, with a crooked grin aimed at me: "The police only come here if they’re called.

And only if the right person does the calling." His eyes flicked to Alessandro.

And so did mine.

Alessandro slowly raised his eyebrows with a shrug.

Then he extended his hand toward me—the same one that, mere minutes ago, had taken a man’s life without so much as a blink.

I stared at it.

Loathed it in that moment.

"Yes, Fiona," he said, almost mockingly.

"It’s the same hand as before.

No need to drown in pathetic drama now."

Slowly, I lifted my gaze.

That indifference.

The cold detachment and reprimand made me furious.

"Maybe it’s no...

drama to you anymore," I shot back.

"But you’re a goddamn murderer."

"A murderer?" He stepped closer, suddenly seized my arm, yanked me up with the force of a man who tolerated no defiance, and pinned me against the SUV, my back pressed to the cold metal.

He raised his hand, held it in front of my face.

The hand that had killed.

The hand that had touched me.

"This hand belongs to a mass murderer, if you must know." His voice dropped to a dark whisper.

"And as far as I'm aware, your hands aren’t exactly clean either."

My gaze slid over his face—that face, which looked far too good for the absurd situation I found myself in once again.

I twisted my expression into a sarcastic grimace.

"I don’t have amnesia.

I know what I’ve done."

We climbed into the SUV.

"Then save your Ave Maria for that man," Alessandro said as the driver pulled the car out of the courtyard.

"You should’ve seen him when he sold that girl from Bari to the Russians.

She was fourteen.

Maybe even younger."

I said nothing.

My fingers dug into the soft leather beneath me as if I could anchor myself to it.

"Carbone was a trafficker," Alessandro continued quietly.

"He used entire refugee camps as marketplaces.

Split up families, made children disappear.

Those who didn’t comply were executed in front of the others—or worse." He held my gaze.

"He wasn’t a man anyone will miss. Just another name on a list that’s better off erased."

I kept staring at him, unable to speak.

"When it all came out, he silenced everyone who could’ve testified against him.

Didn’t just make them vanish.

No.

He wanted them to see him.

Forced them to their knees. Looked them in the eye. And then pulled the trigger."

My voice was barely a whisper.

"You did the same to him."

Alessandro jerked toward me, piercing me with a sharp look.

"No," he said softly.

"He killed innocents."

Then he leaned back again, his jaw tight.

"And now you’d better shut up, Fiona," he said flatly.

"I’m not about to justify every one of my decisions to you.

You don’t know the full picture."

He rested his head against the seat, briefly closed his eyes, and muttered dryly, "Honestly, Fiona… your moral dissection is more exhausting than the bullet earlier." He shook his head slightly and exhaled sharply.

"Forgive me for not immediately falling in line with your rhythm." I wiped the last traces from my lips with a tissue.

"Where are we going now?"

He checked his watch.

"We need to prepare you for that goddamn meeting with the Russians tomorrow."

"What does that mean, exactly?" I frowned, completely caught off guard.

He looked at me—a beat too long, too serious.

"You’re getting a tracker," he finally said.

My eyes widened. "What?"

"Your life insurance, Fiona." His tone was so calm, so final, as if any objection from me was unthinkable.

"I’m planning for the worst.

And you should too.

What you saw today was just the preview.

Tomorrow, we’ll have our backs against the wall."

I opened my mouth to speak, but he was faster.

"Maybe now you’ll finally understand what a colossal asshole your Carter is," he continued.

"He sent you in here.

Clueless.

Unprotected.

With nothing but your naivety." Then he turned to me, leaning in so close I could feel his breath. His voice was a hiss, quiet but brimming with hate. "If I had one free wish—I’d do to Vaughn exactly what I did to Carbone."

I took a deep breath.

My thoughts raced.

And then it burst out of me.

"Tell me… why exactly were Giovanni and the others already waiting at the back door?" I turned my head sharply toward him.

"And don’t feed me any bullshit."

He was silent.

Just for a moment.

Then he admitted with a shrug, "I combined business with pleasure."

I blinked. "Oh..."

He sighed.

"I knew since last night that Carbone had men tailing me.

Opportunities like this don’t come often."

"So you used me as bait."

His gaze stayed fixed ahead.

I shook my head.

"You’re no better than Carter."

He scoffed, irritated.

"Don’t compare me to that bastard.

I knew exactly what I was doing and how little risk there was for you."

I didn’t answer.

I couldn’t.

Too much had happened.

I was so exhausted from everything that my eyes fell shut.

When I woke some time later, we still had a good twenty minutes left.

I stared silently out the window, trying to take in the landscape—but my body was too tense to enjoy any of it.

As the car finally slowed, massive, electrically operated wrought-iron gates rose before us.

I glanced in the rearview mirror.

Four more black SUVs.

Like some goddamn presidential convoy.

The gates slowly opened.

Beyond them stretched an endless driveway—lined with slender cypresses standing in perfect rows toward the horizon.

Golden fields shimmered under the heat on either side, olive groves and low drystone walls crisscrossing the hills.

The road was paved with rough cobblestones, flanked by meticulously trimmed hedges—and there, at the end of the avenue, it loomed: a Florentine estate so vast and magnificent it looked like a castle from another era.

Topped with terracotta roofs, towering arches, floor-to-ceiling windows, and stone figures standing guard along the balustrade.

I inhaled sharply.

The sight was breathtaking.

"My God…" I murmured involuntarily.

I couldn’t tell if it was awe—or dread.

Probably both.

This estate wasn’t just impressive.

It was colossal.

Powerful.

And suddenly, I realized just how much power one had to wield to afford something like this.

The thought sent a chill through me. Because if this was the price of his dealings, then today, I’d barely scratched the surface of what Alessandro Russo truly was.

The car rolled slowly along the circular driveway, cutting through the gravel that gleamed like polished stone.

At the center stood a small stone fountain, surrounded by lavender and cypresses.

Then we stopped—right in front of the broad front steps leading up to a building that resembled a palace more than a home.

Alessandro draped his arm over the seat, slowly turned to me, and smiled.

"This is more to your taste, hm? Quite the high standards, Ms.

Robertson," he said, amused.

"At the hunting lodge, you were still… cautiously skeptical."

I just shook my head.

"I’m just speechless." Then I added with a crooked grin, "But before you get any ideas—no, I’m still not going to worship you.

Not even with marble, columns, and this… obscene palace."

He laughed, his gaze sliding over me.

"Good.

You know I like resistance.

Anything else would be boring.

And very unsexy."

We left the SUV and, instead of heading toward the villa, followed a narrow path that led to a much more modest building some distance away.

Flat, pale stucco, mirrored windows—it looked sterile, almost soulless.

I said nothing, just followed him.

Our footsteps on the gravel sounded too loud.

The air itself seemed thicker.

Alessandro opened the door, and I stepped inside.

The hallway was cool, the walls white, the floor smooth.

Everything felt new, untouched.

Only a few rooms.

Through a half-open door, I caught sight of a large hall—cold, metallic, bare.

A harsh surgical light hung from the ceiling, a medical table positioned dead center. My heart dropped into my knees.

Two more doors led to rooms that looked like treatment areas—stainless steel, equipment, nothing personal.

The sharp scent of disinfectant hung in the air.

"What the hell is this place?" I asked, stopping abruptly.

He turned to me, grinning.

"A private hospital of sorts."

I stared at him, shaking my head in disbelief.

"Of course.

Why not? To match the palace—a personal operating room.

All that’s missing is your own private cemetery."

He laughed softly.

"With the kind of injuries we usually deal with, a public hospital is… let’s say, less than ideal.

Too many questions."

I could hardly believe how casually he said it.

As if this were nothing more than a convenient solution for everyday problems.

He opened a door and motioned for me to enter.

Inside, a man in a white coat waited.

Tall, bald, with a calm gaze.

He looked more like a scientist than a traditional doctor.

"Buonasera, Signorina," he greeted me politely, gesturing to one of the chairs.

"I’d rather stand," I replied curtly.

Alessandro chuckled behind me.

"Stubborn as ever."

He exchanged a few words in Italian with the doctor, then turned to me.

His tone had turned serious.

"You’re getting an implant.

A tracker—just under the skin, at the base of your neck."

My stomach clenched.

I opened my mouth, but he kept talking.

"The problem is: if the Russians actually kidnap you, they’ll assume you’re being monitored.

They’ll search you.

So you’re getting two."

I blinked. "Two?"

"The first will be easy to find—right where they’ll look first.

So they think they’ve got everything.

And that they’ve neutralized it."

I swallowed hard, every instinct in me rebelling.

"And the second?"

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small, transparent case.

Inside lay two unremarkable contact lenses.

"The second is in here.

Special lenses.

Microelectronics, nearly undetectable.

Rare enough that they won’t expect it."

I stared at the lenses like they were radioactive.

My stomach lurched.

Again.

"I think I’m gonna be sick."

The doctor gestured for me to sit on the treatment chair.

I did—stiff, unblinking, my hands gripping the armrests like they could anchor me from completely losing it.

The implant was tiny.

And yet it felt like I was officially marked now.

Like I belonged to this world, whether I wanted to or not.

Soon after, I was back in the hallway.

Contacts in, tracker embedded in my neck.

Alessandro stepped beside me.

"It’s the most we can do." His concern was unmistakable.

I looked at him, exhausted.

"Who’s to say this isn’t just another way for you to manipulate me? To keep tabs on me wherever I am?"

"Of course it is.

How else would I know where you are?" He didn’t flinch, but there was a flicker of disappointment in his gaze.

"When will you stop seeing traps in everything? I hope—no, I pray—that this is just an overprecaution.

That the worst-case scenario doesn’t happen, and this damn thing isn’t the only link left between us."

I laughed bitterly at the thought that this trip to Europe was originally supposed to be a vacation.

"So? What now?" I asked wearily.

"Now I take you back.

It’s already late."

My stomach twisted again.

"To Carter."

He only nodded.

"He can’t suspect a thing.

Not today.

Not tomorrow.

You have to play the part, Fiona. So convincingly he never even guesses something’s off."

We left the building.

As we walked back to the car, I caught sight of the men on the grounds in my periphery.

They acknowledged Alessandro with a nod.

I let my gaze wander, trying to process everything.

This place was flawless—in an almost surreal way.

The paths were precisely laid, the gravel on the driveways perfectly raked, the trees planted at exact intervals, as if someone had designed the entire estate with a ruler and compass.

Expansive didn’t even begin to cover it.

The property stretched into the hills, where the last golden light of evening gilded the peaks. In the distance stood more buildings—elegant, terracotta, with columns, loggias, and manicured gardens—each more beautiful, more Tuscan, than the last. I had no idea why anyone would need so many houses on one estate. And I probably didn’t want to know. It was just… too perfect. Too peaceful. Too unreal.

I shook my head unconsciously.

"What are you thinking?" Alessandro asked without looking at me.

I turned to him.

"That this harmony… this peace… it doesn’t suit you.

It’s too soft.

I can’t reconcile you with this paradise."

"I appreciate your honesty." A faint smirk crossed his lips.

Then he shrugged slowly, as if negotiating with himself.

"You don’t get something like this for free." He stepped aside, opening the car door.

"I don’t get to choose how the world works, Fiona." He paused, searching for the right words.

"I just try to be the best player on the field," he added quietly, then got in.

The car fell silent between us.

Only when the lights of Florence reappeared on the horizon did he finally break the quiet.

"You have to be very careful tomorrow.

Trust no one—except me." His voice was steady.

But I heard what lay beneath the words.

Worry. Fear.

I didn’t answer right away.

My heart was pounding too loudly.

My head was too full.

Everything inside me was chaos.

"I don’t know what’s worse," I murmured at last, staring at the glowing hotel entrance sign.

"Sleeping next to Carter tonight—or meeting the Russians tomorrow." A quiet, bitter laugh escaped me.

"I can’t promise I won’t smother him in his sleep."

Alessandro chuckled low, but his gaze remained serious.

"You can still do that later.

When this is over."

The car rolled to a slow stop in front of the hotel.

The headlights cut golden streaks over the cobblestones, and for a moment, the only sound was our breathing.

Then he turned to me.

When I looked at him, there was no trace of the man I’d seen kill with a headshot today.

No coldness.

No hardness.

Just that quiet fear of losing me.

I felt hollow and yet so full I could barely breathe.

More than anything, I wanted to tell him I couldn’t do it.

That I wanted to turn around and just disappear with him.

But I couldn’t.

I had to go through with this. Because Carter had decided it.

And suddenly, it was back—that ache.

That quiet, almost painful pull deep in my chest.

That relentless longing for Alessandro.

For his skin.

His scent. His voice. For his hands—strong enough to pull me out of any darkness, to hold me together when I had no strength left.

"I hate this," I whispered without looking at him.

"I know."

I met his eyes.

His jaw flexed.

And there they were again—those dark, restless eyes.

He leaned in, pressed his forehead briefly to mine.

One last breath of closeness.

One last moment where everything else blurred.

His breath brushed my lips, hot and unsteady.

And then he kissed me like it was the last thing he’d ever get from me—hungry, demanding, his hands gripping me not to possess me, but to keep from losing me.

And I let him.

Because I needed that kiss like air.

Because I didn’t know if I’d ever feel it again.

When he pulled away, the loss was instant.

His warmth faded—and with it, the only sense of safety I had left tonight.

It felt like part of me stayed behind—in his grip, in his breath, in his gaze.

The emptiness crept in, cold and merciless, just like the knowledge that he had to let me go now.

Even though nothing in me was ready to let go. For a moment, our foreheads still lingered together.

"You know what I’m looking forward to the most? Tomorrow night.

When this is all over.

When you’re finally rid of Carter—and mine."

I swallowed.

He smirked, dirty and dark.

"When you walk through my house, so sure of yourself, so wild, that I’ll have to take you against the nearest wall just to keep from losing my mind.

Or you at the kitchen counter, and I’ll make you forget everything that came before.

Fuck, that house has endless ways to take you.

And I’m looking forward to every single one."

I sucked in a breath, my heart leaping.

But he wasn’t done.

His thumb dragged slowly over my bottom lip.

"I’ll chase you through the vineyards.

In the morning sun.

Your hair will be wild, your look as stubborn and defiant as ever, because you’ll think of a thousand reasons to protest.

And I’ll ignore your bitching like always and just pin you to some goddamn stone wall because I can’t take it anymore."

A laugh burst out of me.

I shook my head at the image.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but my gaze flicked back to the hotel—and the weight returned.

"And how am I supposed to…" I searched for words that could hold all of this.

"How am I supposed to sleep next to Carter now, knowing… all of that?" My voice was quiet.

But the tremor in it was unmistakable.

Alessandro watched me for a long moment—so long I almost looked away.

"You won’t.

You’ll lie beside him, but you won’t sleep.

You’ll count.

Minutes. Breaths. Until you’re back with me," he finally said, smiling. Then he slowly opened his door.

"Go.

Before I stop wanting to let you."

I stepped out.

My legs felt like I was wading through water.

As I pushed through the hotel’s revolving door, I turned back one last time.

He was still there, leaning against the car.

Hands in his pockets.

Watching me like he might never see me again.