Page 34 of Lord of the Dark (Drawn into Darkness #1)

When I came to, my entire body felt like I'd walked through hell.

I was lying on a cold concrete floor, nothing but a filthy mattress beside me and a bucket in the far corner.

Memories flooded back as I struggled to make sense of my surroundings.

I'd been taken.

Karpin had seized me after everything escalated.

I remembered how he led me to a delivery van where two other men were waiting.

They bound my hands and gagged my mouth before throwing me onto the cargo bed and holding a cloth to my nose that plunged me into darkness.

My thoughts drifted to Alessandro.

I was deeply worried because he had been shot and was bleeding heavily.

Over and over, tears welled up at the thought that he might not have made it.

Without him, any hope of getting out of here seemed lost.

But even more painful was the thought of perhaps never seeing him again. I pushed these thoughts aside and instead imagined how, in a few days, he would find me and set me free. The tracker.

Panic rose in me as my hand instinctively flew to the back of my neck.

My fingers found the fresh, throbbing spot—a small, ragged wound.

Exactly where Alessandro had placed the tracker.

He had anticipated this.

Of course he had. They must have scanned me, discovered the transmitter, and removed it immediately. I clenched my teeth, swaying between fury and despair. So many times I had cursed him for his obsession with control—and yet, in this moment, I was infinitely grateful for it. Slowly, I brushed my fingers over my closed eyelid. A barely perceptible piece of technology—the contact lenses were still in place. Tiny, inconspicuous, they too held a chip. And they had clearly overlooked them. A glimmer of hope.

Suddenly, I heard footsteps outside the metal door.

Instinctively, I pulled the heavy chain securing my right hand closer, allowing myself more room to move.

The door creaked open, and heavy footsteps approached.

I recoiled as a massive silhouette appeared in the doorway.

The man stepped forward without a word and crouched to unhook my shackle from the chain. I didn’t resist—what would have been the point? It was better if they thought me weak and defenseless. But I wouldn’t hesitate for a second to kill these bastards if necessary.

Only now did I realize I was no longer wearing my own clothes.

Instead, I was draped in a coarse white T-shirt that reached my knees.

The fabric was scratchy, my legs bare, my skin numb from the cold.

Every breath burned in my throat.

The air was thick, metallic.

And I knew with terrifying clarity: this was not a place where people were forgotten.

But broken.

The man behind me didn’t speak.

I only heard his footsteps—steady and heavy—as he led me down a corridor lit by flickering neon tubes.

The concrete beneath my feet was ice-cold, the light casting sickly shadows against the gray walls.

It smelled of disinfectant, rust, and fear.

Then he opened a door.

It screeched on rusted hinges—a sound that cut straight to the bone.

What lay beyond wasn’t a storage room.

Not an interrogation chamber.

It was a stage. For pain.

The room I entered was bathed in harsh light.

There were no windows, the neon tubes the only source, giving the space the repulsive atmosphere of an abattoir.

The air was stale, reeking sharply of blood, sweat, and something burnt.

On a rusted metal table lay surgical tools—strewn haphazardly, as if no one had bothered to clean them.

The floor was stained, the paint peeling in greasy flakes.

In the center stood a chair.

Tall, bolted down, with leather straps on the arm and leg rests.

This was undeniably a place where people were made compliant.

"Sit down," the man growled without looking at me.

I did as he said.

Not out of weakness.

But strategy—because resistance would have been pointless in this moment.

The straps tightened.

First my wrists. Then my ankles. So tight the leather bit into my skin, cutting off circulation. I fought to keep my breathing steady. The pain was secondary. The fear was what mattered.

Another man entered the room.

He wore a white coat.

He spoke to the one behind me in Russian—quick, loud, with the guttural growl typical of that harsh language.

I didn’t understand a word, but the tone was unmistakable.

Impatience laced with irritation.

The man in the coat looked like a "doctor," at least in appearance.

But there was nothing healing about his presence.

His eyes were cold and dead—as if they had seen more than any human should endure.

His movements were detached and calm.

Methodical. Like someone who knew exactly what he was doing—and had done it too many times before. He reached for a pair of forceps.

My breath hitched.

I tracked every motion as adrenaline flooded my body.

Every fiber of me wanted to scream, to sob, to do something—but I stayed silent.

I couldn’t show weakness.

Behind me, a phone rang.

The man behind me answered.

He said nothing, just listened.

For a long time.

The atmosphere shifted violently when he finally spoke—slow, drawn-out, almost reverent.

"Russo."

The word struck my consciousness like thunder.

The man in the coat froze.

His eyes widened.

"Russo?" he repeated, louder this time, almost horrified.

Chaos erupted.

Words were exchanged, voices raised.

I didn’t understand them, but I saw it in their faces.

That name had changed something.

The forceps clattered back onto the table.

Seconds later, the man in the coat stormed out, cursing.

Only one remained.

The one who had stayed silent.

I heard his footsteps as he slowly stepped in front of me.

A chair scraped against the floor, then he sat across from me.

I kept my gaze down.

I didn’t want to look at him.

I didn’t want to know. But then he spoke. Quietly. With a rough, foreign accent.

"So.

You’re Alessandro Russo’s woman."

I stayed silent.

He repeated it, sharper. "Answer."

Slowly, I lifted my head.

And my blood turned to ice.

He looked so much like Alessandro it hurt.

The same dark eyes.

The same sharp jawline.

But there was something in his face—something harder, rawer, corrupted.

Like a darkened reflection of what Alessandro was.

I remembered the one fleeting sentence Alessandro had once let slip.

That there was someone.

He had no siblings—only a half-brother.

One he’d never seen.

One he’d rather forget.

"Well? Are you his?" the man asked again.

I said nothing.

Held my silence like armor.

His smile widened.

Cold cynicism dripped from it.

Then came the blow.

His heavy hand struck me full-force across the face.

My nose shattered on impact.

Blood gushed from it, over my lips, into my mouth.

I spat it out.

Right at his feet.

He remained calm, pulling out a phone.

Then a slip of paper with a number scrawled on it.

I recognized those digits.

Alessandro’s number.

Three rings.

Then the line picked up.

Silence.

No words came through.

But I knew he was there.

I always felt when he was near.

My heart twisted, as if resisting the reality that I was so close to him—yet couldn’t reach him. But the fact that he’d answered at all was proof enough. He was alive. He would come for me.

"Ciao, fratello," the man said, twisting the word brother into an insult.

He spoke to him in rapid Italian—probably assuming I didn’t understand.

"Let me describe what’s sitting just a meter away from me," he murmured, almost savoring the words.

"A pretty little thing.

Dark hair, a bit tousled, but it suits her.

A white T-shirt that reaches her knees—nothing else underneath.

Legs bare. Skin already marked with bruises, trembling slightly. But beautiful. Very beautiful, actually."

He paused, as if giving me time to savor the humiliation—or to sear the images into Alessandro’s mind.

"She has gorgeous lips, you know that?" A low chuckle.

"Full.

Soft—or they were.

Now they’re smeared with blood.

I just broke her nose because she wouldn’t speak when told. But don’t worry… she’ll learn when to open her mouth. And for what. I’ll make sure of that."

He stared at me as he said it.

Direct.

With a gaze that flayed me from the inside out.

"Oh, and by the way—we already found the tracker," he taunted into the phone, eyes lingering on me with relish.

"In the neck, Russo? Really? I expected more from you.

Almost disappointed.

Come on… you used to be better."

I heard every word.

And even as blood dripped from my nose and my legs trembled beneath the chair, for the tiniest moment—I smiled.

Because I knew what he didn’t.

Of course Alessandro had anticipated this.

Of course he’d known where they’d look.

And of course he’d given them exactly what they were meant to find.

But on the other end of the line, there was no reaction.

Not a sound.

Not even static, no accidental noise to betray that someone was listening.

He refused to be provoked.

Not by the words, not by the violence, not by the humiliation. No careless sound, no reaction that might reveal weakness. No mistake.

And yet, it was his silence that hurt me the most.

Because I needed him.

Right in this moment.

I needed his voice, the sound of him, something to prove I hadn’t fallen, wasn’t lost.

And that was exactly what the bastard in front of me was playing with.

He was counting on Alessandro reacting—on him making a mistake, giving himself away, losing control.

Or worse—on me breaking, crumbling under the weight of feeling abandoned by him.

But I knew better.

I knew Alessandro by now.

Knew every nuance of his silence.

And even though it tore me apart inside, even though I drowned in that quiet like an endless tunnel with no light—I trusted him.

Trusted that he knew exactly what he was doing.

That every second of silence, every hesitation, every lack of reaction was calculated.

"Say hello," the stranger suddenly demanded.

With that simple command, he confirmed my suspicion: he wanted our reactions.

Wanted to see me break, wanted to see Alessandro lose control.

Wanted to pit us against each other, expose every weakness.

But he wouldn’t get it.

I would rather have died in that moment than make a single sound.

"Say.

Hello." He repeated, slower, as if trying to force the words out of me.

I stayed silent.

Unyielding.

Then he hit me again.

Harder this time.

My head snapped to the side, the impact stealing my breath.

Blood gushed from my nose so fast my white T-shirt turned crimson in seconds.

I spat it out without flinching. Pain throbbed through my face, but I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth creaked.

A click echoed through the line.

The sound of someone hanging up.

The emptiness that followed was devastating.

It felt like someone had blown a gaping hole through my ribs.

I would have given anything to hear his voice.

One word.

One syllable. Something to give me strength.

But all I got was his silence.

And yet—it told me he was there.

That he knew.

And that he would come.

I clung to that hope with everything I had left.

It was my only lifeline.

The man in front of me leaned in, his gaze drilling into mine.

"You're strong," he finally said.

"But it won’t save you." He leaned back, smiling darkly.

"You could’ve drawn any other card.

But fate wasn’t kind to you. I have unfinished business with Russo—and now chance has blown you right here. Into my hands. Like a gift."