Page 4 of Lord of the Dark (Drawn into Darkness #1)

Fiona Robertson

The villa at the center of the deal was an architectural masterpiece—one accessible only to the innermost elite circle.

I knew delivering a flawless presentation was crucial to making an impression.

I began calmly and professionally, guiding the attendees through the market analysis and unique features of the coastal villa up for sale.

My voice was steady, confident—I was in my element as I laid out the numbers and strategic advantages.

The businessmen's attention was entirely on me, and I took pride in the meticulous preparation behind every word.

Then, the atmosphere shifted abruptly.

The moment Alexander Russo, the buyer's attorney, entered the room, the air itself seemed to still.

The door opened, and every head turned.

He stepped inside with a self-assured ease, his dark eyes scanning everything in a single glance.

His expression was calm, but sharply attentive.

My pulse quickened as I watched him.

It wasn’t just his striking presence—it was the way he moved, as though fully aware of his power and influence.

When he crossed the room and took the seat opposite Mrs.

Pierce, the tension became palpable, like the entire space was holding its breath, waiting for his next move.

Russo didn’t speak immediately. Instead, his gaze swept over the attendees, as if assembling the full picture before engaging.

When his eyes briefly met mine, I caught my breath.

In that fleeting moment, I felt seen—as if he could strip away every layer I’d carefully constructed.

Mrs.

Pierce rose with a respectful smile.

"Mr.

Russo, we’re glad you could join us.

We’ve already begun the presentation."

Russo gave a slight nod, his expression unreadable.

"Proceed." His voice was quiet, but the authority in its depth left no doubt—he commanded the room without needing to raise a single syllable.

From the instant he entered, the dynamic had irrevocably shifted.

He became the gravitational center of an intricately staged game, pulling every conversation, every glance, every unspoken thought into his orbit.

Russo was known as Miami’s most influential attorney.

His presence here confirmed it, eclipsing all other energy until nothing else mattered but him.

His dark gray, custom-tailored suit clung like a second skin, accentuating his athletic frame without appearing ostentatious—every detail about him was meticulously calculated.

Beneath it, a flawless white shirt and black tie completed the polished ensemble.

At over six feet tall, he towered over everyone in the room, his height and the self-assured way he carried himself demanding attention effortlessly.

He commanded respect without grand gestures or raised words.

His movements were fluid, controlled—not the performative elegance of a man projecting power, but the quiet confidence of a predator fully aware of its strength, with nothing left to prove.

His thick, dark brown hair was swept back impeccably.

Yet there was something in his presence that hinted at untamed energy—something feral lurking beneath the surface.

I wondered if he was of Italian descent, as his surname suggested.

The faint golden hue of his skin, the way he moved with a blend of elegance and raw confidence.

But that was just speculation forming in my mind as I tried to categorize him.

What captivated me most were his eyes.

Dark and intense, nearly black, they fixed on me with an attention that bordered on uncomfortable.

Those eyes didn’t just observe—they pierced, as if they could unravel my thoughts, my insecurities, my secrets all at once.

I felt their power, their ability to decode every flicker of reaction.

There was an unspoken invitation in them, a challenge. They dared me to question myself—not just as a business counterpart, but as a woman. An invitation I’d already accepted without realizing it.

Something about him told me he wasn’t just another lawyer.

Every word he spoke carried weight.

Every step was backed by a natural authority that didn’t stem from his title, but from something deeper within.

I negotiated with Miami’s top attorneys regularly.

Yet not one of them came close to Russo’s sheer presence.

He wasn’t just the center of the room—he controlled it.

Despite his calm exterior, there was something untamed in his gaze, something that refused to be leashed.

Every step, every casual gesture made it clear: he played the game by his own rules, and he’d remove any obstacle in his way without hesitation.

Though he revealed little, the unspoken tension between us was undeniable—a current in the air as inevitable as gravity.

With every word he spoke, it became clear this was no ordinary negotiation.

Numbers and formalities were merely the surface.

His gaze held mine, lingering, assessing, and in that moment I knew: whatever was igniting between us went far beyond business.

Yet I couldn’t ignore how his attention kept drifting to his phone.

It grated on me.

Mrs.

Pierce expected excellence—for me to close this deal flawlessly.

That required the buyer’s counsel to actually engage. Why was Russo even here if he was so visibly bored?

When I caught him checking his phone again, something sharp twisted in my chest.

This wasn’t just distraction—it was disrespect.

The Dade County deal was one of our most significant in months, and his indifference was palpable.

I studied him longer.

The ease with which he occupied space, as if the world bent to his will, as if this meeting were a triviality.

And yet—there was something mesmerizing in his control, even when disengaged.

But the phone was a step too far.

So I called him out. I needed him to know I’d noticed.

He looked up when I demanded his full attention.

For a heartbeat, something flickered in his eyes—surprise? Amusement? Unreadable.

But his reaction spoke volumes.

Instead of irritation, he seemed… entertained.

His smile was calm.

Challenging.

As if my confrontation delighted him.

That only stoked my frustration further.

My pulse jumped.

That quiet arrogance unsettled me.

Anger simmered beneath my professional mask—in this world, emotions were liabilities.

Yet inwardly, I seethed.

Respect seemed meaningless to him. As if he’d already scripted this meeting’s outcome long before stepping into the room.

And still—perhaps because of it—I couldn’t look away.

A dangerous cocktail of attraction and irritation burned through me.

How could someone be so infuriating and yet so utterly compelling?

When the meeting finally ended, I left the conference room with quick steps, trying to organize my thoughts.

On my way back to my office, I struggled to refocus.

The deal was important, and I knew the next steps needed careful planning.

But all I could think about was Russo—his penetrating gaze, his presence.

It was as if he’d seen something in me I hadn’t yet fully understood myself.

I entered my office, closed the door behind me, and sank into my chair, exhausted.

The words on the documents open on my laptop blurred before my eyes.

My thoughts had become uncontrollable, drifting relentlessly.

Russo had completely thrown me off balance, and that infuriated me.

Normally, I was someone who maintained control—over my work, my emotions, my life. I dragged a hand through my hair, inhaling deeply. It was just a meeting, I repeated to myself.

But there was more.

That unspoken tension between us, the way he’d watched me during my presentation—I couldn’t have imagined it.

A soft click at the door made me startle.

Without knocking, the door pushed open—and Alexander Russo stepped inside as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

He paused for a moment, the overhead lights casting sharp angles across his cheekbones and jawline.

His eyes settled on me, and something unspoken flared between us—intangible yet unmistakable.

He moved through the room with effortless ease, his gaze sweeping over the furniture and windows as if calmly measuring my domain. My office was spacious, airy, almost impressive. But with him here, it suddenly felt small. As if his presence alone had shrunk everything else until only he and I remained.

My thoughts stumbled.

He looked good.

Too good.

The dark gray suit fit like it was tailored for him, the sleeves revealing strong, well-groomed hands.

Unconsciously, my eyes tracked his steps, tracing the breadth of his shoulders, the lean taper of his waist—the interplay of power and control in every movement. It was ridiculous—completely inappropriate—and yet I couldn’t stop the shift inside me the moment he’d entered.

When his gaze finally locked onto mine again, it hit me so directly I held my breath.

"I hope I'm not disturbing," he said with a charming smile.

"You are," I noted, a thread of indignation in my voice.

"Most people knock before entering." I watched as his gaze swept over my office, absorbing every minute detail.

His eyes lingered briefly on the photo of Carter on my desk, but he said nothing.

Then he turned back to me.

"I'm not like most—you must’ve noticed that by now." His tone carried a self-assurance that erased everything else in the room.

"And I got the impression you appreciate directness."

I arched a brow, my surprise barely concealed.

"Appreciate directness? What gave you that idea?"

"The way you ran that meeting," he said smoothly, his eyes never leaving mine.

"No half-measures.

Precise, decisive.

You like control—just like I do."

The way he said it left no room for doubt.

A statement, not a question.

"And you find that remarkable?" I kept my voice cool.

"Remarkable enough that I decided to discuss it in person." His eyes narrowed fractionally.

"People like us don’t cross paths often."

I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms, fighting the tremor his words sent through me.

"People like us? Sounds like you’ve already analyzed me."

His gaze wandered my office again, as if this conversation were secondary while he mapped every corner of the space.

"You’re someone who doesn’t waste time on uncertainty.

Someone who’d rather take control than relinquish it." His eyes locked onto mine, and for a moment, I felt laid bare.

"But also someone drawn to real challenges."

"And you think you’re such a challenge?" I wasn’t impressed. Not yet.

He smiled—that dangerous, controlled smile that never reached his eyes—then sank casually into the chair across from my desk.

"I think you know the answer to that as well as I do." His gaze drifted idly, as if he had all the time in the world to dissect every detail.

"Or would you rather complicate it?"

"I’m not following, Mr.

Russo." My voice was ice.

"How could a purely professional relationship become complicated?" Something told me this wasn’t just about business.

I clung to the last shreds of professional distance.

Unfazed, he continued surveying my office like a man tasked with uncovering every secret it held.

Finally, his attention settled on the photo on my desk—Carter and I, smiling, the perfect fa?ade.

"An interesting picture," he remarked without changing expression.

"The boyfriend?"

"The boyfriend," I repeated with a thin smile meant as a warning—he was treading on thin ice.

"Fascinating how happy people can be with lives that seem so...

perfectly staged," he mused, his eyes lingering on Carter’s photo.

"But eventually…" He paused, as if weighing his words.

"...you start wondering if something beneath that fa?ade is crumbling.

Maybe the challenge is missing. Or worse—maybe it’s all just about maintaining the illusion."

His words coiled unease in my chest, as if he knew more than he let on.

The tension thickened.

He was dismantling my armor without lifting a finger.

"And you?" I countered, holding his gaze.

"What are you hiding?"

Russo’s lips curled into an amused yet no less dangerous smile as he leaned back slightly.

"What I’m hiding?" He savored the question, eyes glinting with suppressed amusement—and something darker, more inscrutable.

"Do you really think I’d reveal that so easily?" A deliberate pause, his stare piercing.

"It’s not what I conceal, Ms.

Robertson. It’s what others try to hide—and how they react when I drag it into the light."

He held my gaze, unblinking, the challenge in his words unmistakable.

"Some things only become visible under pressure.

And I’ve never minded turning up the heat...

when necessary."

I studied him now, parsing his intent.

His words weren’t just a challenge—they were a game, one he seemed adept at playing.

But I wasn’t here for games.

That wasn’t my style.

"Turning up the heat, then," I echoed, my tone cool but curious.

"And what do you hope to achieve? That someone cracks? That they...

reveal themselves?"

He paused, as if relishing the moment before answering.

"Not everyone breaks.

Some thrive under pressure.

That’s what’s interesting, Fiona."

My name in his mouth felt intimate, but I refused to let it unsettle me.

"And you want to find out which category I fall into?" I asked with a faint smirk, trying to diffuse the tension.

Russo shattered the pretense with a look that cut straight through me.

"I think we both already know," he said quietly, his voice soft yet edged.

"You’re not the kind who shatters easily."

I paused briefly before fixing him with a defiant stare.

"And what gives you the thrill in all of this? What’s it really about?"

A crooked smile spread across his face, and for a moment, it seemed as if he were considering my question.

"I suppose it’s the hunt for what can’t be easily grasped," he finally answered, his tone turning more contemplative.

"The hunt?" I held his gaze, feeling a faint tingling at the nape of my neck.

"And once you have it, what then? Does it get boring?"

Russo leaned slightly forward, as if trying to pull me closer with his gaze alone.

"It only gets boring when the goal is too easy to reach." His look was challenging, as if deliberately provoking me.

"But I have a feeling you’re not the type to be caught so easily."

"Maybe it’s not the goals that are hard to reach, but the question of whether they’re worth being hunted in the first place."

"You’re right about that," he replied, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"But easy things were never what tempted me."

"Then perhaps you should reconsider your hunt.

Not everything that’s hard to grasp is worth it in the end."

"And yet, it’s precisely that uncertainty that makes it thrilling.

The moment when you still don’t know whether it’ll succeed or not." His gaze pinned me with an intensity that left me immobile.

I felt my heart skip a beat.

Russo knew exactly how to challenge me.

The tension between us was palpable, the air in the room thickening as if each word added another layer.

It infuriated me how effortlessly he invaded my world, as if he’d always known how to spot the cracks in my fa?ade.

But before I could seize the chance to respond, he abruptly shifted direction.

"How about coffee?" he asked finally, his voice so calm and casual, as if he’d just made the most mundane suggestion.

"Perfectly harmless."

I blinked, startled by the sudden change of topic.

"Perfectly harmless coffee?" I repeated, a trace of irony seeping into my voice.

"It almost sounds like you need to convince me."

He smiled faintly—a dangerous smile that told me nothing about his offer was harmless.

"Ms.

Robertson," he said, "it’s just coffee.

Nothing more."

But we both knew it had long since been about more than that.

I gave a slight shake of my head, a thin-lipped smile playing on my lips.

"You really should try harder if you want to seem harmless."

"Maybe I don’t want to.

Being harmless isn’t exactly my strength." He shrugged indifferently.

"I’ve noticed." My words were dry, but the unspoken attraction between us grew heavier.

"And yet," he continued, "coffee might be exactly what you need right now.

A moment to… relax."

I crossed my arms over my chest, as if bracing myself against him.

"Relax? Do you really think you could make me relax?"

His smile deepened.

"Probably not in the way you’re used to."

A laugh escaped me—dry and sharp—before I could suppress it.

"Remarkable that a busy lawyer like you suddenly has time for such a spontaneous coffee break.

I appreciate the invitation, but my afternoon is already packed with appointments," I lied, unwilling to fall into his trap.

"For the things that truly matter, one always finds time." Then he pulled out his phone and dialed a number without breaking eye contact.

"Move the next two meetings to Tuesday… yes, that works.

I’ll be needing a little more time here. Thanks."

Had he really just cleared his afternoon—for me?

A pulse shot through me.

He had actually rescheduled appointments without batting an eye.

For me.

Or rather, for the coffee that had suddenly taken on so much more significance.

"I don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned."

He pocketed his phone and gave me a smile that spoke louder than any words.

"Perhaps both."

I took a deep breath, wrestling internally with the decision of whether I should really play along with his game.

Part of me wanted to refuse, to stand up and make it clear I had no time for such games.

But another part—one I didn’t fully understand yet—was fascinated by his audacity.

"What do you expect now?" I finally asked, locking eyes with him.

"That I’ll just agree? That I’ll drop everything for a coffee?"

"Exactly that." He straightened up, a smirk playing on his lips as if he were already certain of his victory.

I blinked in surprise, letting out an involuntary laugh—short and dry.

Of course.

It was that simple for him.

"And I suppose that always works for you?" I asked with sharp curiosity.

"Let’s just say disappointment isn’t a frequent experience of mine."

I felt the pull, the tension spreading through me like a spark slowly catching fire.

"Fine," I said at last.

"One harmless coffee."

"Perfect," he replied with a triumphant smile.

He moved leisurely toward the door, watching me with a barely perceptible smirk as I gathered my things.

As we walked down the hallway together, I felt the weight of my colleagues’ stares.

Every pair of eyes tracked our path toward the elevator.

My friend and coworker Rachel stood frozen in her office doorway, eyes wide, completely stunned.

I met her gaze and gave a slight shrug, as if to say: No idea what’s happening right now.

Russo, meanwhile, strode beside me with an effortless ease that impressed me all over again.

As if the whispers and stolen glances meant nothing to him.

It was striking—more than I wanted to admit.

That indifference to others’ opinions—it fascinated and unsettled me in equal measure.

He was a man who always had control, no matter the situation, simply because he refused to give others power over him.

The elevator doors closed softly, and suddenly, the space felt too small.

I had known him for only a few hours, and yet Russo had a way of setting every cell in me alight.

Here we stood, side by side, the detached professionalism of the meeting gone, leaving behind something else—unspoken but undeniable.

He said nothing, barely moved.

But I felt him.

Every nuance of his presence.

His scent—masculine, understated, yet it invaded my senses as if pulling me toward him.

My gaze slid to him as if I’d lost control. Russo leaned against the wall, hands loose in his pockets, as if the cramped elevator were his personal stage. He was calm, not overtly watching, but I knew he was aware of my every movement.

His profile was sharp.

The straight nose, the strong jawline that looked even harder in the muted light.

I felt my pulse quicken.

I wasn’t the type to lose my composure.

I was poised, professional. Yet here, in this moment, it was harder to maintain. His proximity was overwhelming, almost suffocating—yet I was drawn to it. Damn it.

Then—without warning—he lifted his head and looked at me.

"Isn’t it astonishing," he said, his voice low and steady, "how quickly things can change?"

Goosebumps prickled across my neck.

It was a challenge, wrapped in words that seemed harmless but were loaded with meaning.

"Life is full of surprises," I replied, my voice firmer than I felt.

"You just have to know how to handle them."

He raised an eyebrow, as if amused by my answer.

"And you do? Know how to handle them?"

A smile stole onto my lips despite myself. "Maybe."

There was an undercurrent of challenge in his eyes.

He wasn’t like anyone else I knew.

There was something in him that made me curious.

Russo pushed off the wall, taking a step toward me until our shoulders nearly brushed.

"I think you know exactly."

For a moment, I held my breath.

He stood so close that any movement would graze him—too close to dismiss as accidental.

It wasn’t a mistake.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

The way he ignored the space between us sent my pulse racing while he remained perfectly composed, as if waiting solely for my reaction.

When the doors opened and the outside world rushed back in, I caught myself with the absurd wish to stay locked in that elevator with him just a few seconds longer.