Page 1 of Lord of the Dark

Prologue

The room was like a seedy shadow theater of the underworld—small, stuffy, and heavy with oppressive tension. The walls were grimy, seemingly groaning under stains and yellowed mold. A musty stench of stale smoke, cheap vodka, and cold cigarette fumes scratched at my nostrils as I sat silently on the rickety chair. A lone bulb, naked and dangling from the ceiling by a wire, flickered intermittently, casting a sickly yellow glow over the men’s faces.

Beside me sat Carter, my boyfriend—or rather, the man who still held that title, though our relationship had long since withered into a hollow shell. I watched as he sprawled in his seat with smug entitlement, as if he owned the world. His lethal overconfidence had brought us to this table, into the company of two Russians who left no doubt that they valued violence over words when it came to business.

Sergei Morozov and Dmitri Karpin did not negotiate. They issued demands, and they wielded every means to enforce them. Carter remained blind to the danger. To him, Alessandro was a safeguard, a status symbol rendering him untouchable. What he failed to grasp: Alessandro Russo was no ally of his. He was my affair. His presence here served one purpose—to shield me when Carter’s arrogance inevitably tipped this meeting into chaos.

Alessandro sat opposite me, the perfect embodiment of restraint and control. Dark jeans and a black fitted tee strained over the hard lines of his shoulders, the veins in his forearms standing in stark relief like silent promises of violence. His undercut hair, usually swept back with precision, fell in disheveled strands, the shadow of stubble amplifying the aura of an untamed, dangerous gangster. He was the kind of man whocompelled you to assume the worst.

Yet Alessandro Russo was infinitely more than Carter—or anyone—could fathom. Outwardly, the influential real estate attorney, a name synonymous with power and ruthless efficiency. But that was merely the veneer. Alessandro operated in a world that plunged deep into the shadows, where legitimate enterprise was a front for the true game. His networks sprawled far beyond Miami, threading through finance, politics, and every murky market in between.

In his homeland, Florence, the Russo estate loomed over the city’s hills—a monument to his reach. The very streets seemed steeped in him, as if the city were an extension of his will. He was not a man for small victories. Alessandro thought in magnitudes others wouldn’t dare contemplate. Every deal was a calculated move in a grander design. Real estate, international investments, opaque underworld transactions—Alessandro’s fingers were in all of it. A master strategist, weaving alliances and, when necessary, enforcing his will with ice-cold brutality.

And me? I was long ensnared in his web, powerless to break free. Even here, amid the stifling danger choking the room, Alessandro held me captive. His gaze remained fixed on the Russians, but I knew—he tracked every shift in the air, every unspoken threat. The invisible puppeteer, pulling strings with absolute control and deliberate action. This was his world: a landscape of tension, power, and veiled violence, ruled with a grip that both enthralled and terrified me. What lay between us had ceased being a game months ago. It was obsession. A hunger so consuming it scraped us both raw. Alessandro was the drug I’d never sought yet now craved in my marrow. He demanded everything—my surrender, my defiance, every last shred of control I pretended to possess—and I gave it. Not from obligation, but from a need that shuddered through me like a second heartbeat.

His hold transcended the physical. In his presence, I became someone else—a version of myself that only existed through him. Our nights were wild, raw, and demanding—a constant interplay of dominance and surrender that reforged me each time. Alessandro took without apology, as though carving his claim into my very bones. And he had.

I was addicted—to the cut of his gaze, the burn of his touch, the exquisite cruelty of his control.

Alone, I saw the same ruin reflected in his eyes. I knew I destroyed him as thoroughly as he did me. This wasn’t love. It was mutual dependence—a relentless game of physical and psychological control and surrender... neither of us certain how it would end. Yet we kept playing, incapable of stopping.

Carter remained oblivious, preening in his overly polished suit like a jester at an execution. To him, I was mere ornamentation—a pretty gambit to sway the Russians. He truly believed he commanded this room. But Alessandro had dealt with men like Morozov and Karpin before. He knew exactly how lethal they were.

Sergei Morozov and Dmitri Karpin—two men whose mere presence turned the blood in my veins to ice—were Russian businessmen. Morozov was the broader-shouldered of the two, a large man in a dark, tailored suit whose heavy fabric clung to his muscular frame like a second skin. His hands rested heavily on the table, as if they were tools ready to seize at any moment. His eyes, set deep beneath a prominent brow, assessed us all with cold calculation. His features were hard, etched with fine scars that told stories he would never speak aloud. His face carried a grim solemnity that promised nothing good.

Karpin, leaner and wirier than his counterpart, radiated a subtle undercurrent of tension. No sooner had he finished one cigarette than he lit another. His nerves seemed thinner than gelatin. His eyes—narrow and alert—darted watchfully betweenus, sharp as a bird of prey's, observing, analyzing. His fingers drummed impatiently against the table, as if he could barely stand the pace of this meeting. The suit he wore, also dark, was plain, almost unremarkable, but the way he moved betrayed a subtle undercurrent of tension and latent aggression. Where Morozov was the picture of calm, Karpin was a loaded weapon, primed to strike at the right moment.

The Russians spoke to Alessandro in low, gravelly Russian, their voices rumbling like distant thunder in the stifling silence of the room. I didn’t understand a word, but the looks Morozov and Karpin exchanged with Russo spoke volumes. This was about business—dark business, the kind that had to involve weapons and money, a world I had been pulled deeper into since my affair with Alessandro began. Alessandro answered in short, measured sentences, as if he knew exactly how much he could reveal.

When the conversation failed to address what Carter deemed important, he leaned forward, his face plastered with a smug smile, and addressed the men in English. "Gentlemen, let's skip the formalities," he said in a tone that sent a shiver down my spine. "I believe you understand this investment presents a highly profitable opportunity." He gestured toward Russo as if he were some kind of extension of himself—a guarantee of success. "With Russo's network backing us, there's no risk. He's my partner in this venture."

For a moment, absolute silence fell over the table, the air thickening as if Carter had just made an irreversible mistake. The Russians shot skeptical glances at Alessandro, their eyes narrowing as they assessed whether this man truly stood with Carter. I saw Russo's jaw tighten—he despised being labeled as Carter’s partner—but outwardly, he remained impassive, his cold control revealing nothing.

The Russians exchanged looks, and the conversation shiftedback to Russian. The thunderous rumble of their voices and the way they studied Alessandro sent a chill through me. He responded quietly, his tone making it clear he was distancing himself from Carter without the fool realizing it. The icy disdain in Morozov’s eyes never wavered.

Then, suddenly, Karpin’s gaze slid to me. His eyes narrowed, a cold, calculating smirk spreading across his face as if he’d just uncovered something previously hidden. His voice was sharp, threatening, as he addressed me directly. "Can we trust your friend here, little lady?" he asked, his broken English even harsher than his tone.

Little lady? I wanted to slap the condescension off his face. But I felt Alessandro’s gaze on me—though he wasn’t looking directly at me, the unspoken warning was palpable. I forced myself to remain still, meeting Karpin’s stare head-on. "Trust isn’t something you’re just given," I replied, my voice as controlled as I could make it. "It’s something you earn."

A cold smirk twitched on Karpin’s lips, and I felt his gaze rake over me like claws. The tension in the room was stretched to breaking point, the table between us barely containing the undercurrents of aggression crackling in the air.

Carter began clumsily inserting himself into the conversation, utterly devoid of any awareness for the explosive tension simmering around him. His voice was slightly raised, as if he were attempting to seize control. "Like I said," he began casually, tossing Russo a smug glance, "with Russo on our side, you’ve got zero risk. He’s my partner in this venture, and with us, the only direction you’re headed is up."

A nervous prickle ran down my spine as I watched Alessandro’s eyes narrow, the faintest twitch of a muscle in his jaw. He was enduring this charade, still refusing to speak, but I could feel his irritation mounting with every word Carter uttered. To Alessandro, this was no partnership—he despised beingpresented as Carter’s "partner." Yet Carter plowed on, his explanations growing vaguer, his arrogant voice drowning in hollow promises that offered the Russians nothing concrete.

Morozov and Karpin exchanged skeptical glances. Their eyes gleamed coldly, their distrust practically tangible. Karpin leaned forward, his broken English sharp and penetrating.

"What is exact plan, Mr. Vaughn? We still not understanding everything." It was more than a question—it was a test, and Carter remained oblivious.

"The plan is simple," Carter began, his tone only amplifying his condescension. "I’m offering you access to an extensive network, connections to Western investors. The potential is limitless." He cast another self-satisfied look toward Alessandro. "Russo here can confirm. His influence and my connections—we’re basically the perfect team for your successful Western investments. With a stake in my company, multiple doors swing open for you."

He had no clue just how familiar these two men already were with Western business dealings. And with every additional syllable he uttered, he only further exposed his dangerous ignorance.

A dark chuckle escaped Karpin, his slitted eyes remaining fixed on Carter like a predator observing wounded prey. He tossed a few Russian words toward Alessandro, and I saw Morozov studying him too, his gaze sharp and penetrating. I couldn’t understand the words, but I knew they were demanding confirmation—was this man truly his partner? Did Russo actually stand behind these hollow promises?

Alessandro answered in Russian, his voice calm but firm, a thread of disdain woven into his tone. It was as if he were making it clear to the Russians that he had no real affiliation with Carter. His words, though quiet and controlled, seemed to placate them—at least momentarily. They understood, apparently, that he was here to observe, not to endorse. ButCarter, blind to the dangerous undercurrents, mistook the pause for momentum. His voice grew louder, almost taunting. "If you don’t accept my terms," he began, staring directly at the two Russians, "then believe me, I have the means to reveal things you wouldn’t like." Under the table, my leg sought Carter’s, aiming to deliver a sharp, silencing kick. But the idiot didn’t just miss the hint—he snapped at me with a loud, table-wide "I know what I’m doing," as if that somehow made his suicidal bravado better.

In Alessandro’s eyes, I could see he wanted to tear Carter apart with his bare hands for that rebuke. His irises were black as pitch, the fury in them unmistakable.

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