Page 88 of Lord of the Dark

The security man radioed something into his headset and waited for a response. His posture was professional, yet unmistakably clear: no entry without confirmation.

A guest who had clearly had one too many drinks stumbled into me on his way out, muttering a quick apology before moving on. I stiffened and shook off the moment, though my heart had raced for a brief second. Carter didn’t even notice.

Then, suddenly, the security man nodded and opened themassive doors. "Welcome to ‘Il Tempio,’" he said with an inviting gesture.

The club’s interior was overwhelming. Dark, elegant walls bathed in soft, warm light framed the space. The ceilings were high, adorned with golden stucco that seemed like a tribute to the Renaissance. At the same time, a modern lighting installation spanned the room—flowing lines of LED strips weaving like a net across the ceiling, pulsing in shifting colors to match the beat.

The dance floor was the club’s centerpiece, a throbbing sea of bodies moving to the driving rhythm. Surrounding it were multiple tiers housing seating areas, private lounges, and bars. Everything was crafted from luxurious materials—polished black marble, plush velvet furniture in dark tones, and gleaming glass that amplified the reflections of light.

Carter pulled me through the crowd, his face alight with excitement. "What a place, right? Matteo wasn’t exaggerating."

I nodded slowly. It was impressive, yes—but also suffocating in its perfection. A perfection that felt all too familiar. At the same time, the casual atmosphere soothed me. The people here seemed relaxed, drinking, laughing, and dancing without the razor-sharp severity I associated with Russo.

After just a few steps, we came upon a man who shook Carter’s hand enthusiastically. Matteo Ricci, I assumed. He was tall, with a friendly face, wearing a tailored shirt that made him look more like an entrepreneur than a businessman.

"Matteo, this is Fiona," Carter introduced me.

"Pleasure to meet you," Matteo said with a charming smile, offering his hand. I returned the greeting politely while Carter and Matteo immediately dove into business talk.

"I’ll leave you two for a moment," I finally said, gesturing to my jacket. "I’ll just go put this away."

Carter nodded absently, and Matteo gave me a polite smilebefore pulling Carter back into conversation.

The coat check was at the club’s edge, in a slightly quieter area. Another security man took the jackets, inspecting them carefully. I stepped up, slipped off my jacket, and handed it to him.

He took it with a practiced motion, but then he froze. His gaze locked for a moment before his eyes lifted to meet mine. His face remained neutral, but his eyes… there was something unsettling there.

"Everything alright?" I asked, trying to stay calm.

Suddenly, the security man reached into my jacket pocket and pulled something out. A small, transparent bag of white powder. My heart stopped. I stared at it, unable to speak as my mind raced for any possible explanation. The man who had bumped into me outside must have slipped it into my pocket.

"Cos’è questo?" he asked in Italian, his voice icy and sharp.

"That—that’s not mine!" I stammered in English, raising my hands as if to prove my innocence. "I don’t know what that is! It’s not mine!"

His gaze remained cold, unyielding. Without another word, he seized my arm, his grip like a vise, and dragged me away.

"Wait! This is a mistake!" I cried in panic, trying to wrench free. But his hold was iron.

We moved through the crowd, past the dancing guests who noticed nothing of what was happening to me. The loud music pounded in my ears, blending with my rapid breaths and rising screams. "Carter! Carter!" I shouted, my gaze frantically searching for him, but I couldn’t see him. The security man held me firmly and dragged me onward.

He led me through an inconspicuous door at the edge of the club, one I hadn’t noticed before. Behind it was a long hallway, cool and dimly lit. The walls were made of dark concrete, interrupted in places by narrow LED strips that cast a cold,bluish glow. The floor was polished slate tile, and my footsteps echoed alongside the security man’s firm strides in the narrow, silent corridor.

I kept turning around, desperately searching for someone—anyone—who could help. But the hallway was empty, and the security man ignored my protests completely.

"Please, this isn’t mine! I don’t know how it got in my pocket!" I begged. But he didn’t react, his steps remained steady, and his grip only tightened as I struggled again.

Doors lined the walls to our left and right, dark and locked. Each looked identical—smooth metal with small numbers. It felt like this hallway would never end, an endless march into uncertainty. My throat tightened, panic and fear threatening to overwhelm me.

Finally, the security man stopped in front of a door. It was barely different from the others, save for a small red light above it. He punched a code into a keypad beside it, and the door unlocked with a soft click.

He shoved me inside, and I stumbled into the room.

The atmosphere changed instantly. The space was dimly lit, a single overhead lamp casting cold, whitish light. The walls were rough concrete, and a lone metal table stood in the center, surrounded by impersonal steel chairs. It was obvious this room was designed to unsettle.

On a shelf in the corner lay plastic bags and devices that looked like drug-testing kits. The room had a suffocating air—cold, clinical, yet unmistakably a place where decisions were made that no one was ever meant to know about.

"Sit down," the security man ordered, this time in English, his voice sharp and emotionless.

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