Page 107 of Lord of the Dark

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes tracing my face, a smirk playing on his lips. "Of course you can."

I shifted slightly, pulling the blanket from the sofa over us and letting it settle softly over our bodies. The warmth of the fabric mingled with the heat of his skin, wrapping us in cozy comfort. I felt his steady breath against my hair before finally lifting my head. "Why don’t we actually go into the city?" I asked quietly, turning just enough to look at him. "I’d really love to explore Florence with you."

His expression darkened, the ease of the moment giving way to deep contemplation. He hesitated, as if searching for the right words, before finally answering. "It’s not that simple, Fiona." His voice was calm but firm. "These are the shadows of my life. I can’t just walk into the city, stroll around like anyone else."

"Why?"

His eyes turned hard. "Because the chances of me catching a bullet are too damn high."

The thought tightened like a noose around my throat. A heavy, suffocating weight settled in my chest. My heart clenched painfully as the reality of his words sank in.

"How… how do you live like that?" I asked, tightening my arm around his torso as if I could shield him from the world outside.

His hand stroked slow, soothing circles over my back. "You get used to everything," he said finally, with a bitter resignation that shattered my heart.

I stayed silent, letting his words sink in as the crackling fire filled the quiet between us.

After a pause, he tilted his head toward me, his voice softening. "I promise you, I’ll figure something out."

I looked up at him, searching his eyes for something—anything—to ease the weight of this. But all I found was the unspoken truth: His life would never be simple, and yet, I was ready to stand beside him, not just in this moment but through all the darkness his world held. I would stay at his side, no matter how deep the shadows.

Twentysix

Fiona Robertson

Ihad 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?" heasked 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.

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