Page 41 of Lord of the Dark

My fingers gripped the edge of the next drawer, and I slid it open slowly.

At the back, half-hidden in the dim light, lay something dark—a gun, cold and lethal, placed so deliberately it seemed to wait for the moment it would be used. My violence-obsessed fatherhad taught me to shoot by age thirteen. I wondered if I could still handle one after all these years. This weapon in this drawer was a silent warning, a reminder that Alessandro was prepared to do anything to protect his power. It was as if I could feel his presence more sharply than ever—his will, his destructive force. I should have felt fear, unease, or both. Instead, my core tightened with something dangerously close to arousal. I shook my head—disgusted with myself, with my body’s twisted response.

I closed the drawer and reached for the next one, unsure what I’d find but determined to keep searching.

What lay inside turned my blood to ice.

Agreements—secret deals, carefully worded side letters, signed by high-ranking city officials. Every name was familiar. Senators, council members, key figures who shaped Miami’s future, all seemingly tied to Russo in some way. The details outlined land sales, massive investments, guaranteed developments for entire districts. Projects worth fortunes, reshaping neighborhoods, cementing power and influence. It hit me like a physical blow: I’d stumbled into something far bigger than I’d ever imagined. Russo wasn’t just playing a game of money and influence—he was pulling the city’s strings, and the power he wielded was absolute. My stomach turned.

These weren’t just business documents. They were proof of his control over the highest political tiers, every signature a binding thread in his web of dependency. A net that ensnared anyone foolish enough to step into it.

A crushing weight settled in my chest as the full scope of his power became clear. Russo could reshape entire districts with these deals, and the public wouldn’t even whisper about it. I sank back into the chair. He held the entire city in his grip—and suddenly, I felt infinitesimally small, like an ant that had stumbled onto a predator’s hunting ground.

A cold shiver raced down my spine. The gun I’d just seen wasn’t the real symbol of his danger. No, the true threat lay in these papers, in the power he wielded silently, over countless lives. I forced myself to return the documents and close the drawer quietly, but my mind reeled. One thing was certain now: I could no longer afford any illusions about Alessandro Russo. This wasn’t a man ruled by emotion or impulse. He was calculating, strategic—and dangerous on a scale I was only beginning to grasp.

Once again, I thought I heard a faint sound—but my guard wasn’t as sharp as before. Only when the doorknob began to lower slowly, silently, did my gaze lock onto the door in frozen shock.

My breath caught. In one automatic, almost instinctive motion, my hand slid toward the drawer where the gun lay. The cold polymer of the Glock beneath my fingers felt like an anchor in this surreal moment—yet my heart pounded so violently I feared he might hear it.

Alessandro stepped inside, and his mere presence turned the air to ice. Dark jeans, black T-shirt—simple, but on him, it looked like armor, only emphasizing his powerful frame. His expression was glacial, unyielding, his eyes pitch-black with fury. Something ominous lurked in his gaze, an unspoken warning: I’d gone too far.

The door clicked shut softly behind him. He stood there, one hand still on the knob, staring at me as if I’d just declared war. His glare was arctic, his aura so threatening my knees nearly buckled. He moved toward me with deliberate slowness, as though he had all the time in the world to corner me.

"You’ve got some fucking nerve, Fiona," he finally shattered the silence, his voice vibrating with rage. "Or maybe you’ve just got a death wish." His words were razor-sharp, and though I tried not to flinch, a tremor coursed through me.

He stepped closer, each movement a silent, violent threat, until I finally found my voice again.

"Stop right there!" I thundered, my grip on the gun desperate, white-knuckled.

A fleeting, amused smirk crossed his face, but his eyes remained glacial. "You do realize you've broken into my office, don't you?" he asked softly. "This is my domain, Fiona. And intruders aren’t handled with kid gloves."

I swallowed but didn’t back down. "How did you know... I was here?"

A shadow of triumph flickered in his expression. "You didn’t actually think someone could enter my office without me knowing?" His gaze drifted upward, and I followed it. Tiny black circles, nearly invisible, blended into the shadows of the ceiling—motion sensors, discreet but ever-watchful. Of course.

"I knew you were a challenge, Fiona," he growled, turning back to me and continuing his advance as if my order to stop had been nothing but a whisper in the wind. "But I didn’t think you’d go this far." His eyes dropped to my hand, still gripping the gun aimed at him.

II wouldn’t shoot to kill—but a grazing shot? That was on the table if he left me no choice.

His smile darkened. "Do you actually plan to fire that thing?"

I swallowed hard; even the weight of the gun in my hand felt pitifully light against what was coming. "I was twelve when my father—that violent bastard—forced me to go hunting with him. Not exactly a healthy environment for a child." Silence. Because the memory of that time laughed at me like some grotesque specter. "He made me kill all kinds of animals. I was a wreck most of the time. Like when I shot my first fawn. It was a fucking massacre—that poor thing didn’t deserve it, just wrong place, wrong time." I held his gaze, pausing. "Eventually, I stopped counting my kills. And I stopped feeling anything at all."No remorse. Nothing. My voice was ice, stripped of emotion. I’d arrived in his world now—at least for this moment. "If I were you, I wouldn’t test me. You’ve overplayed your hand, Alessandro. I won’t let you sabotage my career and toy with me."

His stare hit me like a blade—cold, merciless. For a heartbeat, our eyes locked, and it felt like he was pinning me in place with that look alone, stripping me of any chance to escape.

Then, without a word, he turned and strode to the brown leather chair, opening a hidden panel in the wall. With deliberate calm, he retrieved a heavy crystal decanter filled with a dark, clear liquid—Scotch, probably. Every movement radiated infuriating composure, as if the gun I had trained on him was nothing more than an afterthought.

Unhurried, he poured himself a drink, took a sip, and then sank into the chair with effortless ease, as though he’d already seized control of this moment.

His eyes never left me—intense, penetrating, as if the gun in my hand was irrelevant.„

"Impressive, Fiona. You’re making this very entertaining." He raised his glass, took another sip, his gaze never wavering. "But let me make one thing clear: the game you’re trying to play? I’ve mastered it. In every possible way."

"Maybe it’s time for new rules, Alessandro."

A dark glint flashed across his face. "You really are something else," he murmured.

My pulse roared in my ears, but I didn’t relent. His gaze remained locked on me—curious, almost challenging—as if he was desperate to see how far I’d go. He was the picture of calm, yet I could feel the coiled tension in his posture, like he’d already calculated every possible outcome of this moment.

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