Page 52 of Lord of the Dark

He stepped closer and kissed me as gently as a newborn lamb. "Don’t forget, Fiona." His grip around my waist tightened. "You were poaching in my territory today," he said quietly, his voice warning yet silk-soft. "From now on, I’ll be watching your every step. Every move, every word." His fingers traced lightly over my cheek, a contradiction to the threat in his words. "You know too much now."

Then he seized my face, pulled me to him, and his mouth conquered mine in a kiss that swept everything away—thoughts, doubt, reason.

When he broke away, he didn’t retreat a single millimeter. He looked into my eyes, calm, deep, as if to make sure I understood.

And I did.

The doors slid open. Without another word, I stepped out into the lobby. When I turned around one last time, he was still standing there, motionless, his gaze fixed on me. The doors closed again, and the elevator carried him down to the garage. Or to the underworld.

With trembling legs, I left the building, his words and touches still seared into my skin like a brand. Outside, the humidevening air hit me, but it brought no clarity. My thoughts raced. I had shot at him. I had aimed the gun at him, pulled the trigger. And yet... the gun hadn’t been loaded, and he knew it. It had all been a game, a test of his power and my limits. And I had failed. Or won—I didn’t know.

The fear he had instilled in me had been real. I despised myself for how much his strength turned me on, his dominance, his ruthless way of controlling the world around him.

But I also hated him because he kept making me question myself—my morals, my choices, my control. I felt so vulnerable, so exposed, because he could read me better than anyone else in my life.

Sixteen

Alessandro Russo

Iopened the trunk of my car and reached for the iron-clad mask. It was heavy, with rough edges, and felt cool in my hands. The Lord of the Dark’s mask—a tool of terror and an unmistakable symbol in this world. The Lord of the Dark was more than a name—he was a living legend, an untouchable phantom in the underworld’s shadows. Those who moved in this parallel world feared him, yet no one knew the man behind it. Alessandro Russo risked his flawless reputation as a respected lawyer and businessman. The Shadow King, however, reveled in the dreaded reputation of an ice-cold killer.

I fastened the mask, tightening the straps until it molded to my skin. With every breath, I became another man—a figure who commanded both respect and fear. No one in this world could know my true identity.

The air in the yard was thick, laced with the scent of metal, oil, and the sharp tang of burnt electronics. Gravel crunched beneath my boots as I approached the old warehouse. The windows were boarded up, the metal gate rusted on its hinges, and the faint glow of the mercury lamps above cast long shadows across the uneven asphalt.

The dull thudding, rhythmic and almost mechanical, was audible even through the thick steel walls. Giovanni was still at work.

I pushed open the heavy door, its hinges screeching in protest. Inside, it was cool, the darkness broken only by the sporadic beams of overhead lights that cast a sterile, unnatural sheen onthe concrete floor. The stench of blood, sweat, and disinfectant hung heavy in the air.

At the center of the room sat the Colombian—head bowed, blood dripping irregularly from his chin onto the floor. A wretched heap, his clothes torn and soaked with sweat and crimson dampness. His hands were bound to the broad metal arms of the chair with zip ties, his fingers filthy and covered in abrasions.

Giovanni stood beside him, sleeves of his black long-sleeve rolled up, pliers in hand. On a small table next to him lay an array of tools—a scalpel, zip ties, a broken syringe.

"Good news," he announced without looking up as he heard me approach. "He's talking." Then he turned to me, low enough that the Colombian couldn’t hear: "He named Jiménez."

"He named Jiménez? And you pulled his teeth out for that?" I asked, stepping closer, studying the Colombian. Two gaps yawned in his bloodied mouth, his breath rattling. He looked like a man who already knew he was lost. "I thought we were getting more refined."

Giovanni lifted his head and scoffed, tossing the pliers onto the table. "Refined? I didn’t slit his throat like you nearly did with his thigh. You let him bleed out like a pig. Now you’re blaming me for pulling a few teeth?" His voice was edged, his eyes glinting under the sparse light.

I took a long look at the Colombian's injuries.

"Do you know Jiménez?" I finally asked, turning back to Giovanni.

Giovanni arched a brow, leaned back, and crossed his arms over his chest. "No."

I turned to the Colombian again, studying him as he squirmed nervously in his chair like a trapped animal. "So, what’s your boss’s name?" I asked calmly.

His gaze flickered anxiously—darting to Giovanni, then to thetable of tools. Finally, he whimpered: "Jiménez."

I stepped closer to the Colombian, whose panicked stare was fixed on the mask. The Lord of the Dark had that effect on people—the mask alone was enough to break most. "Is it Álvaro Jiménez?" I asked coolly.

His eyes widened, and he began nodding frantically. "Sí... Sí, Señor. Álvaro Jiménez."

I took a deep breath and turned away with slow, deliberate steps. The table of tools wasn’t far. My fingers trailed over the scattered items until I found the knife again. It was my favorite weapon—this one heavy, perfectly balanced. Absolutely ideal for my purposes. I picked it up and dragged the blade sharply across the table’s surface. A shrill, piercing screech cut through the warehouse’s silence. His eyes bulged in panic as he stared at the knife in my hand.

The Colombian gasped, terror flashing in his eyes. He probably assumed I was about to finish what Fiona had interrupted.

"I swear, it’s Jiménez! I—"

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