Page 87 of Lord of the Dark

My alarm bells rang. "A business contact?"

Carter nodded and reached for his phone. "Yeah, an Italian guy I worked with a few months ago. Good man, very cultured. He said the club is a must—the place to be seen in Florence."

I swallowed hard. "What’s his name?" I asked cautiously, my fingers gripping the armrest so tightly my knuckles turned white.

Carter looked up, his brow slightly furrowed. "Why are you so interested?" His voice was lightly amused, but I heard the curiosity in his tone.

"Just curious," I said quickly, though the words felt heavy on my tongue. "It just seems... unexpected."

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. "His name is Matteo Ricci. He’s a contractor, owns a pretty successful firm here in Italy," Carter explained casually as he reached for his phone. "We worked together on a real estate project in Milan a few months back. Had no idea he was in Florence, but he messaged me this afternoon and said this club is a must—the kind of place you can’t miss."

It sounded so plausible it was hard to find anything suspicious about it. Yet my stomach twisted, and my thoughts raced feverishly. The name meant nothing to me, and the explanationfit. Maybe I really was imagining everything. Russo wasn’t the only powerful man in Italy.

"Okay," I finally said, forcing a smile onto my lips. "Sounds interesting."

Carter seemed satisfied with my response. "This will be good for you, Fiona. Getting out, dancing, enjoying life. It’s exactly what we need. But we should get ready."

We prepared in the suite, and as I rummaged through my suitcase, the tension inside me thickened like a dense fog in my mind. Carter kept glancing my way, humming softly to himself, clearly looking forward to the evening.

He chose an elegant yet casual look—a perfectly fitted dark blue shirt paired with black trousers and high-end leather sneakers. His style was relaxed but still suited for the exclusivity of the club.

I opted for a figure-hugging black dress, elegant yet seductive. It left just enough to the imagination without being overt. The golden earrings Carter had gifted me a while ago glinted in the light as I let my hair fall loosely over one shoulder.

As I stood before the mirror, putting the final touches on my makeup, Carter stepped up behind me. "Wow," he murmured, his gaze sliding over me. "You look so fucking hot."

I paused, studying our reflection—Carter with his effortlessly stylish look, and me, struggling to maintain the facade of calm and composure. His smile was genuine, his eyes warm, and for a moment, I felt safe.

"Thanks," I whispered, turning toward him. "You look amazing too. The perfect gentleman."

He grinned, stepped closer, and slid his hands around my waist as he watched us in the mirror. "I’m the gentleman taking you out tonight," he said playfully, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. "We’re going to have fun, Fiona." Hopefully.

Amused, I countered, "Only if you don’t drown yourself inNegronis again."

Carter laughed, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, that was rough. Milan, remember? That night at the little restaurant with the red velvet couches. Thought I could outdrink my colleagues with Negronis."

I smirked. "Until after the fourth one, when you started toasting Italian cocktail artistry to everyone."

He made a face. "Okay, not my proudest moment. But at least I tipped generously."

"Only because I made you," I shot back, still smiling.

"Tonight, I’m sticking to two—promise," he said with mock seriousness, holding the door open. "Legendary, yes, but no escalation."

I slipped my jacket over my shoulders and took a deep breath. "I’ll hold you to that," I said, grabbing my clutch. "And if you overdo it anyway, I’m taking pictures—for posterity."

"Cruel as always," he replied, feigning outrage before holding the door for me. "But fair. Let’s go—this is gonna be legendary."

Twentythree

Fiona Robertson

The club "Il Tempio" was a sight to behold even from the outside. The building looked like a relic from another time—a fusion of modern design and historical elements. Dark glass and smooth stone walls formed a striking contrast to the delicate bronze embellishments framing the entrance. Towering black metal doors were bathed in subtle, indirect lighting that made the club's golden logo—a stylized temple—gleam faintly. It was a masterful blend of exclusivity and understatement.

DThe air was thick with a deep bass emanating from within, yet the entrance remained calm and orderly. Two large, muscular security men in perfectly tailored suits stood before the doors, and a small group waited to be let in.

Carter and I joined the line, and I noticed Carter tightening his grip around my hand as we drew closer. One of the security men assessed us with a neutral expression before asking, "Whose invitation?"

"Matteo Ricci," Carter answered confidently, giving a slight nod.

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