Page 8 of Lord of the Dark

Her eyes remained locked on mine, unblinking, her expression unreadable. Almost indifferent, as if my words meant nothing.

"Glad to hear it," she answered coolly. The reply was clipped, making it clear half-measures wouldn’t suffice. For a fleeting second, she seemed to soften—but it was just that: fleeting.

She was a goddamn control freak, that much was obvious now. And I knew—knew—she wasn’t the type to relinquish that control easily.

Her public reprimand sent heat coiling low in my gut. The thought of her writhing beneath me, fighting to keep command of her body as she screamed my name in pleasure, made my cock twitch in anticipation.

Fiona Robertson had just walked straight into my crosshairs. And I wouldn’t let up until she was mine.

Three

Fiona Robertson

The villa at the center of the deal was an architectural masterpiece—one accessible only to the innermost elite circle. I knew delivering a flawless presentation was crucial to making an impression.

I began calmly and professionally, guiding the attendees through the market analysis and unique features of the coastal villa up for sale. My voice was steady, confident—I was in my element as I laid out the numbers and strategic advantages. The businessmen's attention was entirely on me, and I took pride in the meticulous preparation behind every word.

Then, the atmosphere shifted abruptly. The moment Alexander Russo, the buyer's attorney, entered the room, the air itself seemed to still. The door opened, and every head turned. He stepped inside with a self-assured ease, his dark eyes scanning everything in a single glance. His expression was calm, but sharply attentive.

My pulse quickened as I watched him. It wasn’t just his striking presence—it was the way he moved, as though fully aware of his power and influence. When he crossed the room and took the seat opposite Mrs. Pierce, the tension became palpable, like the entire space was holding its breath, waiting for his next move. Russo didn’t speak immediately. Instead, his gaze swept over the attendees, as if assembling the full picture before engaging.

When his eyes briefly met mine, I caught my breath. In that fleeting moment, I felt seen—as if he could strip away every layer I’d carefully constructed.

Mrs. Pierce rose with a respectful smile. "Mr. Russo, we’re glad you could join us. We’ve already begun the presentation."

Russo gave a slight nod, his expression unreadable. "Proceed." His voice was quiet, but the authority in its depth left no doubt—he commanded the room without needing to raise a single syllable.

From the instant he entered, the dynamic had irrevocably shifted. He became the gravitational center of an intricately staged game, pulling every conversation, every glance, every unspoken thought into his orbit. Russo was known as Miami’s most influential attorney. His presence here confirmed it, eclipsing all other energy until nothing else mattered but him.

His dark gray, custom-tailored suit clung like a second skin, accentuating his athletic frame without appearing ostentatious—every detail about him was meticulously calculated. Beneath it, a flawless white shirt and black tie completed the polished ensemble. At over six feet tall, he towered over everyone in the room, his height and the self-assured way he carried himself demanding attention effortlessly. He commanded respect without grand gestures or raised words. His movements were fluid, controlled—not the performative elegance of a man projecting power, but the quiet confidence of a predator fully aware of its strength, with nothing left to prove.

His thick, dark brown hair was swept back impeccably. Yet there was something in his presence that hinted at untamed energy—something feral lurking beneath the surface.

I wondered if he was of Italian descent, as his surname suggested. The faint golden hue of his skin, the way he moved with a blend of elegance and raw confidence. But that was just speculation forming in my mind as I tried to categorize him.

What captivated me most were his eyes. Dark and intense, nearly black, they fixed on me with an attention that bordered on uncomfortable. Those eyes didn’t just observe—they pierced, asif they could unravel my thoughts, my insecurities, my secrets all at once. I felt their power, their ability to decode every flicker of reaction. There was an unspoken invitation in them, a challenge. They dared me to question myself—not just as a business counterpart, but as a woman. An invitation I’d already accepted without realizing it.

Something about him told me he wasn’t just another lawyer. Every word he spoke carried weight. Every step was backed by a natural authority that didn’t stem from his title, but from something deeper within.

I negotiated with Miami’s top attorneys regularly. Yet not one of them came close to Russo’s sheer presence. He wasn’t just the center of the room—he controlled it. Despite his calm exterior, there was something untamed in his gaze, something that refused to be leashed. Every step, every casual gesture made it clear: he played the game by his own rules, and he’d remove any obstacle in his way without hesitation.

Though he revealed little, the unspoken tension between us was undeniable—a current in the air as inevitable as gravity. With every word he spoke, it became clear this was no ordinary negotiation. Numbers and formalities were merely the surface. His gaze held mine, lingering, assessing, and in that moment I knew: whatever was igniting between us went far beyond business.

Yet I couldn’t ignore how his attention kept drifting to his phone. It grated on me. Mrs. Pierce expected excellence—for me to close this deal flawlessly. That required the buyer’s counsel to actually engage. Why was Russo even here if he was so visibly bored?

When I caught him checking his phone again, something sharp twisted in my chest. This wasn’t just distraction—it was disrespect. The Dade County deal was one of our most significant in months, and his indifference was palpable.

I studied him longer. The ease with which he occupied space, as if the world bent to his will, as if this meeting were a triviality. And yet—there was something mesmerizing in his control, even when disengaged. But the phone was a step too far. So I called him out. I needed him to know I’d noticed.

He looked up when I demanded his full attention. For a heartbeat, something flickered in his eyes—surprise? Amusement? Unreadable. But his reaction spoke volumes. Instead of irritation, he seemed… entertained.

His smile was calm. Challenging. As if my confrontation delighted him. That only stoked my frustration further.

My pulse jumped. That quiet arrogance unsettled me. Anger simmered beneath my professional mask—in this world, emotions were liabilities. Yet inwardly, I seethed. Respect seemed meaningless to him. As if he’d already scripted this meeting’s outcome long before stepping into the room.

And still—perhaps because of it—I couldn’t look away. A dangerous cocktail of attraction and irritation burned through me. How could someone be so infuriating and yet so utterly compelling?

When the meeting finally ended, I left the conference room with quick steps, trying to organize my thoughts. On my way back to my office, I struggled to refocus. The deal was important, and I knew the next steps needed careful planning. But all I could think about was Russo—his penetrating gaze, his presence. It was as if he’d seen something in me I hadn’t yet fully understood myself.

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