Page 100 of Lord of the Dark

"What?" Her eyes narrowed.

"We’re both going to Carter’s table. You’ll practice your poker face."

She froze, voice rising. "Are you insane? I’m not doing that."

"Wasn’t a question, Fiona." I kept walking, not even turning around.

Her footsteps stalled behind me. I heard her sharp inhale.

"Alessandro, I’m not—"

I stopped, took a single step back, and pinned her with a hard look. "Your adrenaline will be screaming when you face the Russians, Fiona. Your heart will race, your mind will play tricks. If you don’t practice now, you’ll serve them your mistakes on a silver platter." A beat. "Carter’s harmless. A fucking dress rehearsal. You think the Russians will go easy on you if you crack?"

Her lips pressed into a thin line, fury sparking in her eyes—but then it clicked. She exhaled sharply, shoved past me with a muttered, "This is going to be a fucking disaster."

"More like a hell of a good time," I murmured, too low for her to hear.

Twentyfive

Fiona Robertson

The bass of the club vibrated in my bones as I pushed through the crowd. The room was dark, illuminated only by flickering colored lights that transformed the dancing bodies around me into shadow plays. I felt the press of people shoving past me, and the smell of alcohol hung heavy in the air. My breath quickened, but I forced myself to stay calm. No weakness now. Not a trace.

I scanned the crowd for the lounge Carter had described, my eyes desperately searching the tangled mass in front of me. When I turned to look for Alessandro, I noticed him behind me. He moved with a casualness that radiated so much confidence, he parted the crowd effortlessly. His gaze was fixed on me, and a filthy grin played on his lips as he deliberately slowed his pace. He kept his distance, watching me, as if he wanted to see how I handled myself alone. I rolled my eyes, turned away, and took a deep breath.

Finally, I spotted Carter. He sat in one of the lounges, separated from the noise by glass doors, bathed in warm, muted light that highlighted the sleek black leather sofas and the massive glass table in the center. Bottles of expensive champagne stood on the table, alongside heavy crystal glasses already half-empty. Matteo Ricci lounged in a corner, legs crossed, while Carter spoke to him. His posture was relaxed, but his gestures seemed forced, as if he were trying to impress Ricci. God, how pathetic!

I turned around once more and thrust my right palm toward Alessandro in a blocking gesture. He could at least give me a small head start. His grin widened, but he gave me a curt nod,leaned against the wall, and crossed his arms. I knew he’d be watching everything.

With one last deep breath, I finally opened the glass door and stepped into the lounge. Carter noticed me immediately, his expression shifting from surprise to confusion. "Fiona! Where have you been?" His voice was overly concerned, but I saw the indifference in his eyes. "I was so worried." Damned liar.

The first act of the play could begin. I forced a polite smile, though I’d rather have slapped him. Worried? I’d been watching him from above—not once had he looked for me, let alone been concerned. My eyes flickered over the scene—the empty glass in his hand, the relaxed smirk on Ricci’s face. Carter didn’t give a damn about me. He ignored any pretense of restraint and yanked me closer in one sudden motion. Before I could react, he pressed a wet, unwelcome kiss to my lips. My heart pounded wildly. Not from romance. It was the mix of cringing embarrassment and the unsettling certainty that Alessandro was watching. Part of me dreaded his reaction—would he put Carter in his place? But the truth was more complicated: Carter hadn’t done anything wrong. He was, after all, my boyfriend. For now. And yet, this moment felt so horribly wrong I could barely breathe.

I shoved him away and glanced toward Alessandro. "I ran into someone you know," I answered with deliberate indifference. Before Carter could press further, I saw his gaze stick to something behind me. I knew exactly what—or rather, who—was approaching. Disaster in its most beautiful form.

Alessandro entered the lounge with that unmistakable aura of his. My heart raced into my throat. The room already felt too small for all of us. His jeans hugged his long legs, and his shirt revealed just enough of his muscular frame to spark imagination. The sleeves were slightly rolled up, giving him a dangerously masculine edge and effortless elegance Carter couldnever achieve—not just because of proximity, but because of the sheer absurdity of the situation. Carter had no idea what had happened between Alessandro and me, and that made everything even more surreal.

Carter took a big, unsteady step toward Alessandro and extended his hand. "Mr. Russo. Didn’t expect to see you here." His tone was friendly, but I caught the uncertainty in his posture. I fought back the traitorous smirk his reaction to Alessandro provoked.

Carter was at least a head shorter, less present. Alessandro, on the other hand, exuded a natural authority that had nothing to do with his clothes. It was his stance, his gaze, his gestures, the way he spoke. He shook Carter’s hand, his eyes glinting with faint, hidden amusement. He knew Carter was nervous—and he was enjoying it. "Mr. Vaughn," he replied with a nod. "What a surprise to run into you in Florence, of all places." He was already testing Carter with just his greeting. Shit.

Carter held his gaze but stayed silent. I couldn’t tell if he was too drunk or just afraid Alessandro might reveal too much. Tension hung over us like a thick, dark storm cloud. I nudged Carter back onto the sofa and sat beside him.

Alessandro greeted Ricci with a smile so slight I’d never have guessed these two men knew each other—if I hadn’t known better. He could be so cold, so ruthless when he wanted to be, and somehow, that only made him hotter.

The couch hadn't even warmed beneath his ass before the waiter appeared—along with his dutiful accomplice, though Carter, of course, had no idea. He didn’t realize this was Alessandro’s club. Carter’s tongue was noticeably thick as he tried to impress, ordering another bottle of champagne.

Alessandro raised a hand and ordered a Scotch for himself. Hopefully, they'd serve it without ice here—wouldn’t want to ruin it for the distinguished gentleman.

Carter shot Alessandro a glare, visibly displeased by the rejection.

But I knew Alessandro would sooner cut off his own hand than let Carter treat him.

My nerves were stretched to breaking. My stomach churned as my heart hammered violently. Alessandro sat directly across from me, leaning back with one arm draped casually over the sofa. Damn it. My core still throbbed from his ruthless thrusts, yet I felt that treacherous ache between my thighs—proof that he, not me, ruled my body. His expression was the perfect mix of ease and natural dominance as he seized control of the conversation.

"So, Mr. Vaughn," he began, and I prayed he wouldn’t ask why we were here. "What brings you and—" He even paused, letting the words hang heavier. His gaze slid to me. "—your girlfriend to Florence?"

Damn him. The effortless way he said it made one thing clear: he was lightyears ahead of me in this game. If I didn’t know why we were putting on this act—if not for the raw, red line along his throat where my broken nail had torn into him less than an hour ago, trailing beneath his white shirt—I would have been gutted by his cold detachment by now.

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