Page 26 of Take Me Darkly

Instead, I leaned in slowly and whispered, “Somewhere between the Met Gala and this moment, you became more than a contract or a responsibility. You became the one person I can’t survive without.”

Her breath hitched, her blue eyes widening as she turned her head. “Anton⁠—”

“You don’t have to say anything in return,” I interrupted gently, capturing her chin to hold her gaze. “You asked for a truth, and I gave you mine. Whatever threats are coming for us, we face them together. Not just as your protector, but as someone who cares about you more than I’ve cared about anything in my entire life.”

Then, not wanting to complicate the moment with more words, I captured her mouth in a slow, lingering kiss. It wasn’t the desperate, fevered taking from earlier, but a quiet, solemn vow—a promise of sanctuary built over the ashes of what she’d lost.

When I pulled back, I pressed my forehead to hers. “You’ve had a brutal day, princess. You should get a nap in. Let your body heal.”

She didn’t argue. She rolled onto her side, curling one arm beneath her pillow, her eyes drifting shut. Within minutes, her soft, rhythmic breathing filled the quiet room.

I stayed completely still, watching the rise and fall of her chest, ensuring she was deep in sleep before I carefully disengaged and swung my legs off the bed. I pulled the heavy comforter up over her bare shoulders, tucking her in.

Good girl. Stay sleeping.

She needed the rest more than she would ever admit.

I pulled on a pair of dark jeans and padded quietly out of the bedroom into the adjoining office space. It was a compact, utilitarian room—a stark contrast to the sprawling executive suite I maintained at my penthouse. But this room was where my ascent had begun. It was in this very space that I’d mastered market algorithms and cryptocurrency, transforming raw desperation into an unassailable fortune.

I powered up the laptop, the cool blue light illuminating the dark room. I opened the master architectural schematics for Club O, cross-referencing them with Zeke’s latest security grid. High-definition cameras, access points, private and public spaces, and all the things that kept this place locked down tighter than a fortress populated the screen. I scrolled through the schematics, my mind automatically searching for blind spots or security vectors an enemy could exploit.

That was when my eyes landed on the old rectory attachment.

The structure had been converted years ago. Staff offices occupied the ground floor, alongside an employee lounge and break room. The rest was dead space—archival storage, surplus furniture, and historical remnants from the church’s previous life. But the attached garage sat completely unutilized on the blueprints.

An idea crystallized in my mind.

A glassblowing studio.

A high-end, fully functional workspace built exclusively for her.

I pictured it instantly—the heat of the furnaces glowing in the dark, molten glass catching the light as her talented hands shaped it into something extraordinary. She had told me she was done chasing her father’s ghosts, that she needed to forge her own path. This studio could be her sanctuary. A way to rebuild her life on her own terms.

Without hesitation, I picked up my phone and dialed Tony Marcelli, the master contractor who had constructed the private suites in The Dungeon. He was a master of his craft, but more importantly, he understood the value of total silence.

“Marcelli Construction,” the raspy New York accent answered on the third ring.

“Tony, it’s Anton Romano.”

A brief pause, then his voice sharpened into professional focus. “Mr. Romano. Good to hear from you. The private suites holding up?”

“They’re exceptional. You did a fantastic job.” I leaned back in my leather chair, mentally mapping the rectory space. “I’m calling because I need something else.”

“I’m listening.”

“I have an unused garage attached to the rectory on the club property. I want it converted into a private glassblowing studio.”

“A glass studio?” he repeated, sounding intrigued.

“That’s correct. For glassblowing.”

“That’s specialized work, Mr. Romano. You want the furnaces and all that?”

“Yes. Full professional setup. The space is cleared out, so there’s no demo work required. Can your crew execute it?”

“We can execute anything if the specs are right,” Tony said, the sound of a notepad rustling in the background. “I’ll need to consult a glass-tech specialist for the thermal load. Those furnaces run insanely hot and draw massive current.”

“Zeke will handle the electrician and oversee security access.”