Page 3 of Take Me Darkly

Serena

* * *

The silence in the apartment was deafening. It settled over the room like lead, thick and suffocating.

I sat curled in the corner of the plush velvet sofa, knees pulled tight against my chest, staring at floor-to-ceiling windows that might as well have been the bars of a gilded cage. Below me, Manhattan was alive—a chaotic pulse of blaring horns, flashing headlights, and people rushing toward their desires. The world kept spinning as if nothing had changed.

As if my entire existence hadn’t been incinerated seven days ago.

It had been a week since I’d watched my mother’s house burn to the ground, since the night a bullet tore through my shoulder. In a flash of gunfire and smoke, Anton Romano had swept me away from the ashes of my life, carrying my blood-soaked body across the Atlantic to deposit me here—in this luxurious sanctuary suspended above his exclusive club.

The memory played on a cruel, unbroken loop behind my eyelids. Standing in the Italian night, watching infernal flames devour every memory I’d ever cherished. The sharp, terrifying crack of the sniper’s rifle. The white-hot agony ripping through my flesh. And then Anton—his muscular arms locking around me like iron bands, shielding my body with his own while I screamed for my mother—mia mamma—who would never answer again.

She’s gone.

The truth hit me fresh each morning when I woke, a devastating blow that left me gasping for air. The woman who’d sacrificed everything to give me a better life, who’d taught me to be strong and independent and faithful—was gone, and I hadn’t been there to save her.

Now here I was.

Club O.

Just thinking the name made my stomach churn with an intoxicating, terrifying mix of revulsion and heat. This place—a velvet-draped den of sin and unfiltered indulgence—was my sanctuary. The irony wasn’t lost on me. My mother had raised me to be a good Catholic girl, even if I wasn’t practicing. Now I was hiding in a sex club, protected by a dark, possessive man whose mere glance could make me forget every sacred commandment I’d ever been taught.

The apartment was perfectly climate controlled, yet a deep, bone-chilling cold lingered inside me. I pulled the cashmere throw tighter over my body. The movement tugged violently at my bandaged shoulder, sending a spike of agony radiating down my arm. A vicious reminder of how close I’d come to dying in that Italian street—to joining my mother. Nothing could chase away the chill that had settled in my bones the moment Anton told me she was dead.

Mamma.

Images of her face sliced my heart, painfully lashing until I choked on a sob.

The soft click of a door opening made me turn too quickly. Pain flared through my shoulder, and I sucked in a sharp breath.

Anton stepped into the room.

Even exhausted, the man was a breathtaking predator. His expensive suit jacket was gone, his crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the throat to reveal the shadow of his collarbone, sleeves rolled up over forearms corded with muscle and vein. His dark hair was mussed, as if he’d spent hours dragging his hands through it in frustration. He exuded an unyielding, dangerous authority—all sharp cheekbones, broad shoulders, and lethal grace.

Our eyes locked across the room, and the air instantly charged with static electricity. The raw, magnetic pull between us had been there since the night we met outside the Met Gala, but now it was laced with something far more volatile. A dark, heady cocktail of deep resentment, desperate gratitude, and a terrifying, primal need that made my pulse hammer.

“You look tired,” I said, keeping my voice carefully flat to mask the tremor in my chest.

“I don’t sleep much anymore.” His voice was a low, raspy rumble that vibrated straight down my spine, waking up nerve endings I desperately wanted to keep numb.

I nodded, accepting the explanation without pushing for more. A week ago, I would have pushed, demanding he drop the stoic mask. Now, I let the silence stretch between us, allowing truth to go unchecked, another casualty of everything we’d lost. Besides, I didn’t need an explanation. I knew he wasn’t lying. Neither of us had slept properly since Italy. I was terrified to close my eyes, afraid that my nightmares would bleed into reality, and that somehow, I’d awake to even more horrors.

Anton’s dark, onyx gaze drifted down to the coffee table, landing on the untouched plate of food—some gourmet creation that probably cost more than most people spent on groceries in a week. Concern hinted across his harsh features before he slammed the iron doors back over his emotions.

“You haven’t been eating, Serena.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Serena.”

The way he uttered my name was a command—possessive, heavy, and threaded with a raw agony that almost made me flinch.

“Don’t.” I lifted my good hand, stopping him mid-stride. The sudden movement pulled at my stitches, but I welcomed the bite of physical pain. It kept me grounded. “Don’t you dare come over here and order me around. You’ve already made enough decisions about my life.”

His jaw clenched hard enough to crack enamel. I watched his hands fist at his sides, his chest heaving as he forced his predatory instincts into check. He stayed where he was.

Good. Stay there.