Page 33 of Take Me Darkly

“Thank you, Myla. Truly. I won’t forget this.”

“Just remember the red bracelet—today and any other time you’re in the club,” she said, pointing to my naked wrist. I covered it, embarrassed that I’d already forgotten the number one rule. “And trust me about Krystina. She speaks the language of controlling men fluently.”

I smiled, the crushing helplessness I’d felt since I’d arrived in the United States finally lifting. I had a path to understanding Anton. Once I understood what made him tick, I could begin the fight for my survival.

Anton wanted control.

He was about to learn that control was not a unilateral negotiation. It was a battlefield.

As I walked back to the lift that would return me to the apartment, I felt like a princess returning to her tower. But this time, the bars weren’t just protecting me. They were preparing me from the real enemy that was still out there.

Chapter Eleven

Anton

* * *

The smell of dirt and old wood cut through the club’s usual air of vanilla and leather. It was the scent of raw opportunity, ripe for creation.

I stood in the center of the old rectory garage, a cavernous concrete shell bathed in dust motes. They danced through the light streaming in from the high windows. In a matter of weeks, it would become Serena’s glassblowing studio. Tony Marcelli stood opposite me, a steel tape measure dangling from his calloused fingers, tapping a floor blueprint against his thigh.

Somewhere along the way, she had become my center of gravity.

I knew it with a terrifying certainty that settled deep into my marrow: my world now revolved around her. Every corporate acquisition, every dark strategic move, every breath I drew in the quiet hours of the morning was calibrated for her.

For her. Always for her.

“I’ve consulted two of the top industrial glass-techs on the East Coast for the airflow specs,” Tony explained, his gruff New York cadence echoing off the high ceilings. “I’m bringing in a master-smith to oversee the installation of the main rigs. I’ve already cleared security protocols with Zeke so they can access the garage through the north service bay without ever stepping foot near the main club.”

I gave a single, approving nod. “Good.”

“We’re installing a forty-eight-inch industrial blower for the primary exhaust hood,” Tony continued, tapping the blueprint with a pencil before flipping a page. “The cubic airflow we’re moving is massive. Those furnaces run over two thousand degrees Fahrenheit. Without proper ventilation, you’re looking at heat stroke in under five minutes. Regarding the placement of the secondary glory hole⁠—”

My eyes narrowed, my jaw locking as I cut my gaze to him.

“I’m sorry, Tony. Did you just say glory hole?” My voice dropped an octave, heavy with a lethal warning edge. “I thought I was clear about this build. This is a private creative studio. It will not feature the same architectural amenities as the play suites in the club.”

Tony froze, his face going completely blank for two full seconds before a dark flush crept up his neck to the brim of his hardhat. He cleared his throat violently.

“Jesus, Mr. Romano—no! Not—not that kind of glory hole,” he stammered, holding up his hands defensively. “It’s... Christ, it’s the technical industry term for the secondary furnace opening! Where they keep the gathered glass workable. It’s just what the glassblowers call the reheating chamber.”

I held his nervous stare for a beat, a faint, sardonic curve touching the corner of my mouth as I let him sweat. “To avoid any misunderstandings with me or my staff, let’s call it the reheating furnace. Understood?”

“Reheating furnace. Got it,” Tony breathed, wiping a sleeve across his forehead and returning his attention to his blueprint. “Right. Moving on—I’ve decided to double some of the fireproofing specs. No budget cap, you said. Top of the line on everything. The industrial grade annealer alone is going to run you forty grand, but it’s necessary for the cooling process. Can’t have art pieces shattering after all that work.”

I nodded, although I wasn’t quite sure what he was talking about. I made a mental note to digest every textbook, technical journal, and operational manual on master glassblowing before the week was out. If it mattered to her, I would master the language of it.

Tony adjusted the brim of his hardhat, studying me with curiosity he was trying to mask. “This kind of setup is specialized. High-end. Who’s the glassblower? They may want to add their input.”

I met his gaze, my eyes going flat and impenetrable.

Tony wasn’t a threat. He was a master builder who had executed sensitive, highly discreet projects for me in the past—including the soundproofed, reinforced private chambers deep within The Dungeon. But security required total compartmentalization. The fewer people who knew Serena Martinelli was behind these walls, the fewer threads existed for our enemies to pull.

It was the best way to protect my princess.

My princess.

The title bloomed in my chest, heavy, dark, and fiercely possessive. My brilliant, fiery archaeologist—an Italian beauty forged in academic prestige and tragic grief. I was building her a studio where she could channel the agonizing emotions consuming her, where she could create beauty out of the ashes of everything she’d lost.