Page 49 of Take Me Darkly

I shifted, looking up into his dark, striking face. His features were softened by satisfaction and an emotion so profound it mirrored the love blooming in my own chest.

Lying in his arms in the dim light of the Obsidian Room, I finally understood that this—what we had—wasn’t something I would ever feel guilty about. It was something to hold onto, something worth fighting for... and something I was ready to love with everything I had.

Chapter Fifteen

Anton

* * *

Being back at the penthouse felt strange.

I stood in the center of the living room, surrounded by luxury I’d spent years building, and even more time remodeling. The residence had once belonged to Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis—a piece of New York history I’d acquired and ruthlessly transformed into a palace of dark, modern power.

Crystal chandeliers from Baccarat hung from vaulted ceilings, throwing sharp light across the floorboards. The custom burgundy seating was custom B&B Italia arranged around a low marble table by Minotti that cost more than most people earned in a year. Every surface was polished, immaculate, and entirely untouched.

And it was empty.

It had been weeks since I’d stepped foot in this space. Since returning from Italy, I’d lived in the apartment above Club O, where Serena’s scent clung to the sheets and her presence filled every square inch. This penthouse, with all its carefully curated opulence, felt hollow by comparison. The rare scotch collection, the bespoke furniture, the panoramic view of the skyline—none of it mattered.

When did that happen? When did I stop caring about any of this?

The apartment at the club felt more like home than this place ever had. Smaller, yes. Less impressive. But it had Serena. It had warmth, passion, and so much more life. I wondered if the penthouse would feel more welcoming if she were here.

I moved down the corridor to my private office, my heavy footsteps echoing off the walls. Dr. Carlo Martinelli’s research journal sat exactly where I’d left it on my desk, wrapped in protective cloth. Every instinct I possessed screamed that this leather-bound book held the key to understanding why an international cartel wanted Serena dead.

I picked it up, tucking it firmly under my arm, then locked the suite and headed down to the private garage. Zeke was leaning against the reinforced Volvo XC90, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Got it?” he asked.

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

The drive back was quiet, the light-armored Volvo XC90 gliding smoothly through midtown traffic. Zeke navigated with his usual precision, the reinforced vehicle barely making a sound despite the additional plating. Zeke had insisted on a vehicle layered with protection—a precaution I’d once dismissed as excessive.

Until Lucca.

Until I’d held Serena’s limp body in my arms, her blood soaking through my shirt. Now, armored protection no longer seemed trivial.

I watched Manhattan blur past. Midtown gave way to the quieter streets of the club’s district. The tall wrought-iron gates came into view, and Zeke slowed, turning into the private driveway. As the gates swept open, my gaze caught the glass casement set into the stone pillar, showcasing the statue of the woman wrapped in flames.

She stood in eternal defiance, head tipped back, one hand covering a bare breast while the other pressed between her thighs. The hand-blown glass flames at her feet rose in a chaotic wave of blue and amber, the translucent colors creating the illusion of living fire.

The glass was Serena’s creation. Her art.

I remembered finding her standing right here weeks ago, admiring the glass fire she’d crafted years prior in Italy and sold to a Florence gallery. I hadn’t known who she was when the piece found its way into my private collection, nor could I have predicted the odds of the artist stumbling upon her own work while taking a midnight walk outside my gates.

That night, Serena had possessed no idea what lay beyond the iron perimeter. She had no concept of my dark empire or the secrets of Club O. She’d been innocent, curious, and breathtakingly bold, admiring her work in the dark.

And I’d been utterly captivated.

I could still see her face when I’d approached—that intoxicating mix of wariness and intrigue. Could still hear her voice as she’d described what the statue meant to her.

“She’s a woman who understands and accepts who she is. Unafraid to bend to her own needs, she defies societal norms and takes what she wants, owning her pleasure without seeking permission.”

Serena had exposed her soul in that description. She had shown me the woman she craved to be. And right against the stone wall near that very pillar, I had pressed her body to mine and taught her what it felt like to surrender to raw desire.

The Volvo pulled into the secure rear courtyard. Zeke parked and stepped out to open my door.

“I’ll do a perimeter check,” he said. “Make sure everything’s secure.”