Page 57 of Take Me Darkly

“Alexander,” Anton acknowledged smoothly. “This is Serena Martinelli.”

Alexander extended a broad hand.

“A pleasure, Serena.” His voice was unhurried and commanding, the tone of a man accustomed to owning every room he entered.

“And this is Krystina,” Anton added.

The woman beside Alexander was captivating. She wore a sapphire-blue corset with a sweetheart neckline that accentuated her curves, paired with an elaborate mask adorned with seed pearls. Her dark hair was swept into an elegant chignon, and on her wrist sat the same red silicone band I wore.

She took my hands in hers without hesitation, skipping formalities.

“Serena. I’ve been so eager to meet you.” Her warmth was immediate, and I instantly felt a sense of relief.

“As have I,” I replied genuinely.

As they sat back down, Alexander’s hand settled over Krystina’s waist with a quiet, possessive ease. It was the same territorial energy Anton projected—a fierce, protective edge that was equal parts thrilling and intense.

Alexander raised his glass. “To new friendships.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Krystina smiled, touching her flute to his.

The tension melted over glasses of red wine. We talked about the venue, the masquerade, and the dramatic floral arrangements. Alexander and Krystina possessed a sharp, generous wit that had me laughing for the first time in weeks.

Out of the corner of my eye, I cataloged the subtle dynamics between them. Alexander’s posture naturally leaned toward Krystina whenever she spoke, as if she were the center of his universe. His thumb idly stroked the back of her hand on the table, refilling her glass before she even had to ask.

“Are we going to address the elephant in the room, or pretend it isn’t there?” Alexander asked suddenly, setting his glass down. His expression sharpened slightly.

“Address what?” Anton asked.

“Mac Owens,” Alexander replied cleanly. “The tabloid hound.”

Anton’s jaw locked. “He’s sniffing around. It’s handled. For now.”

“He ran a piece about you last week.” Alexander’s voice was measured. “Nothing specific. But the language was deliberate. He knows you were in Italy, and he knows you brought someone back. He’s building something, but it doesn’t seem like he’s connected all the dots yet.”

“He’s always building something,” Anton said, a dark scowl crossing his face. “He targeted you a few years back, and you managed to navigate it just fine. I’ll deal with him.”

“I managed it only because I had resources, legal counsel, and got ahead of the narrative before he published.” Alexander leaned forward, fingers laced. “You’re far more reclusive than I am, Anton. That makes the press hungrier.”

Krystina went still beside him, the subtle shift in her shoulders telling me the journalist’s name carried history.

“I’ve had Veronica Black on it since before we left Italy,” Anton said, rotating his wine stem between two fingers. “She pulled in the owner of the PR firm, Devon Wilkshire, as well. He’s one of the best in the country. They’ve been feeding alternative narratives. Owens is looking for an insider source, and my people are ensuring he gets one—just not an accurate one.”

“That’s good and it should buy you time,” Alexander allowed. “But Owens isn’t stupid. Once he realizes he’s being fed a script, he’ll dig harder.”

“What would you have me do?” Anton asked with a frown.

“Get in front of it. Controlled disclosure before he controls it for you.”

“Not happening.”

Alexander studied him for a silent beat. “Because of the club.”

“Among other things,” Anton said, his eyes briefly flicking to mine.

I knew Anton was referencing the Serpent’s Disciples. A tabloid reporter was a nuisance, but if Owens exposed the location of Club O, the syndicate hunting me would have a direct map to me.

Alexander reclined, accepting the boundary. “Just don’t let him back you into a corner. That’s all.”