Page 28 of Take Me Darkly

Whatever it took. Whatever it cost.

Chapter Nine

Serena

* * *

The heavy leather-bound volume of Imperial Roman Excavations rested in my lap, the dense, familiar text on ancient Latin digs offering a fragile anchor against the chaos in my head. I sat tucked into the corner of the plush velvet sofa, tracing the detailed diagrams of Roman masonry, trying to drown out the memory of the nightmare that had woken me earlier.

Downstairs, Anton was locked in his office working, giving me space while keeping his invisible perimeter wrapped tight around me. Even with him floors below, the apartment felt filled with his dark, possessive presence.

The soft chiming of the private elevator made me look up from the page in surprise.

Anton stepped through the iron gates first, looking immaculate in dark slacks and a charcoal shirt, his sleeves pushed up over his corded forearms. At his side was a tall, striking man who exuded polished, high-stakes authority. Dressed in a tailored suit with a razor-sharp jawline and sharp blue eyes, he carried himself with the unhurried confidence of someone accustomed to managing global crises.

“I didn’t expect you back so soon,” I said, closing the heavy book on my lap.

“I brought someone I need you to meet,” Anton said, his low baritone instantly vibrating down my spine as his dark eyes locked onto mine. He closed the distance between us, his hand settling over the small of my back in a quiet, possessive gesture. “Serena, this is Devon Wilkshire. He’s a partner at Quinn & Wilkshire. He just flew in from Washington to handle our media strategy.”

Devon offered a warm, respectful incline of his head. “Dr. Martinelli. It’s a pleasure, though I wish the circumstances were less chaotic.”

“Just Serena, please,” I replied, gesturing toward the armchairs. “Make yourself comfortable. Anton mentioned you might be coming to help us deal with the press.”

“We aren’t just dealing with them,” Devon said, skipping further pleasantries and getting straight to business. He unbuckled a leather portfolio as he sat down across from us. “We’re going to take the pen out of their hands. Right now, the tabloids are using you as a battering ram to breach Anton’s privacy.”

“If we don’t give them a narrative, they’re going to invent one that puts a massive target on your back,” Anton added.

I glanced at Anton, not sure about how much I could say in front of Devon. Rather than beat around the bush, I just came out with it.

I set my book on the coffee table and leaned forward, looking pointedly at Anton.

“How much does he know?” I asked.

“Everything.”

I sighed with relief. “Good. So, what’s the play?”

“Controlled narrative,” Devon explained, his blue eyes sharp as he laid out the strategy. “We flood the algorithms with our own version of events, but with one absolute condition set by Anton. No one can know you’re in New York, and no one can place you physically with him right now. If the press—or your enemies—realize you’re in Manhattan, the danger to you increases.”

“So then how do we explain where I am?” I probed.

“Starting today, my firm is leaking carefully curated rumors to reputable European and American outlets that will dismiss the tabloids as gossip,” Devon stated smoothly. “The paparazzi might be speculating that you’re in New York, but that will change within a week. The official narrative will spin a story that you are recovering at an undisclosed, ultra-exclusive private medical wellness retreat in Switzerland following the traumatic fire in Lucca. We frame Anton merely as an influential benefactor who arranged your private security and transport after the tragedy, but we leak stories that he’s currently traveling to D.C. and London on corporate business. Then we feed the tabloids just enough high society gossip to satisfy their appetite, while completely misdirecting them away from New York.”

Anton leaned against the edge of the table, his arms crossed over his chest, his presence dominating the space. “Mac Owens will basically be sent on a wild goose chase.”

“Exactly,” Devon agreed.

Before Devon could detail the timeline, the private elevator chimed a second time. The iron doors slid open, and Myla McKinnon stepped into the luxury apartment carrying a stack of notebooks and a tray of fresh espresso. She was dressed in a fitted black blazer, dark jeans, and sleek leather boots, her platinum hair pulled into a razor-sharp ponytail.

“Zeke asked me to bring up the updated access logs for the PR team,” Myla said, her quiet, raspy voice breaking the silence as she stepped out of the private lift.

I watched Devon turn his head toward the sound.

The moment his eyes landed on Myla, the polished, unflappable D.C. strategist subtly stilled. Something electric flashed behind his sharp blue eyes—a sudden, unscripted intensity as his gaze tracked her measured, graceful stride across the room.

Myla set the tray down on the marble island, her eyes politely meeting Devon’s. There was no defiance or posturing in her face—only the composed, sharp focus of a woman who ran an intricate operation behind the scenes and knew her value.

Devon rose to his feet, a smooth, warm smile playing on his lips as he extended his hand. “Devon Wilkshire.”