Dark Rose: Revenge (The Dark Rose Duet #1)

Prologue

Katarina

One Year Ago, Buenos Aires

“One more!”

I pushed the empty glass towards the bartender as the strobe lights set off a pulsing headache that throbbed in time with the beat of the music.

I shouldn’t have been there, let alone on my fourth margarita. But every time I blinked, Sol’s voice echoed in my head.

“It’s a career suicide, Kat. Stick to the projects we give you.”

She blocked the movie I had been wanting to sign for the past year. The one acting role that finally felt meaningful. One I actually resonated with.

“Another one,” I slurred, shoving the empty glass to the bartender, who looked at me like he was terrified of my next move.

He had clearly recognized me. And so did most people in the VIP section of the club.

But I didn’t care. I let them stare. Maybe if they saw me like this, the whole “Darling of Argentina” illusion could shatter, and I would finally be allowed to do a rebrand.

Then maybe I could finally work on meaningful projects.

I pressed the glass to my lips and drank.

"I think you've had enough, Dolcezza." A man’s low voice appeared beside me, like a devil on my shoulder, and I knew immediately who it was.

Damiano Collarini.

The owner of this club and my brother’s client.

Buenos Aires’s newest eligible bachelor and notorious womanizer.

I met him six months ago at Mateo’s office. He had warned me about him then. “Stay away from him. He’s no good for you.”

But in true Katarina fashion, Mateo’s warning had only made me curious about him. And now, whenever I was about to go off the rails, I ended up here like a stupid moth seeking flame.

I turned, my stool wobbling. The devil was leaning against the bar, his emerald eyes scrutinizing my drunk face, lips twisting to one side. He looked so menacing it was impossible to look away.

“Go away,” I rolled my eyes. “I’m trying to have fun.”

“I see that. But does your manager know you’re here?

” he murmured, stepping into my space and taking the stool beside me, his knees caging me as he took his seat.

No qualms at all as he invaded my personal space.

And clearly aware of the embarrassing rush of excitement all over my body that even the alcohol couldn’t numb.

He slowly reached for my glass, his big fingers touching mine.

“Nope,” I grinned through my heavy lids and took my glass back. “They don’t need to know,” I whispered before winking at him.

“Oh my, has the Darling of Argentina gone rogue?” His voice turned to a low growl against my ear, making the hairs at my nape stand.

When I looked at him again, his smirk was taunting.

Inviting.

Begging me to act on that stupid, palpable tension that had been hanging around us since the day we met.

And because I was drunk and angry, I reached out, my hands found the lapels of his jacket, and pulled him down to my level.

“?Por qué siempre me miras así?” He didn't move when I asked why he was looking at me like that.

“Like what?” he asked, playing coy.

“Besame. Solo una vez.”

The words came out like vomit, and before I knew it, I asked him to kiss me.

His head tilted to the right, his lips twitching into a delicious smirk before he whispered, “You don’t want that.”

“Why does everyone think they know what I want?!” I snapped—a little too loud—and his eyebrows shot up his forehead.

“I just think you would regret it.” His voice lowered as his eyes bore into mine. When his gaze dropped to my lips—before my brain could veto the impulse—I pulled him close, and my lips crashed into his.

It started clumsily, tasting of tequila, lime, and desperation. Damiano groaned, letting out a sound of surrender as his hands found my waist, hauling me against him until there was no space left between us.

The kiss consumed me, like a collision of six months of unspoken desire and suppressed hunger.

His tongue swept against mine, possessive and deep, claiming me in a way that made my knees buckle.

I lost myself in the heat of his body, my fingers tangling in the hair at the back of his head, whispering against his skin.

“Te odio por hacerme quererte tanto…” I hated him for making me like him like this.

FLASH.

The flashing white light blinded me as the intimacy we built around us shattered.

Paparazzi.

In a few seconds, the shutters clicked like rapid gunfire, capturing every angle of us.

“Oh god,” I gasped as the budding scandal dawned on me. “Sol will kill me. Mateo will kill you!”

Panic sliced through the haze, and I pushed Damiano away. I bolted toward the exit as fast as I could, dodging people and stumbling with my high heels. I cover my face with my purse, using it as a shield. But it was too late. People had already seen us.

God, my career was over.

I could hear Damiano behind me calling my name, but I didn't stop until I reached the valet lot.

“Katarina! ?Para!”

He caught up to me just as I reached my Audi. He grabbed my arm, his grip firm, spinning me around to face him.

“You’re drunk. You can’t drive. Give me the keys,” he said as he tried to calm me down.

“Let go of me!” I jerked my arm away, my eyes swimming with tears. “Look at them! They’re going to ruin my career and drag you with it!”

“I don't give a damn!” he growled, reaching for the keys again. “I care about you getting home in one piece. Get in my car, or let me call you a driver. You are in no condition to drive.”

“No! Just let me go!” I shouted, shoving him back.

I scrambled into the driver's seat and locked the doors before he could reach the handle. He slammed his fist against the glass, his face twisted in a look of frustration.

“Katarina! Open the door!”

I ignored him, shifted into drive, and floored it. The tires screamed as I tore out of the lot.

I sped down the road as tears streaked down my face.

Mateo was going to be so disappointed in me. God, I didn’t think I could face him after this.

When I checked my side mirror, a single LED headlight cut through the dark. The roar of a high-powered engine echoed off the buildings as we both accelerated.

It was Damiano.

He was on his black Ducati, weaving through traffic at reckless, terrifying speed.

His hand was outstretched as he signaled the cars behind him to get out of the way.

I quickly realized we were still being followed by the paparazzi when I saw a car with a man holding a camera hanging out of the window, trying to take a shot on my right.

I panicked, and I took the turn toward the bridge too fast.

The steering wheel jerked violently before the world slanted at an impossible angle.

Then, everything stopped.

There was a heavy weight of gravity pulling me sideways. The screech of metal against the guardrail sounded distant, like a radio playing in another room.

I saw the bridge, the dark water below, and then—the car flipped—a slow-motion tumble that felt like being trapped in a washing machine.

When it finally came to a halt, a suffocating quiet that made my ears ring. The smell of smoke and iron rose from the engine, mixing with the smell of my own blood.

I couldn't move. I couldn't even blink.

I turned my head, and through the shattered windshield, I saw him.

The motorcycle was lying on its side, the headlight still carving a path through the dust.

Damiano was sprinting toward me. His expression was of pure terror, eyes wide, mouth open in a silent scream.

The world began to gray at the edges as I watched him reach the car, his hands clawing at the twisted metal.

He looked beautiful in the moonlight, even when he was desperate and scared.

He came for me, the realization making me smile, as my limbs went cold.

My last view before the darkness swallowed me was of the man whom I would be dragging to hell with me.