Page 18 of Control (Dark Syndicate #1)

Daniela

The walls feel like they’re closing in. Every tick of the clock scrapes against my nerves like a serrated blade. I pace the length of the room for the hundredth time, my shoes scuffing the polished floor as I glance at the window.

The sun mocks me with its freedom, painting the garden in gold while I stew in this sterile cage.

I drop onto the couch, but the cushion gives too easily beneath me, leaving no satisfaction. If I sit here for much longer, I’ll fucking explode.

The guards outside my door are statues in suits—silent, immovable, and dull as hell. I throw open the door with more force than necessary, startling one of them, but he recovers fast, his hand hovering near his gun.

“Relax,” I say, crossing my arms. “I’m not planning a jailbreak. Not today, at least.”

His eyes narrow slightly, but he says nothing.

“I need to get out,” I announce. “Just for a little while. There’s an antique shop downtown that I’ve been dying to visit.”

The other guard, the taller of the two, tilts his head, skeptical.

“Not happening,” he replies. His voice is flat.

I clench my fists, digging my nails into my palms. “Look, I’m not asking to walk into a war zone. It’s a shop run by a sweet old lady who probably doesn’t even know how to use a phone, let alone pose a threat. I’ll behave. And you two can play watchdog all you want.”

“We have orders.”

“And I have cabin fever,” I snap. “If you want me to keep my sanity intact, you’ll let me breathe some fresh air. Or do you want to explain to your boss why his little ‘guest’ had a meltdown?”

The taller one sighs, exchanging a glance with his partner. The shorter guard shrugs slightly as if to say, “Your call.”

“Fine,” the tall one relents. “But we’re sticking to you like glue.”

“Lovely,” I mutter, already turning toward the stairs.

****

The antique shop smells like nostalgia and mothballs, a mix of aged wood and forgotten memories. As I step inside, the bell above the door jingles, the sound soft and oddly comforting.

“Daniela, darling!” Betty B’s voice is warm and familiar, like honey in tea. She shuffles out from behind the counter, her wiry frame wrapped in a knitted shawl that’s seen better days. “It’s been too long.”

“Hi, Betty,” I say, smiling despite myself.

She eyes the two hulking guards behind me. “And who are these fine gentlemen? New friends?”

“Something like that,” I mutter.

The taller guard grunts. The shorter one just gives her a tight nod, scanning the shop like Betty might pull a weapon from one of her dusty shelves.

Betty waves them off, unbothered. “Well, come in, come in. I just got a new shipment of art pieces from a local estate sale. Thought of you right away.”

I follow her toward the back, where a mismatched collection of frames leans haphazardly against the wall. Paintings, sketches, photographs—each piece seems to hold a piece of someone’s soul.

The lighting is dim back here, but I’m still able to see. I run my fingers over the edges of a gilded frame, the cracked glass catching faint reflections of me, fractured and distorted.

“They’re beautiful,” I murmur, my voice almost swallowed by the quiet.

Betty beams, her weathered hands brushing against the frames like they’re old friends. “I knew you’d appreciate them. Always had an eye for the good stuff, haven’t you? How’s your own painting coming along, hmm?”

I hesitate. Then I murmur, “It’s....coming.”

She narrows her eyes, and she has the kind of look that sees straight through bullshit. “That bad, huh?”

A shrug is all I can manage. My fingers trail over the delicate brushstrokes of an oil painting, a pastoral scene so far removed from anything I’ve ever known that it feels like a taunt.

“It’s not the painting. It’s…everything else.

It’s like I’m screaming into a void, and no one’s listening. I just want—”

“To be seen,” she cuts in, her voice soft but knowing, like she’s been down this road herself.

I nod, swallowing hard against the lump rising in my throat.

She pats my arm, her touch warm and grounding. “Dreams are funny things, dear. Sometimes, they grow quietly, like wildflowers in the cracks of sidewalks. Other times, they get stomped on before they even have a chance to bloom. But don’t let anyone take yours from you. Not even yourself.”

Her words hit harder than I expect, settling in my chest like jagged stones. Dreams are fragile. She’s right about that. And sometimes, they don’t just get stomped on. They’re obliterated, leaving nothing but ashes and regret.

“I’m trying,” I whisper, but even I can hear the doubt in my voice.

Her eyes narrow, but there’s a glimmer of humor behind them. “Trying? If that’s what you call vandalizing half the city with that bloody dagger painting of yours, then I’d hate to see what you’d do if you weren’t holding back.”

I can’t help the smirk tugging at my lips. “You’ve seen it?”

“Seen it?” Betty raises a brow, hands on her hips.

“I had a customer the other day swear it was some underground rebellion movement. Asked me if I knew the artist personally.” She leans closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Told him I didn’t, of course. Wouldn’t want to ruin your mystique. ”

I let out a laugh, short but real. “Thanks for covering for me.”

She waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t thank me. You owe me. If the cops show up asking about that dagger, I’m sending them straight to you.”

“Fair,” I say, grinning despite myself.

Her tone softens, and she tilts her head, studying me like one of her old, worn paintings. “You know, it’s not just the art. It’s that signature of yours. The bloody hand and the dagger? It’s…well, it’s raw. Honest. It makes people stop and look, even if they don’t understand it.”

I lean back against the wall with my arms crossed. “That’s the point. It’s not supposed to be pretty.”

“Good,” she says firmly. “The world has enough pretty. What it needs is real.”

Her words linger. They make me think of all the nights I’ve spent climbing rooftops and crouching in alleyways, paintbrush in hand. It’s not about rebellion, not really. It’s about leaving something behind, a mark that says I was here. That even if everything else fades, that part of me won’t.

Betty turns back to the paintings, her fingers grazing a frame. “You keep at it, Daniela. Just don’t get yourself arrested, hmm? Not all of us have the cash to bail you out.”

I laugh again, softer this time. “I’ll try not to.”

She shakes her head, muttering under her breath. “Artists. Always walking the line between genius and criminal.”

****

The restroom smells faintly of bleach and something musty, like old water trapped in the grout. It’s dim, one flickering bulb above the mirror casting uneven shadows.

My reflection in the cracked glass looks worn out—eyes sunken, skin pale. I don’t know who I’m supposed to be anymore.

The sound of a door creaking and heavy boots pulls me from my thoughts. I glance toward the door and the flimsy lock holding it shut. I hold my breath, praying it’s just my imagination. But then I hear a sharp knock.

“Open up,” one of the guards mutters, his voice low and tense.

I push the door open slowly, expecting the usual stern expression and clipped instructions.

Instead, his face is different—tight with worry.

He steps inside, shutting the stall door behind him.

There’s no explanation, no time to ask why he’s breaking the professional barrier he never crosses.

His hand grips my arm, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to tell me this isn’t a game.

“Out. Now.”

“What?” My voice cracks. “What’s going on?”

“Not a question session, Volpi.” He pulls a gun from the holster at his side and shoves it into my hands. “Jump out the window and run. Don’t stop. Don’t think. You hear me?”

I stare at the gun, the weight of it foreign and cold against my palms. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Do it!” He spins back around, the barrel of his weapon aimed squarely at the restroom door. His shoulders tense like he’s waiting for an explosion. “They’re coming. You don’t have time.”

“They? Who’s—” My words die as a muffled shout echoes outside, followed by something heavier—a loud thud against the floor.

I can’t move. My legs freeze like cement, my mind spinning uselessly through half-formed questions. “Why are you doing this? Aren’t you supposed to—”

“Protect you? That’s what I’m doing.” Then his voice drops, hoarse and biting. “Jump, Daniela. Don’t look back.”

I stumble toward the narrow window. It’s high, the glass dirty and smudged. When I unlatch it and shove it open, cold air bites my face. My pulse pounds faster and louder than the voices behind the door.

I glance over my shoulder. “Are you coming?”

He doesn’t answer. He just raises his gun and aims it at the door like a soldier facing his last stand. My heart twists. I don’t know this man’s name. I’ve seen his face a hundred times, but I never thought to ask. And now, he’s staying behind and sacrificing himself so I can run.

The first gunshot shatters the silence, and the sound sends a jolt through me.

My body takes over, acting on instinct. I hoist myself onto the ledge and push off, falling to the alley below.

The landing isn’t graceful. Pain shoots through my knees as I hit the pavement, but I bite back the curse on my tongue. There’s no time for pain.

I run.

The air feels heavier than it should, each breath scraping against my lungs like sandpaper. I dart through the narrow streets as the sound of more gunfire cracks behind me. It echoes off the walls, sharp and relentless. My mind races faster than my feet, and questions flood in.

Who was coming for me? How did they know where I’d be? Why did the guard sacrifice himself?

And then the darker thoughts creep in, the ones I can’t shove away. Maybe this was all a setup. Maybe the guard wasn’t saving me but pushing me into another trap. It wouldn’t be the first time someone used kindness as a weapon.