Page 2 of Control (Dark Syndicate #1)

Daniela

Nights like this devour the city whole.

Brooklyn, at this hour, is like a beast, restless and cold. Shadows in the dark stretch and twist, muffling sounds, swallowing light. Nothing sleeps.

It’s my favorite time to be out.

I step into the street, the city’s pulse tugging at me. Distant sirens wail, voices blur into echoes, and a car horn in traffic slices through the air. My boots scrape the pavement as I walk, but any sound I make is swallowed by the noise.

I mutter to myself, but it’s more of a reflex than a real thought. I’m alone, and I don’t need anyone to answer.

The music in my headphones pounds and syncs with my heartbeat, and every thump is a reminder that I’m still alone here, still moving. Still breathing.

The city has a way of making you feel, even when everything else is trying to tear you apart. Maybe that’s why I come out at this time. It doesn’t care. It doesn’t need to be pretty, kind, or safe. It just exists. And somehow, it lets me exist too.

Arriving at my spot for the night, I let my hand take over. The brush moves on autopilot, sweeping across the rough surface of the wall. Colors burst under my touch—orange, blue, red—as I try to drown out the emptiness. As I try to patch the hollow spaces where everything else has rotted away.

This wall is no different from me. No one notices it. People pass by, their eyes sliding over it like it doesn’t exist. But I see it. I see something worth saving.

I pause, my brush hovering in mid-air. There’s a crack running through the concrete, jagged and deep, like a scar that never healed. It’s been there for years, but tonight, it catches me and holds me.

“You know,” I whisper to it, “you’re kind of like me. A little broken.”

The crack doesn’t answer—of course, it doesn’t. So I keep painting. Maybe if I cover it up, it won’t matter anymore.

When my parents died, the world didn’t stop.

No grand gestures, no cosmic pauses. Just an empty black hole where their lives used to be.

I tried to fill it with scraps—memories as well as stories I spun to make sense of it all.

But the hole wasn’t satisfied. It ate everything.

Pieces of me and things I didn’t even realize could be lost, all swallowed without a trace.

Now, the only way I know to push back against the emptiness is to leave something behind.

To take blank walls and turn them into something alive, something loud, something no one can walk past without noticing.

Maybe if I create enough, I’ll finally feel like I’ve given them something back. Or maybe that’s just another lie.

Either way, the brush moves, and for tonight, it’s enough.

The warehouse smells like rust, mildew, and regret.

It’s the kind of stale air that seeps into your skin.

A forgotten place in a forgotten part of the city.

But here, in this hollowed-out space, I’m free.

Free of the weight of my failures, free of the chains that wrap around me everywhere else. At least while I’m painting.

The wall towers over me, and I welcome how small it makes me feel. Insignificant. Invisible. That’s the trick to surviving in a world like this: stay small enough to disappear.

But then, suddenly, everything changes.

The screech of tires tears through the stillness, sharp as a blade slicing skin. My brush freezes mid-stroke. My pulse skips, then slams against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.

“Nobody’s stupid enough to come here at this hour,” I mutter under my breath.

I pull my headphones off, and the silence that follows is suffocating. It presses on, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.

Then I see them.

Two vans, the engines humming low and ominous, the windows blacked out. Behind them, there was a polished and gleaming sleek black SUV, the kind of car that had been custom-built to scream both money and menace.

Three men step out and start to unload something from one van and shift it into the other.

From where I’m standing, hidden in the deepest shadows of this decrepit building, I can’t make out what it is.

But I don’t need to see it to know. Guys like that only move products in the dead of night for three reasons: drugs, weapons, or people.

I stay frozen, watching, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. My fingers still itch to grab the brush and finish the mural, but I know better. I’ve seen enough of this world to recognize its danger, even if it’s only a glimpse.

From the angle I’m at, I’m cloaked in the dark, and there’s no way they can spot me. I picked this place for its shadows and the way they cling to the walls like a second skin. It’s perfect for my work.

Perfect for staying invisible.

The city is my canvas. Every abandoned building, alley, and cracked wall is a story waiting to be told. By sunrise, my mark will be here, too, for anyone who cares enough to notice. A bloody dagger clenched in a bleeding hand—the signature I leave behind. My calling card.

It’s reckless, I know. Dangerous even. But the risk is the point. It’s the thrill of making something loud in a city that would rather I stay quiet.

I don’t plan on stopping anytime soon too.

It’s not about defiance. Or maybe it is.

If I’m being honest, I’m not ready to admit why I do it.

Maybe it’s something darker, something restless inside me.

A gnawing emptiness that keeps dragging me back to these empty streets at night like a moth drawn to the flame, even though I know full well how it ends.

My fingers twitch, itching to finish the mural, but I can’t. Not with them so close. I stay hidden, my breath shallow as I watch from a distance.

I can’t make out what they’re saying, and frankly, I don’t care to. It’s better not to know.

I’m not stupid. I know what will happen if they spot me here…and it’s not a slap on the wrist. It’s a bullet.

They’re arguing now, and it’s heated. I bet someone’s night is about to take a sharp turn south.

Then, a car door slams. The sound is like a trigger, and the shift in the air is immediate as a figure steps out of the shadows.

I don’t need to hear a name. I know who it is.

Remo Callegari.

I know that face. Not from meeting him—God, no—but from whispers, headlines, and the kind of stories that make people lock their doors at night. He’s the mafia’s enforcer, the kind of man you don’t just cross. You don’t even look at him wrong if you value breathing.

Tall, sharp-suited, and carved from stone, it’s as if humanity’s been stripped from him.

Every step he takes is deliberate and calculated. The sound of his shoes against the concrete is barely heard, but it cuts through everything. He moves toward the table piled high with crates filled with guns. Big ones. Military-grade. The kind you can’t just buy at any shop.

My chest tightens. This is looking more and more like a bad situation.

One of the men cracks a joke after their argument, and the others laugh.

The sound of their laughter shatters the quiet, but Remo doesn’t even flinch or join in.

His eyes stay focused on the crates and the men as if he’s dissecting every move they make.

Then, he flicks his wrist, a simple gesture, and another man in a leather jacket steps forward and cracks open one of the other sealed crates.

The gleam of even bigger rifles under the dim light makes my breath catch.

“It’s all there, Boss. I told you I wouldn’t screw up this time.”

“How kind of you to clean up your mess after losing me millions, Davide,” Remo says, his voice flat.

The guy stumbles over his words but tries to cover it up with a shaky laugh. “Look, I’m sorry about that, okay? I swear. But my girl…she was in the hospital. I had to put down money to keep her and the baby alive. It wasn’t good, Boss.”

Remo’s eyes narrow. “A ten million dollar deposit?”

“No, no. It didn’t all go to me!” Davide’s voice cracks as he rushes his words. “I had to pay customs…and Juan. They all took their cuts. And after the cops busted us, we couldn’t sell everything. Getting buyers on the backend wasn’t easy. We were fucked.”

Remo doesn’t say anything right away. He just stands there, hands behind his back, his face blank, like he’s heard this bullshit a hundred times before. Then, slowly, he starts circling Davide.

I don’t know why I stay. Maybe I’m a masochist, or maybe I just can’t look away from the inevitable. Either way, I don’t move. I stay right where I am, watching.

Remo stops behind him, his hand landing heavily on the man’s shoulder.

“Oh, Davide, you’re really lucky, aren’t you?” His voice is calm, almost friendly. “The minute I heard what Juan did, I didn’t even wait for him to explain himself or beg for mercy. I just shot him right between the eyes.”

“I know, Boss. And I’m grateful. I swear on my mother, I’ll pay you back every cent. I’ll work for you until I die. I owe you my life,” the man named Davide says, stumbling over his words.

“That you do, my friend,” Remo replies, his voice almost teasing now. He steps closer and taps the man’s face like they’re old friends. “Why don’t you go and make sure it’s all there so we can finish up? It’s been a long day.”

The man swallows. “Sure thing, Boss.”

Davide doesn’t make it three steps before the sharp sound of four gunshots cuts through the air.

His body jerks, and the back of his skull explodes, spraying blood and brain matter across the wall.

The rest of the crew? They don’t flinch.

They don’t even blink. They just keep moving the goods like it’s another day at the office.

Another job, another dead body.

I want to say I’m not surprised, at least not in the way I should be.

I’ve heard the rumors about the mafia’s dirty deals, the stories about people who just vanish.

But this? This is my first time seeing it, watching someone drop like they weren’t even human, just another casualty.

A man who was about to have a kid. A man with a story, a future.

I want to feel sorry for him. I really do. But I can’t afford that luxury. Not when I’m stuck here, praying I don’t get caught myself.

I need to move. Now.

Fear finally catches up with me, and my brain screams at my body to run. I take a step back, trying to make as little noise as possible, but then it happens. My foot catches on a loose chunk of concrete. The scrape is loud enough that it echoes in the empty building.

Their movements and everything freezes.

“Chi c’è?” Who’s there?

Shit.

Remo’s head snaps in my direction, and for a second, the world tilts. His eyes lock on mine—blue, cold, and unrelenting.

Run.

I spin around and bolt, my boots slamming against the concrete, the rhythm frantic. Then shouts behind me erupt—orders barked like commands. Footsteps follow—heavy, fast, closing in.

I don’t get far before a hand clamps around my arm and yanks me back like a ragdoll. I scream, but it dies in my throat when I’m spun around to face a man built like a brick wall.

“Let go!” I thrash, but he doesn’t budge, dragging me back toward the others as if I weigh nothing. My pulse is a drumbeat of panic.

Remo steps forward, his expression unreadable. Just a calculating coldness, like he’s already mapped out every move I could possibly make—and countered it.

“Who are you?”

The words are soft, but they cut deeper than a shout. My mouth dries up instantly, my throat locking like it’s forgotten how to work. I can only stare at him, my heart hammering against my ribs so violently that I wonder if it’ll crack.

He takes another step. “Answer me.”

“I was painting,” I croak out. The words are barely audible, swallowed by the roaring in my ears.

I know better than to tell him my name. Names have weight, and in the wrong hands, they’ll crush you.

Especially here. Especially with someone like him.

A name is a death sentence if you aren’t careful who you give it to.

It’s a street-smart lesson you pick up fast—or you don’t live long enough to learn it. People disappear over things they could’ve walked away from. I’m not about to be one of them.

“Painting?” His eyes narrow, cutting into me like scalpels, stripping me layer by layer. “Here? Of all places?”

“I didn’t know anyone would be here—”

“You didn’t know?” His voice is quiet, cutting like a blade. “That makes you either incredibly stupid…or a terrible liar.”

I flinch as he leans in, the gun in his holster catching the light. He’s so close that I can feel the cold press of his stare.

“I didn’t see anything. I—I’ll leave, vanish. You’ll never hear from me again, I s—swear,” I stammer.

“Swear?” He repeats the word like it’s foreign, rolling it off his tongue with disdain. “You think I believe that?”

My fear crawls up my throat, choking me. I feel small and pathetic, but I can’t stop begging. “Please. I’m just an artist who paints around the city at night. That’s all.”

“You lie poorly,” he snarls.

“I’m not lying!”

Fuck. Did I just yell at him?

“I—I—I mean, I didn’t see anything,” I stammer.

Of all the stupid things I could’ve done, yelling at the man who’s likely a minute away from blowing my brains out? Brilliant.

He tilts his head, his eyes drilling into me. His face is a mask, unreadable and cold, but the silence that follows is unnerving. It goes on for too long, and I can practically see the gears turning in his mind as he contemplates one of a million ways to dismember me.

“I—”

“Shut up.”

His voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through the air like a whip. I bite my lip hard, the metallic tang of blood pooling on my tongue.

My mouth snaps shut before I can make things worse, though I doubt that’s even possible now.

He gestures, and the man holding me shoves me forward. I stumble, nearly crashing into him. But he doesn’t move. He doesn’t flinch, even as the space between us buzzes with unease like a live wire ready to snap.

“Boss, I can tell she’s not someone who would be missed,” one of the men mutters. “We can just take care of her.”

Remo’s eyes stay fixed on mine. “And if she’s not?”

The silence speaks louder than words after Remo’s question. A breath held for too long.

Remo exhales, slow and measured, his jaw tightening. He tilts his head, his eyes raking over me. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

“Please, I promise I won’t say anything. Just let me go,” I plead.

His voice is calm when he replies, “And I’m supposed to trust the word of someone who thinks vandalizing public property is acceptable? Doesn’t exactly scream model citizen, does it?”

“I swear,” I rasp.

“Do you?”

The gun is in his hand before I even register the movement. One second, his hand is empty. The next, the cold barrel is pressing against my forehead.

“No, wait!”

But it’s too late. He pulls the trigger. A loud bang echoes in the air.