Page 20 of Control (Dark Syndicate #1)

Remo

The house is silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. My boots click against the marble floor as I guide Daniela inside, her small frame leaning against me.

Her copper curls are damp from the rain we just left behind, sticking to her face like a shroud, but it’s not the rain that soaked her.

“Watch the step.” My voice is low—a poor attempt at softening the sharp edges of this moment. She doesn’t look at me. Instead, her stare is fixed on the floor.

Marble floors gleam under dim, recessed lighting, but the air feels sterile. It’s a fortress, nothing more. I’ve never cared before. Tonight, though, it feels wrong to bring her here. Her, with her wide, wounded eyes and trembling shoulders.

“Sit,” I say, steering her toward the sofa. She sinks into the cushions without a word.

I grab the first aid kit from the cabinet and kneel in front of her. She flinches when I touch her arm.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

She stares at me, unblinking. Maybe she’s thinking of the man I killed in my club that day, his blood staining her memory.

“You’re bleeding,” I say, nodding toward the scrape on her temple.

She shrugs. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.” My tone hardens. “Hold still.”

The antiseptic stings, and she winces. I try to be gentle, but my hands aren’t used to this kind of care. They’re used to breaking things—bones, spirits, lives.

“Why do you even care?” she mutters.

I don’t answer.

The question gnaws at me as I finish cleaning her wound.

Why do I care? I shouldn’t.

****

The bathroom light flickers when I turn it on, and the heat from the underfloor system spreads through the tiles. I twist the knob for the shower, and hot water streams out, steam curling in the air.

“You should clean up,” I say, leaning against the doorframe.

She looks at me with that same unreadable expression. There’s defiance in her eyes, but it’s muted now, dulled by exhaustion.

“You don’t have to babysit me,” she says.

“This isn’t babysitting,”I tell her. My tone is firmer now but not unkind. “Now get in. You’ll feel better after.”

Her lips press into a thin line, but she doesn’t argue. She steps into the bathroom and shuts the door behind her.

The sound of water running fills the room. I lean against the wall, staring at nothing. My mind is a battlefield, torn between the instinct to protect her and the voice screaming at me to keep my distance.

She’s not my responsibility.

And yet, she is.

When I hear the water shut off, I push away from the wall. She emerges wrapped in a towel, her hair wet and clinging to her shoulders.

“Clothes are on the bed,” I say, nodding toward my bedroom door. “And you’re sleeping there tonight.”

She hesitates but doesn’t reply. She just walks past me. I watch her disappear into the room and hear the door clicking shut behind her.

I go in after a few minutes and pace up and down before moving to sit on the edge of the bed and resting my head in my hands.

She shouldn’t be here. This house, this life, it’ll eat her alive. She’s not built for it. Hell, I’m not sure I am either, but here we are. A pair of misfits in a world that doesn’t forgive weakness.

My jaw tightens. Weakness. That’s what this is. Letting her in, bringing her here—it’s a crack in the armor I’ve spent years forging. But what’s the alternative? I’ve gotten her wrapped up in all this.

The buzzing of my phone cuts through the silence. It’s Marco.

I pick up. “His name. Now.”

“We weren’t able to get any leads. But James and Elia are dead. So is the old woman.”

Shit.

“So we have no fucking idea who the bastard is?” My voice is low and controlled, but a fire is building in me. Frustration. Helplessness.

“They were very careful in covering their tracks. A getaway car was found a few streets from here, and prints were cleaned off every surface. Whoever did this was prepared. They had no way of knowing she was going to be there.”

“Unless we have a mole,” I mutter, the thought settling coldly in my chest.

“Even so, with the time they used to get in and out without leaving a trace…there’s no way they could’ve known. It had to be premeditated. I’ve already vetted all our men since she moved in. Everyone’s under strict surveillance, their houses wired. If there’d been a leak, I’d know by now.”

“So I’m supposed to just sit back and chill while this psycho roams free?” I don’t hide the bite in my words.

“I’m still on it, Boss. I promise. As long as she stays put until this blows over…it’s all clear.”

“For now,” I say resignedly.

“Don’t sound so optimistic,” Marco quips.

“Optimism gets you killed,” I mutter, my fingers tightening around the phone.

He sighs, his frustration palpable. “You really know how to brighten a guy’s day.”

“Just keep your bloody eyes open,” I say, cutting him off and hanging up before he can say anything else.

When Daniela reappears, she’s wearing the clothes I left for her—an oversized sweatshirt and sweatpants. They swallow her small frame, but there’s something strangely fitting about the way she looks in my things.

“I have my own clothes, you know.”

“I like these on you more. Feel better?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Define ‘better.’”

“Alive.”

Sinking onto the edge of the bed, she gives a humorless laugh. “Barely.”

There’s a bitterness in her tone that I recognize all too well. It’s the sound of someone who’s seen too much, lost too much.

“Eat something,” I say, handing her a plate of pasta I whipped up in the kitchen earlier.

She stares at it like it’s a foreign object before raising her brows in mock surprise. “You eat and cook?”

I laugh. “Sometimes.”

“Doesn’t seem like your style.”

I smirk. “What’s my style, then?”

“Brooding in the dark. Whiskey. Cigars. Off with his head now.”

She’s not wrong, but I don’t tell her that.

“You’re welcome,” I say instead as I sit across from her. “Now eat.”

******

The bedroom is dim, the only light coming from the lamp on the nightstand. The bed is also unmade, the sheets crumpled from the last time I managed to get more than a few hours of sleep. I guide her to the edge, and she sits down without protest.

“You should rest,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

She looks up at me, her hazel eyes glassy but sharp. “Why are you doing all this?”

“Doing what?”

“Being…nice,” she says, the word seeming foreign on her tongue. “You’re not exactly the nurturing type.”

I shrug. “Don’t read too much into it. You were about to collapse. It seemed practical to let you do that somewhere soft.”

She huffs—a weak attempt at a laugh. “Practical. Right.”

I hand her a bottle of water from the nightstand. She takes it without a word, her fingers brushing mine for a split second. Her hands are cold, even after the shower.

“You’ll stay here,” I tell her. “At least until things calm down.”

She looks at me again with the same sharpness in her eyes. “And what if they don’t?”

Her look doesn’t waver, but there’s a flicker of something in her hazel eyes. Fear? Defiance? Or maybe…curiosity. It’s impossible to tell with her, and that frustrates me more than I care to admit.

“You don’t have to act like you’re protecting me,” she says after a moment. “I know what this is.”

“And what’s that?”

“Damage control.”

Her words are like a slap to my face. Maybe because they’re not entirely wrong. But they’re not entirely right, either.

I lean forward, elbows resting on my knees. “You think I dragged you out of there and put myself on the line just to keep the peace? I don’t do charity, Daniela. If you’re still breathing, there’s a reason for it.”

She huffs out a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “And what’s my reason?”

My jaw tightens. She doesn’t understand. But how could she? How could anyone?

“Doesn’t matter,” I say, the words heavier than I expected. “Just go to bed.”

Her lips part like she wants to argue, but nothing comes out.

Within minutes, she’s asleep, her breathing slow and even.

I sit at the edge of the bed, watching her.

There’s a part of me that wants to walk away, to leave her to fend for herself the way I’ve always done with everyone else.

Attachments are liabilities. That’s the rule—the only rule that has kept me alive this long.

But there’s another part—a quieter, more dangerous part—that wants to stay. To watch over her. To keep her safe, even if it means breaking every rule I’ve ever lived by.

It’s a weakness, no matter how I spin it. And in this world, weakness gets you killed.

She shifts in her sleep, her face relaxing. For the first time since I met her, she looks peaceful. It’s unsettling.

I reach for the lamp and turn it off, plunging the room into darkness.

****

I wake a couple of hours later to find myself on the bed with my arms around her and her back pressed to me. I can’t believe we’re fucking spooning. What the hell is happening to me?

I stare at the ceiling for a moment, my mind racing. This isn’t who I am. I’ve built walls, ones that have kept me alive. But here she is, tearing them down without even trying.

Carefully, I start to pull away, trying not to wake her, but my hand grazes her side in the process. She stirs, shifting in my arms, and then she turns to face me.

God, she’s beautiful.

Hazel eyes flecked with gold look at me, their intensity making my head spin.

She has fair skin dusted with faint freckles across her nose and a small scar on her left temple, faint but there, from some childhood accident she mentioned once.

Also, paint stains her hands, remnants of the world she creates.

And those lips…I’d do anything to kiss them right now. But no, not now. She’s still shaken, still vulnerable from everything.

I swallow hard, kicking those thoughts away. “Didn’t mean to wake you,” I mutter, my voice lower than I intended.

“It’s fine,” she says softly.