Page 22 of Control (Dark Syndicate #1)

Daniela

The box is wrapped in smooth black paper, the kind that feels like silk against your fingers. A neat bow ties it all together, a sharp crimson ribbon that screams elegance. I stare at it like it might explode.

“You gonna open it, or are we just gonna stand here all day?” Remo’s voice comes from behind me, low and impatient.

I glance over my shoulder. He’s leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. The light catches the edge of his wolf tattoo, where ink curls over muscle.

God, he is so freaking handsome.

“I didn’t ask for this,” I say, even though my fingers itch to tug at the ribbon.

“And I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

I roll my eyes and yank the bow free. The paper falls away, revealing a flat, rectangular leather case. It’s not a gun this time, which is both a relief and a curiosity.

I open the case slowly. Inside is a set of brushes—paintbrushes. The handles are sleek and black, with fine gold lettering that spells out a brand name I can’t even pronounce. The bristles are perfect, smooth, and soft, the kind that can glide over a canvas like silk.

Red-colored rose petals are scattered around it.

For a second, I can’t breathe.

“Roses?” I glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “What, no skulls or snakes?”

His lips quirk, but just barely.

“What exactly is this, Remo?” My voice comes out sharper than I intended, but I can’t help it.

Remo doesn’t move from the doorway. “Brushes. Thought you’d know what they were, considering.”

I snap the case shut and clutch it to my chest like a shield. “Why?”

“Why not?” His tone is casual, but his stare is anything but.

“This—” I shake my head, searching for the right words. “This doesn’t make any sense. You don’t even—”

“Care about your art?” He steps closer, his presence like a storm cloud. “Maybe I don’t. But I care about you not giving up on something that keeps you sane. You don’t get to quit.”

I glare at him, my chest tight. “You think this will fix everything? That a few fancy brushes will magically make me start painting again? You’re part of the reason I can’t even look at a canvas anymore.”

His jaw ticks, but his voice stays steady. “I think it’s better than watching you drink yourself into oblivion or sitting in front of a blank canvas like it owes you answers.”

I hate that he’s right. I hate that he can see through me like this. Like all my armor doesn’t mean a damn thing.

“You don’t know me.”

“Maybe not,” he says, his voice softening. “But I know what it’s like to have nothing except the things you can create. And I know what happens when you lose them.”

The air between us feels too heavy. I look down at the case in my hands, my fingers tracing the edge. The brushes are beautiful, perfect, and completely out of place in my messy, chaotic life.

“Thanks,” I mutter in a tone barely above a whisper.

He shrugs, but there’s something in his eyes—something guarded—as if he’s given me more than just a gift. “Don’t make me regret it.”

I want to say something else, something biting or sarcastic, but the words won’t come. So I just turn away, gripping the case tightly as if it might vanish if I let go.

As I walk to my room, I wonder if he’s right—if the only thing that’s keeping me sane is the thing I’ve been trying to abandon.

****

The next delivery isn’t a weapon. It’s a wardrobe. If you can even call it that.

I open the boxes to find dresses that shimmer in the light, the kind of heels that make walking feel like a sport, and jewelry so delicate that it feels like it might shatter if I breathe wrongly.

A note sits on top of it all.

Wear this to the party tonight. We leave at 6.

No “please.” No explanation. Just an order.

Adeline snorts when she sees me holding the note like it might bite. “Wow, your guy’s got the whole mobster romance cliché nailed down, huh?”

I glare at her. “He’s not my guy.”

“Sure. So all this is just some casual Wednesday thing?” She picks up a dress and holds it against herself. “This is worth more than my car.”

I shrug, even though my heart pounds like it’s running from something. “It’s a game, Adeline. That’s all.”

She gives me that look—the one that says she doesn’t buy it but doesn’t have the energy to fight me on it.

****

The party is held in one of those sprawling mansions that make you wonder who has this much money to waste. Chandeliers drip from the ceiling, their crystals scattering light like shattered glass, and the air smells like cigars and expensive perfume.

Remo’s hand stays on the small of my back, a constant reminder of whose date I am tonight.

“You clean up nice,” Marco says as we walk past. His tone is teasing, but there’s something sharp under it.

“I’m not doing this for you,” I reply without missing a beat.

Remo chuckles. “She’s got teeth, Marco. Be careful.”

The first glass of champagne goes down too easily. The second loosens the tightness in my chest. By the third, I don’t care that the eyes of half the room are on me, judging, assessing.

Remo disappears into a side room with a group of men whose faces are carved from stone. Business, I assume.

Which leaves me alone in a sea of silk and diamonds.

“Lost?” Livia appears at my side, holding a glass of red wine.

“Not even a little.”

Her smirk is sharp enough to draw blood. “You’re braver than most women here. Or maybe just dumber.”

“Maybe both.”

She laughs, the sound surprisingly warm. “You’ve got guts, Dans. I’ll give you that.”

The night blurs after that. I talk to strangers who smile too wide and laugh too loud. The kind of people who’d sell their souls for power and then wonder why their lives feel empty.

****

There’s a chill in the air when I step into the garden. Above me, on the balcony, I catch the faint outlines of a man and a woman, their silhouettes blurred by the dim light. I don’t stop to watch. I have other things on my mind.

The garden glows softly under string lights draped between wooden posts, casting a warm, almost magical light over the space.

. I spot roses, chrysanthemums, and dahlias, their vibrant colors muted in the night.

There are other flowers I can’t quite name, though that might have more to do with the drinks I’ve had rather than my lack of gardening knowledge.

Benches painted in bright, mismatched colors sit scattered across the space, their edges wrapped in zigzagging fairy lights.

Everything looks surreal and dreamlike, as though I’ve wandered into another world.

I hate how much I like it. Staying here, in Remo’s world, is supposed to be temporary, but a place like this makes me wish for something I can’t quite put into words.

And then I see him.

The air is cool, laced with the faint scent of roses. He’s sitting on a stone bench with his head tilted back as he exhales a curl of smoke into the night.

His back is to me, his phone pressed to his ear.

His voice carries through the garden—low, harsh, commanding.

He’s speaking Russian this time, and though I know he’s fluent in Italian and English, the sharp, guttural rhythm of his Russian stirs something deep inside me.

It’s ridiculous, I know. But his voice—so raw, so controlled—makes my pulse quicken in ways I’d rather not admit.

As I watch him, I’m struck by the thought that this is the man who could destroy me, and yet, he’s the one I can’t seem to stay away from.

I think about touching myself to the sound of his voice but stop myself.

I need to taste him to relieve this tension.

As I take a step forward, he stops talking and turns around so quickly that I don’t have time to prepare.

His face is lit by the lights, but there’s a searing shadow there too.

Just as I’m about to tease him, he wriggles his hand, revealing a gun.

Instinctively, I raise my hands, resisting the urge to scream when he doesn’t immediately lower the barrel.

“Remo,” I say quickly, my voice unsteady. “It’s me. Daniela. Don’t shoot.”

He doesn’t lower the gun immediately. His eyes narrow, scanning me like I’m a stranger. “Daniela,” he says slowly. “What are you doing here?”

I force myself to hold his stare. “I saw you were done with your meeting and came out here. I thought…” My words falter. “I thought you might need someone to talk to.”

“Why?” His voice is gruff and hard, making it almost impossible to reason with him. Still, I forge on, fueled by too much alcohol and a desperate need to confront him about everything he represents.

“I saw that you were upset,” I say. “I wanted to make you feel better.”

For a tense ten seconds, he keeps the gun pointed at me as if on the verge of making a fatal decision. Remo pulls away the safety, cocks his head, and places a finger on the trigger. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shoot you right now, Daniela.”

I’m scared, but the alcohol dulls my fear enough for me to find my footing. “If you shoot me, you’ll never hear what I came here to tell you.”

There’s a long pause, the kind that makes my heart pound so loudly that I’m sure he can hear it. Finally, with an exasperated shake of his head, he flips the safety back on and lowers the gun. He mutters something into his phone before ending the call and slipping it into his jacket.

“Fine. Talk,” he says, his tone clipped. “What was so important that it couldn’t wait?”

I close the distance between us and place a hand on his chest. His body tenses under my touch, but he doesn’t push me away. It’s a small victory, but I take it.

“You look…” I falter, suddenly aware of how ridiculous I must sound. “There’s no word in the dictionary for how good you look tonight.”

His expression doesn’t change. If anything, it hardens. “That’s it?” he says flatly. “You came all this way to tell me that?”

“I mean it,” I say, doubling down. “You’re…you’re pretty.”

He blinks at me, his incredulous stare making me want to crawl into a hole. “Pretty?” His voice drips with disbelief. “Are you drunk?”