Page 25 of Control (Dark Syndicate #1)

Daniela

The evening air is cool against my skin as I step onto the balcony, the scent of cigars lingering from the night before. It’s one of those nights where everything feels too quiet, like the world’s holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

I find him leaning against the stone railing, staring out into the darkness. His glass of whiskey catches the light from inside, the amber liquid swirling lazily as he takes a sip.

I don’t speak at first. I just watch him for a second. There’s something about the way he holds himself like he’s made of steel. But under it all, there’s a kind of vulnerability I can’t quite understand. Maybe I never will.

“I need to talk to you,” I say, breaking the silence.

He doesn’t look at me, but his shoulders tense.

“Come here then,” he says, his voice low, like he’s not really offering but more so demanding it.

He pours me a drink without asking, and I take it from him without hesitation.

The glass feels cool in my hand, but it doesn’t settle the unease rolling in my stomach.

We stand there for a moment, neither of us speaking, as if we’re both trying to figure out how to talk about the recent incident.

Finally, he turns to me and mutters, “I owe you an apology.”

I blink, caught off guard. Remo doesn’t apologize. Ever.

He exhales sharply, his jaw tightening as if the words cost him. “I was out of line the other night. I…I hate it when you doubt that I can protect you. I don’t want anything to happen to you, Daniela.”

I hold his stare. “I didn’t ask for your protection.”

He looks at me like I just slapped him, the hurt in his eyes sharp but quickly masked. “I know.”

“I’m sorry for how I acted too,” I admit, my voice softer now. “I just…I thought this might all be too much for you. That maybe leaving would be easier for you.”

His hand clenches into a fist at his side. “It’s not,” he says firmly, his voice edged with desperation. “You leaving would never be better for me. Do you understand that?”

The intensity in his eyes makes me swallow hard, and I nod, unable to argue.

“I’ve been hearing things,” I say, breaking the moment. “I know I shouldn’t pry, but…the attack at the shop, the package. It isn’t random, is it? It’s someone from your past. Someone you know.”

At my words, his eyes narrow, the flicker of trust from before now replaced with suspicion. “Where did you hear that?” His tone is cold.

“It’s not exactly a secret,” I reply with a shrug. “I overheard some guys talking after the shootout.”

He says nothing for a moment. He just watches me like he’s deciding whether or not to trust what I’m saying.

“You shouldn’t concern yourself with any of it,” he finally says, his voice a low growl. “The fucker will be in the ground soon enough.”

I stare down at my drink, swirling the liquid as if it holds the answers. “For all the macho you act,” I mutter, “your men worry about you. And I don’t think it’s just blind loyalty. I’ve seen glimpses of something else. A good heart.”

He lets out a low chuckle, and when he meets my eyes again, there’s a strange flicker of something behind them—amusement or maybe something darker. “Good heart, huh? And here I thought you didn’t smoke weed.”

“You don’t have to admit it,” I say, meeting his stare. “But if you didn’t have a good heart, they wouldn’t follow you the way they do.”

He shakes his head, his smile fading into something darker. “They’re loyal because they’re paid to be.”

I tilt my head, challenging him. “Money runs out. Real loyalty doesn’t. They stay because they see something in you, something you don’t let yourself see.”

For a moment, he’s silent, his eyes searching mine as though trying to find the catch in my words. “Maybe,” he concedes at last, “but it doesn’t change anything.”

“You’re not as bad as you think you are,” I say, and I don’t even know why I’m telling him this. But it’s true. There’s more to him than the killer everyone thinks he is.

His face softens, just for a heartbeat, and I dare to hope I’ve gotten through to him. But then his mask slides back into place.

“I’m not a good man,” he says, his tone colder now, final. “And you’re a fool if you think otherwise.”

I don’t know why it stings so much, but it does. He’s right, I suppose. He’s not a good man.

We fall into a brief silence, both of us lost in our thoughts. I want to ask him about his past—what really happened that made him the man he is—but I don’t.

Instead, I look at him, really look at him, trying to find some trace of the boy he used to be beneath the hardened exterior.

The Remo Callegari I see now, the one who rules with an iron fist, is the result of too much loss. Too much pain.

“I was just a kid when I lost my family to a deadly fire. And it was all my fault.”

I don’t move, don’t even breathe. I just wait, my eyes locked on him, waiting for him to decide whether or not he’s going to finally show me the parts of himself that he keeps buried beneath that unbreakable shell.

“I set the fire,” he continues in a voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes drift to the side like he’s trying to escape the weight of his own confession.

“I was just a kid. My family—” He stops, clenches his fists, and for a moment, I think he’s going to leave it at that.

But he doesn’t. “I was playing with matches. Don’t even remember why.

Maybe I was bored. Or angry. Maybe I just wanted to see if I could control something for once.

” His voice cracks slightly, and I’m almost too afraid to look at him.

But I can’t tear my eyes away. This is it—the thing he’s been hiding all along.

“I didn’t know the house would burn down.

I didn’t know the walls would crumble. I didn’t know it would get out of control.

But it did,” he says, his voice growing colder as the memories flood back.

“By the time I realized what was happening, it was too late. My parents didn’t have a chance.

I thought I could fix it, you know? Thought I could stop it before it went too far.

But I was just a fucking kid. I didn’t know anything. ”

His hands are shaking now, just slightly, but enough for me to notice. I don’t say anything. I just let him talk.

“When the firemen pulled me out of the rubble, I didn’t know what the hell had happened. I didn’t know everything I knew was gone. My parents, my house, my life—all of it turned to ash in a matter of minutes. And I was the one who caused it. I was the one who killed them.”

I want to say something to comfort him, but I don’t know what or how. I’m not sure there’s anything to say that would make this better. Hell, I don’t even know if it’s something that can be fixed.

“But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is that I remember it all—the fire, the screams, the way it felt like everything I loved was ripped from me without a single damn thing I could do about it.”

I listen, and even though I can’t imagine what he’s been through, something inside me twists.

“And after that, I was thrown into the system,” he continues, his voice flat. “Foster homes. Jail. No one cared. No one gave a damn about the kid who burned his family alive. I was just another lost cause. I wasn’t worth saving.”

His eyes shift, locking with mine like he’s daring me to judge him. But I don’t. I can’t. Because I understand.

“I tried to forget about it. Tried to bury it, like I buried everything else. But you don’t just forget something like that. It’s there. All the time. No matter how much you drink or fuck up or throw yourself into this world…those ghosts? They’re always watching.”

I don’t know how to respond. I’m not even sure if I should say anything at all.

So I just nod. But it’s not pity in my eyes.

It’s something else, something darker. Something that says I get it.

I know what it’s like to carry that kind of weight.

I know what it’s like to feel like you’re suffocating under the pressure of something that never really leaves.

“I thought I could outrun it,” he adds, a bitter laugh escaping him.

“Thought I could find control in this world. I joined the Mafia because it was the only way I could gain some control. But I just ended up making it worse. I became the very thing I hated. I became the guy who hurts people, who doesn’t care, who breaks the rules without thinking twice. ”

“You’re not that guy anymore,” I say, my voice steady, even though I’m not sure if I believe it. “You’re not just some monster.”

He scoffs. “Aren’t I?”

I shake my head, taking a step closer. “You’re a guy with a past. But that doesn’t mean you’re doomed to repeat it forever. You’ve got people who care about you now, Remo. People who don’t see you as the sum of your mistakes. Hell, I don’t even see you like that.”

“You don’t know me,” he mutters, his eyes flicking away from mine.

“No, I don’t. But I want to.”

For a long moment, he says nothing. Then, almost to himself, he mutters, “You really don’t know what you’re asking for.”

I can hear the fear in his voice, and it only makes me more determined. “Maybe I don’t,” I admit. “But you don’t have to face it alone anymore, Remo. You don’t have to hide behind this…this bullshit. Not with me.”

He stares at me for a beat like he’s trying to figure out if I’m lying. Or if I’m crazy. Or both.

Finally, he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do with that.”

“Maybe nothing,” I say, my voice softer now. “Just know I understand you.”

The thing is, though, understanding someone doesn’t make it easier. It just makes it more complicated. More painful. Because once you understand the scars, once you see the cracks, it’s hard not to want to fix them.

But I know I can’t. He’s too far gone for that.

So, I settle for something else instead.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I say. “Whether you like it or not, I’m in this with you. And I’m not leaving.”

He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t need to. But I can tell by the way his body tightens, the slight shift in his posture, that my words hit harder than I expected.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Volpi,” he finally says.

I smile just a little because I know something he doesn’t. I don’t make promises I can’t keep.