Page 28 of Control (Dark Syndicate #1)

Daniela

The kitchen is colder than I expected, the walls stark and uninviting, like everything else in this place.

I pull the sleeves of my sweater over my hands and squint at the overhead bright light.

The counters are clean—almost clinical—but it has a stove and ingredients, and right now, that’s enough.

I open the fridge and start pulling out vegetables, meat, and anything remotely fresh. My hands move automatically, peeling, chopping, dicing, and trying to drown out the echo of my own thoughts.

Behind me, the faint creak of the door reminds me that I’m not alone.

“You sure this is a good idea?”

I don’t turn around. He’s leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching me like I might sprout horns and start cackling at any second.

“Cooking isn’t exactly high-stakes, is it?” I say, tossing a carrot into the growing pile of diced vegetables. “Unless you think I’m planning to sneak a knife in your pasta.”

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even smirk. His face is like stone, as usual.

“You could.” He steps into the room, his boots heavy against the tiled floor. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone tried.”

I roll my eyes and turn back to the cabinet. “Relax, Remo. I’m trying to make myself useful, not commit murder.”

There’s a pause, one long enough for me to feel his eyes burning into my back.

“You don’t need to be useful,” he finally says. “You just need to look pretty, spend all my money, and fuck me.”

I stop mid-motion. Slowly, I turn to face him, arching a brow. “Wow, sexist much? You always this charming, or is this some special effort just for me?”

His lips twitch—almost a smirk, but not quite. “Depends. Is it working?”

I scoff, shaking my head as I grab a pan and set it on the stove. “Oh, absolutely. Nothing gets me hotter than outdated gender roles and a personality straight out of a villain handbook.”

He moves closer, looming just enough for his presence to press against me without touching. Most people would crumble under the weight of it, but I don’t flinch.

“Go sit down, Remo,” I say, not even bothering to look at him. “And don’t interrupt me until the food’s done.”

He doesn’t answer, but I hear the scrape of a chair as he pulls one out and sits at the small kitchen table.

I start pulling ingredients from the shelves: canned tomatoes, olive oil, dried herbs. The pantry isn’t exactly gourmet, but I’ve made do with worse. The knife feels good in my hand as I slice through an onion, the rhythm grounding me in a way I hadn’t expected.

“You cook often?” he asks.

His question catches me off guard.

“Not as much as I’d like to,” I admit, keeping my focus on the chopping. “I used to cook with my mom, though. Every Sunday, without fail.”

There’s a flicker of something in his expression, but it’s gone too fast for me to name it.

“Your mother.” His tone is careful. Like he’s walking a tightrope. “She taught you?”

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Yeah. She always said you could tell a lot about someone by how they cooked.” I glance at him, my knife stilling for a moment. “What about you? Ever cook?”

He snorts, a sound that’s almost a laugh. “Not unless you count burning toast.”

The image of Remo, this tall, intimidating enforcer, standing over a smoking toaster almost makes me smile.

“Figures,” I say, shaking my head. “You probably don’t have the patience for it.”

“Patience isn’t my strong suit.”

The air shifts slightly, the mood between us thinning just enough to breathe. I stir the onions in the pan, their sharp, sweet scent filling the room. For a moment, it feels…normal.

Just then, the door swings open, and Marco steps in, his broad shoulders nearly brushing the frame. He’s holding a bag of flour in his hands, his fingers dusted with flour.

“What’s this?” he asks, his voice gruff but not unkind.

“Cooking lesson,” I say without looking up. “You want in?”

He grins—a rare sight that softens the hard lines of his face. “I’ll pass. But here.” He holds it out and then whispers, “And again, sorry for keeping you waiting. Just don’t tell Remo I used the previous bag to bake pastries in my spare time. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

I laugh despite myself. Marco, with his hulking frame and perpetually scowling face, kneading bread like a disgruntled baker. It’s absurd.

“You bake?”

He shrugs. “Keeps me busy. Plus, it’s better than listening to these idiots argue over card games.”

Remo doesn’t react, but I catch the faintest hint of amusement in his expression.

“Let me guess,” I say, slicing into the meat. “You make sourdough in your free time too?”

Marco snorts. “Don’t push it, Volpi.”

I raise my hand in mock surrender. “I just didn’t expect you to be so domestic.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know.” His tone is teasing, but there’s an edge to it. He leans against the counter, watching as I knead the dough into something resembling order.

“You two done yet?” Remo’s voice cuts through the moment, irritated.

“Relax,” Marco says, smirking. “I’m just here for quality control.”

“Get out.”

The two of them exchange a look, some unspoken understanding passing between them. Marco pushes off the counter, grabs a piece of bread from his pocket, and tosses it onto the table in front of Remo.

“Enjoy,” he says, his voice laced with mockery. “Don’t choke.”

Remo glares, but Marco just chuckles and walks out, leaving behind the faint smell of yeast and mischief.

“Is he always like that?” I ask, half-smiling.

“Worse,” Remo mutters, breaking off a piece of bread and popping it into his mouth.

The quiet returns, but it’s not as heavy this time. I focus on the food, on the way the dough softens under my hands, and the way the sauce simmers in the pan. For a moment, it feels like I’ve carved out a tiny pocket of normalcy in a world that refuses to slow down.

As the sauce thickens, the room grows quieter.

Remo doesn’t leave, and I don’t ask him to.

His presence is oddly grounding, even if it comes with a side of scrutiny.

I steal a glance at him now and then—how his fingers drum lightly against the table and the subtle furrow of his brow like he’s lost in thought.

“Something on your mind?” I ask, breaking the silence.

His eyes snap to me, sharp and unyielding. “Always.”

It’s the kind of answer that tells you everything and nothing at the same time.

I turn back to the stove. “You know, this whole brooding-in-the-corner thing doesn’t exactly scream ‘trustworthy.’”

“I don’t need to scream it,” he replies coolly. “I’d rather make you scream instead.”

“Is that so?”

No reply. Until I hear the scrape of his chair against the floor. His boots echo softly as he approaches, and I feel the weight of him standing behind me.

“How about I make you do it now?” His voice is low, almost a whisper, and there’s a rumble to it that sends a shiver down my spine.

I turn to face him, the wooden spoon still in my hand. “Step back, mister. I am cooking.”

He stares at me, his jaw tightening. A faint smirk appears on his lips, and then he leans in slightly, his eyes locked on mine.

“I’m going to fuck you right now, Daniela,” he says, his tone heavy with meaning.

“And from my experience, there’s little you can do to stop it.

So why don’t you put down that spoon, take off your clothes until you’re completely naked underneath that apron, and go wait for me on your knees in my bedroom? ”

I don’t look away, even though every instinct tells me I should. There’s something magnetic about him—dangerous, yes, but also compelling in a way I can’t quite explain.

The sauce bubbles behind me, and the smell of garlic and tomatoes fills the space, but I can’t seem to focus on anything other than the way his eyes drill into me.

“Careful, Dolcezza,” he murmurs, his lips twitching into the faintest hint of a smirk. “You’re drooling.” That damn nickname. He hasn’t used it in so long that I actually miss it.

I blink, heat rising to my cheeks as I turn back to the stove. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?”

The smugness in his voice is infuriating, and I grip the spoon a little tighter. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

He chuckles softly, a sound so rare it catches me off guard.

“You’re not the first to say that,” he admits, and when I glance over my shoulder, there’s a softness in his expression that I haven’t seen before.

It disappears as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual mask of indifference.

The mood in the room shifts again, heavier this time, as if the air itself is bracing for whatever comes next. After I finish stirring the sauce, I turn off the burner and wipe my hands on a towel.

“There,” I say, stepping back. “Dinner’s ready.”

Remo picks up the spoon, tastes the sauce, and nods. “Not bad.”

“Not bad?” I repeat, crossing my arms. “That’s all you’ve got?”

“It’s edible,” he says, smirking now.

I roll my eyes. “High praise coming from a man who burns toast.”

Nodding toward the dining area where the other men are scattered, I ask, “You think they’ll eat this?”

“They’ll eat anything if they’re hungry enough,” Remo says.

I give him the middle finger. “Asshole.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, but before he can respond, the sound of footsteps echoes down the hallway.

Livia appears in the doorway, breathless and wild-eyed, her sharp eyes darting between us. “We’ve got a problem,” she says, her voice clipped.

Remo’s smirk vanishes instantly. “What is it?”

“I’ve found them,” she says, her voice shaking. “Vizzini’s hideout.”

The room freezes, the gravity of her words sinking in.

And just like that, the fragile peace I’d found in the kitchen is gone, replaced by the chaos that seems to follow Remo wherever he goes.