Page 30 of Control (Dark Syndicate #1)

Daniela

I can’t even remember when the warmth started to creep in.

Maybe it was when I first started nursing him back to health, tending to his wounds with the care of someone who’s been through enough pain to know how much it hurts to be helpless.

Maybe it was when his gruff voice softened for the first time when he let me see more than just the controlled monster he wears like armor.

Every night, he holds me. It’s strange how it feels like something familiar now. Like his warmth is all I have left, the only thing I can count on.

I used to hate the idea of being close to anyone, too scared that the closer I got to them, the worse it would hurt when they left. But with him, I’m…used to it.

I can’t deny it anymore. I’m falling for him. Hard.

I see it in the way his fingers trace the edge of my jaw when he thinks I’m asleep, in the way his breath slows when I curl into him at night. But I know better than to believe in it.

I can feel the wall he’s built around himself, the distance he keeps even when we’re tangled up in the dark together. I can feel it every time he pulls away, like a refusal to let me see too much, to let me in.

Maybe I don’t want to get in. Maybe I’m scared of what it will cost.

It’s been weeks now, and the closer I get to him, the more I realize he’s hiding something from me.

He’s always been careful around certain things, like when I talk about my parents.

It’s the way his expression flickers, just for a second, before he goes cold again.

Like he’s afraid of something coming to the surface.

I don’t say anything. I just watch him. And when I do, I start to see the little things—the way his hands shake when he thinks I’m not looking, the way he flinches when a sound reminds him of something, maybe of a memory he wishes would die already.

And that’s the thing. Remo’s got this way about him that makes you think you’ve figured him out, only to realize you haven’t even scratched the surface. But the more I try to understand, the more I feel like I’m drowning in the silence he leaves behind.

One day, I’m in my room, rifling through my things, when I find the envelope. It’s one with no return address, just a single sheet of paper inside. I don’t recognize the handwriting, but my hands freeze when I read the words.

Remo Callegari is the one who killed your parents.

I’m not sure what I expected, but this wasn’t it.

It feels like someone just yanked the ground out from under me. I can’t breathe, can’t think straight. Remo? He’s the one who…he’s the one who killed them?

No. It can’t be true. They died in a car accident. But how? Why would someone send me this?

My parents died when I was ten. That’s what I’ve been told my whole life. Fifteen years ago. That’s the story.

But this letter says something else.

It says Remo did it. Remo, the man who’s been right in front of me, holding me close and making me think—no, feel—something I haven’t allowed myself to in years.

I know how the mafia works. I know they take you young. They carve you up and make you a soldier before you’re even old enough to understand what loyalty really means.

But Remo? Him? He couldn’t have been the one.

But he was only fifteen. Fifteen when it happened. A kid—no, a boy—pushed into a world he didn’t ask for.

How does that even make sense?

I don’t believe it. Not yet.

I clutch the letter tighter, almost crushing it, but I can’t bring myself to throw it away.

What if it’s a lie? A sick joke? What if someone’s playing with my head, trying to twist the truth into something it’s not?

Why would someone do this to me? Why would they tell me this now?

And then there’s Remo. Why is he always so damn closed off when it comes to my parents? Every time I mention them, he pulls away, like there’s something he’s trying to hide. Like he’s afraid that I’ll figure it out.

But he wouldn’t—he couldn’t have been the one to take them from me, could he?

No. It can’t be.

I force myself to breathe, to calm down, but the words still echo in my head. Remo did it. He killed my parents.

I know better than to trust anything that comes without a name, but the thought gnaws at me. Every time I try to push it away, it comes rushing back, biting harder.

The letter shouldn’t have gotten to me. I’ve seen the way things are usually handled. Everything gets screened. Nothing slips through the cracks unless someone inside is making it happen. But even that doesn’t make sense. It feels wrong, like someone wanted me to see this, wanted me to question it.

The next morning, I don’t waste any time. I wait until Remo’s busy with his men, and then I slide the letter across the table. He doesn’t even look up at first. He’s too focused on whatever plan he’s making with Livia. But then he finally looks up, and his eyes flick to the paper.

“Where’d you get this?” His voice is calm, but I can feel the tense tone.

“It doesn’t matter where it came from. What matters is what it says.” I cross my arms, trying to hold my ground, but I’m shaking inside.

Remo stays quiet for a moment, his eyes scanning the letter like it’s some kind of threat. Then, with a slow exhale, he leans back in his chair.

“I’ll find out who sent it.” His words are clipped and controlled. But I can see the way his jaw tightens, the way he stands a little too fast. He’s hiding something.

“Remo,” I press, leaning forward, “you’re not answering the question.”

His eyes flick up to mine, and there’s a flicker of something there—something close to guilt, something that makes the pit in my stomach deepen even more.

“I was under orders to take them out and make it look like an accident,” he says, and I can hear the weight of those words in his voice. “I had no choice.”

I don’t know how to respond to that. It feels like my whole world just shifted. Like I can’t trust anything anymore. The man I’ve been falling for? The one who’s been holding me every night and whispering promises I’m foolish enough to believe? He’s the one who took them from me.

I don’t think. I don’t reason with myself. All I feel is the rage, boiling up from deep inside, all the years of longing for answers, for closure, for revenge.

I stand up so fast that the chair crashes to the ground.

“You’re lying,” I spit, my hands shaking. “You’re lying. You—you can’t—”

I grab his shirt, my fist clenched, and for a moment, I just want to hurt him. I want him to feel the pain that’s been eating me alive, the way I’ve been dragged through the mud because of the life he chose.

I scream at him, but it doesn’t even feel like it’s my voice anymore. It’s all the rage, all the hurt, all the things I never said but have been carrying since the day my parents died.

Two of his men rush in like they’ve been waiting for this. They’re quick to draw their guns, ready to do their job, but Remo raises his hand.

“Leave,” he orders.

The men hesitate, their eyes flicking between us. But when Remo doesn’t budge, they lower their guns, giving me one last look before leaving the room.

I can hear the sound of my own heartbeat in my ears. The world is spinning, and I can’t breathe. I want to fight him, but deep down, I know I’m in his house, in his world, and I don’t stand a chance.

“You’re a monster,” I mutter, barely able to get the words out.

“I did what I had to do,” he repeats, as if that makes it okay. Like it’s some justification for what he’s done. As if saying it enough will make it feel less like a crime and more like survival. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“You’re right,” I snap. “I don’t understand. I don’t want to understand.”

I can’t. I won’t.

He steps closer and tries to reach for me. The anger in me burns hotter and fiercer, and my chest tightens. He’s just standing there, still so calm, like he’s in control of everything. Like this is just another day for him.

But I can’t let it go. Not now. Not after everything.

I move quickly, my hand reaching for the gun tucked in the back of my jeans. The one he gave me. The one I never wanted to use but always kept close. I pull it out and point it at him.

I should kill him. I should.

“If you ever touch me again,” I spit, my voice trembling with the weight of everything inside me, “I swear to God I’ll blow your fucking brains out.”

He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t move. His eyes meet mine, and there’s something in them, something I can’t quite place. “Dolcezza, please. Let me explain.”

I laugh. But it’s not really a laugh. It’s a sharp, broken sound.

Like I’m trying to keep it together but failing miserably.

“Explain what?” I scoff. “That all this time I’ve been fucking the murderer who killed my freaking parents?

The man who turned my whole life into a mess, who made me this empty, depressed girl who thinks the world is out to get her? ”

I can feel my heart breaking all over again, but I don’t let him see it. I won’t let him see it.

He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he looks at me like I’m some puzzle he’s still trying to figure out.

Then, finally, his voice comes, rough and regretful, like it’s been held back for far too long.

“I didn’t have a choice. It was either me or them.

You don’t know how sick and twisted this world is…

what more for me, someone who had no one and was just trying to find my footing.

I was given an order and told to do it, no questions asked.

” Then, his voice drops lower. “They were connected. Your parents, Daniela, they knew too much. They were involved with some things they shouldn’t have been.

Things I didn’t even know about until it was too late.

” He pauses, his face hardening as if the memory is a knife twisting inside him.

“Your father…he was a lawyer, right? A good one. He had his hands in every goddamn pot. Corruption, shady deals, money laundering for people who would kill to keep their names out of the public eye. They didn’t know he was trying to get out, trying to cut ties with people who could pull him back in.

He thought he could walk away clean. But they don’t let people walk away clean. Not in this world.”

The words hit harder than I expected, like a punch to the gut. My hands clench at my sides, and I have to force myself to stay calm.

“You’re lying,” I hiss, shaking my head, refusing to believe it.

“Maybe I wish I were,” he says, his voice tight. “But that’s the reality. Your parents…they were tangled with people who had no problem making them disappear. The order wasn’t about them, per se. It was about keeping the secrets buried. My loyalty was to my boss, and I had a job to do.”

I want to scream at him. Tell him he’s a monster. Tell him he’s justifying murder like it’s just another day at the office. But it’s like the words stick in my throat.

“If I hadn’t done it…if I had hesitated…I’d be dead right now, and you wouldn’t be standing here. It’s how this world works, Daniela. You do what you’re told, or you don’t survive.”

The truth stabs deep, sharper than any knife could.

It’s the way he says it that makes me want to scream. I can hear the regret in his voice.

Because now, I understand him. I get it. I get why he did it. Why he didn’t think twice. But understanding doesn’t make it right. It doesn’t make me forgive him.

I hate myself even more because I get it. I see the pain in his eyes—the weight of everything he’s done—and I know it’s not something he can ever undo. But it doesn’t stop the fury inside me from rising up, doesn’t stop me from wanting to scream at him, to make him feel what I feel.

And then it hits me. He didn’t know me back then. He didn’t know who I was. He didn’t know what kind of person I’d grow into. He didn’t know he’d pull me into this twisted, fucked-up world.

But I’m here, and I’m already in too deep.

I stare at him, trying to hold on to the hatred, but all I feel is exhaustion. All I feel is emptiness. “How long have you known?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper at first. It feels like the most important thing in the world.

“Dolcezza—”

“Don’t fucking call me that,” I snap, my fury rising again. “You pathetic piece of shit. Answer my fucking question, or I swear to God, I’ll shoot you right now. How long have you fucking known?”

His eyes don’t even flicker. There’s no hesitation. Nothing. Remo Callegari doesn’t fear death. He’s seen it too many times to care about the threat in my voice.

But what pulls me under is the sadness in his eyes. It tugs at my heartstrings, twists them, and makes me wish I could crawl out of my own skin and leave this nightmare behind.

I close my eyes for a second when I feel like I’m drowning in everything that’s happened, everything that’s been said. I regret it all. I regret stepping into his house. I regret trusting him. I regret ever letting myself care.

“I’ve known since the minute you stepped into my house,” he says. “I just didn’t care enough to let that keep you away from me. I wanted you. And the past is the past.”

In my head, I’ve already shot him a thousand times and watched him fall to the floor with his blood pooling around him. I’ve already killed him over and over again.

But when I open my eyes and see him standing there, so close, his chest rising and falling with every breath, all I feel is that hollow emptiness.

I can’t do it.

I don’t want to be like him. I won’t become like him.

I lower the gun, my hands trembling, and he steps forward, coming too close. He pries it from my grip, his fingers cold against my skin, before leaning in and whispering in my ear. “You should’ve taken the shot while you could,” he murmurs. “Now, you’ll never be able to get rid of me again.”

Then he walks out without another word, leaving me standing there with my heart heavy in my chest.

What the hell did I even want from him? What did I think was going to happen? I don’t know anymore.

But I do know one thing.

He’s ruined me.

And I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to pick up the pieces.