Page 35 of Control (Dark Syndicate #1)

Daniela

I wake up to the smell of coffee and something faintly charred, like burnt toast. The kitchen light is dim, the curtains half-drawn.

Remo stands by the counter, his broad shoulders hunched as he fiddles with the coffee machine.

His movements are stiff and deliberate. Like he’s forcing his body to cooperate.

He’s still healing, but he refuses to act like it.

“You know that thing has an auto-brew feature, right?” My voice is rough from sleep.

He glances over his shoulder, a rare smirk tugging at his lips. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“Fun? I thought you preferred things done efficiently.” I sit up, my muscles aching in protest. It’s not just my body that’s tired; it’s my soul. Every part of me feels like it’s been dragged through hell. And maybe it has.

Remo walks over, a cup of coffee in each hand. He’s careful not to spill, but his movements lack his usual grace. He hands me a cup and sits on the edge of the bed, his eyes scanning my face. “You look better,” he observes.

“Thanks,” I mutter, taking a sip. The coffee’s strong, almost bitter, but it’s exactly what I need. “You still look like crap.”

He chuckles—a low, gravelly sound. “You’re welcome to fix that.”

“Oh, sure,” I tease. “Let me just wave my magic wand and make your bruises disappear.”

“You’ve got a smart mouth, Daniela.” His tone is light, but there’s an edge to it. He’s not used to being challenged, and I’m not used to letting things slide.

We eat breakfast together in silence, the kind of silence that’s heavy with unspoken thoughts.

I’ve been trying to make sense of everything—the violence, the chaos, and the way my heart races when he’s near.

It’s like I’m caught in a storm, and I don’t know if I’m fighting to survive or letting it carry me away.

“You’re thinking too hard again,” Remo says, breaking the quiet.

“Am I not allowed to think?”

“Not when it makes you look like that.” He reaches out, his fingers brushing against my cheek. “Like you’re trying to solve a puzzle that doesn’t have an answer.”

“Maybe it doesn’t,” I say softly. “Maybe some things aren’t meant to make sense.”

Remo’s eyes darken, his hand lingering for a moment before he pulls away. “Finish your coffee.”

By the time night falls, the house feels quieter than usual. Remo and I sit on the couch, the TV playing some old black-and-white movie neither of us is watching. He’s reclined, his arm stretched along the back of the couch. I’m close enough to feel his warmth, but we’re not touching. Not yet.

“You’ve been hovering,” I say, breaking the silence.

“You need someone watching over you.”

“I’m not a child,” I protest.

“Didn’t say you were.”

I glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “You sure act like it.”

His lips twitch, almost a smile. “You’d prefer if I ignore you?”

“I’d prefer if you treat me like an equal.”

At that, Remo leans closer, his gray-blue eyes locking onto mine. “An equal? You really think that’s what this is?”

My heart pounds, but I refuse to look away. “What else would it be?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he closes the distance between us, his lips brushing against mine. The kiss is soft at first, almost hesitant, but it deepens quickly, pulling me under. His hand tangles in my hair, and for a moment, everything else fades away as Remo fucks me on the couch.

Lately, Remo and I have made love everywhere in this house. It’s like we’ve been trying to erase the past, the hurt, and the weight that’s been hanging over us both.

I think it’s part of the healing process. At least, that’s what I tell myself. Every time, it’s in a different place, like we’re trying to claim the house as ours, one space at a time.

And I don’t know, it doesn’t matter anymore if we’re heard or seen.

It used to bother me, the idea of someone knowing, someone catching us, but now?

Now, all I care about is being with him.

Just the two of us. Sometimes, when I’m down on my knees, with his men standing guard at the door, I realize I kind of like it.

It’s dangerous, it’s wrong, but there’s something about it…about feeling the control slip away from me and still wanting more. It’s like I’m giving up control and letting the chaos in, and it feels like healing.

When we pull apart, his breathing is ragged. “You drive me insane, you know that?”

“Good,” I whisper. “Maybe now you’ll understand what you do to me.”

The days blur together after that. Remo insists on taking care of me, even though he’s the one who’s still injured. He’s relentless, making sure I eat, rest, and don’t overexert myself. It’s infuriating and endearing all at once.

“You’re worse than a mother hen,” I say one afternoon as he places a plate of food in front of me.

“Eat,” he orders, ignoring my comment.

I roll my eyes but pick up the fork. “You ever take a break? Or is this your idea of fun?”

“Keeping you alive? Yeah, it’s a blast.”

“You’re hilarious,” I deadpan.

He smirks, leaning back in his chair. “You’re the one who keeps things interesting.”

As much as I hate to admit it, I’ve started to depend on him in a way that scares me. He’s a constant presence, steady and unyielding, and I’m not sure if I can imagine life without him anymore.

But I have to.

When Remo leaves for Moscow for work, the house feels emptier than ever.

I’ve gotten used to him being around, his quiet strength filling the space.

Without him, it’s just me and my thoughts, and they’re far from comforting.

I start exploring the house, partly out of boredom, partly out of something else.

A need to understand him, maybe. Or a need to find something—anything—that can help me make sense of the chaos he’s dragged me into.

Then, that’s when I find it. The hidden ledger Leone threatened him with, tucked away in his office, filled with names, dates, and numbers. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what it is: evidence. Proof of the Cosa Nostra’s crimes.

My hands tremble as I flip through the pages. This is it. This is my way out. My chance to break free from this world and take him down with it. But as I pick up the phone and dial, doubt creeps in.

The sound of the 911 operator’s voice sends a chill down my spine when she asks, “What’s your emergency?”

I hesitate, my throat dry, but then I say, “I—I have information. About the mafia.”

The line goes quiet for a moment before the operator responds, her tone neutral. “Please hold.”

As the silence stretches, I realize there’s no turning back. This decision will change everything. For me. For him. For both of us.

And I’m not sure if I’m ready for what comes next.